Word had travelled fast in Pera since the fateful Seagrave ball. Flora waited behind the counter of her shop, listless and morose, returning the curious stares of passers-by through the window. Not a single customer entered.

When Jane walked past without even a glance, Flora knew it was no coincidence - all of Pera society had turned their backs on her. Even more hurtful and disquieting was Hélène's silence, though not surprising given the ungrateful accusations Flora flung at her during that final dress fitting and the spectacle she'd caused at the ball.

"It's not fair. You broke off an engagement, it's your right," Anoush said, flashing anger. Since their return from the Armenian church, she had been irritable and brooding, and for every customer who walked past the shop without entering, her foul mood only worsened. "You've done nothing wrong. Why are you not fighting back? If I could, there is no end to the things I would do, instead of sitting here." She looked at her hands and arms as if seeing them for the first time and taking the measure of their strength. "The things I would be capable of."

Siran put a gentle hand on her sister's arm.

Flora's life in Pera society was over; it stunned her she had thrown it away so carelessly. And yet, the prospect of losing her income, of being cast out without a single friend to speak up for her, didn't move her.

Silence fell and went on for a day, maybe two. She lost awareness of time. She read all there was to read about the coup in the newspaper, but found no mention of Hamid. Her feelings of disorientation and dread grew and became more intense. He should have contacted her by now. 

She did not sleep. The next day again, she waited behind the counter. When the girls told her it was time for supper she was surprised to discover they had closed the shop and lit candles in the back room. Where she had been the whole time and when the chores had got done, she did not know. It might just as well have been nine in the morning.

Neither of them had any appetite. Finally, when the candles burnt low, Siran took Flora's hand and gently advised her to go to bed. If her mind had been numb all day, in half-sleep, she had no power over her racing thoughts. Dark, disquieting pictures floated in her imagination. Her own situation presented itself in the harshest, the most unforgiving light, as did the horrifying events Hamid was surely enduring. She told herself over and over she must accept whatever came as an inevitable misfortune, but one she could overcome. Still, the restless thoughts weighed on her like a nightmare.

At dawn, just as the church clock struck six, Anoush shook her shoulder. She sat up straight, lost in a confused space between dream and the distressing news: William demanded to see her. His banging on the door was waking the neighbours.

On silent feet, she rushed down the stairs and in the obscurity, searched for matches to light a candle.

"Open up, I know you're there!"

William wasn't a drinker, but Flora had heard enough drunken slur in her life to know he wasn't sober.

"What does he want," Siran whispered.

"Both of you, get in the back room," Flora ordered.

Anoush protested: "I won't leave you alone with him."

"Just do as I say, I'll be alright."

But her stomach had grown sour with fear. She stood as if frozen, her mind scrambling for the right words. What could she tell him? The oppressive sense of the harm she felt she had done to him, made her more conciliatory to his intrusive behaviour than she might otherwise have been. He had all the right to demand an explanation for why she had walked out on their engagement party and disgraced him a second time in the home of Sir Elliot. She also knew his sort of anger was not fair or rational.

Steeling herself, she unlocked the door. William shoved past her into the dimly lit shop. "Where is he?" His voice was rough, eyes bloodshot and wild.

"What?...Who...?"

Her words were cut off by the crash of a vase shattering against the wall. William must have bumped into the coffee table. Or cleared it with a swipe of his walking stick. For a second, she felt annihilated. She observed without comprehending; William was a dangerous man, but not in this way. Not like a brute.

Suddenly he was on her, pawing at her breasts, squeezing her buttocks, driven not by lust but a need to dominate and humiliate her. "You think you can make a fool of me?" he snarled. "You think you can do as you please, but I'll teach you."

Disgust broke through Flora's stupor. Fury seized her, and she hit him in the face. Staggering back, he snatched up his cane and smashed it into the counter.

Inside her head, a dim light got brighter, an inner picture of her flinching, powerless self as a young child. She had known canes just like this one, on her back, on her legs. She shook her head violently, not in reply to William's interrogation, but as if shrugging off the memory of her father's punishment.

She retreated towards the counter, the scissors, she could reach them. "He isn't here," she heard herself say. "I haven't heard from him."

"You're lying. The Sultan condemned him to death, but it would seem he has been pardoned and left the palace."

Her heart jumped. "Hamid is alive?"

William made an ugly grimace. As realisation came, he focused his drunken gaze on her and laughed, not nicely. "You didn't know, did you. Your lover didn't care to get a message to you." While he pondered his own words, he took out a handkerchief from his pocket, and clutched it tightly. In the dim light of the lamp, his face was pale and his dark eyes glittered.

Probably some of the light which lit his face also lit hers: "You look ill, Flora, " he said, as he took a step in her direction with the walking cane rested in his hands.

She had gone numb and barely registered his presence. How could Murad have condemned his own brother to death? It didn't make any sense. Tears rose into her throat, Hamid was alive.

"Jane was right, I know all about you. You're no family of the Marquis. You're a swindler and a whore." His voice was almost affectionate now, but his expression was stern. As he moved towards her, glass from the broken vase crackled under his feet, and his eyes were almost black.

She tried to recoil, but William had her pressed against the wall behind the counter. His sour breath burnt her nostrils and the image of the cowering girl under the cane, flickered inside her head, dissolving his words. Only his voice reached her, deep and tenebrous as if from far away, from across the seas, through the dense fog of time.

She couldn't say for certain what happened next, only that William squeezed her breast hard, she yelped and pushed him away with all her might. But there was also Anoush who emerged from the backroom and darted at him with Hamid's knife in her hand.

William was taken off guard. There was a swish of shoes slipping on water and tulips, and a chair, knocked on the floor as he staggered to regain his balance.

With two nimble steps Flora was at the counter, her fingers searched, and closed around the scissors.

William's arm swung around, he grabbed for something to steady himself, but lost his footing, yanking Flora down with him by her hair as he fell. They hit the floor hard, Flora sprawled on top of him. He emitted a meek, strange sounding groan, flapped his arms and wriggled to get out from underneath her.

She was faster, more nimble and sober. Back on her feet she turned on him, with the scissors pointing like a knife at his gut.

Slowly, he crawled onto his knees. His face was damp, the breathing heavy. Swaying and squinting, he looked about the room in surprise, at Anoush holding the knife, and back at Flora, pointing the scissors. His cheeks were pink, his mouth opened and closed, and he licked his lips.

Flora's hand trembled, he saw it and laughed.

Anoush advanced toward him.

"Anoush, don't," Flora cried. "Give me the knife." Anoush hesitated, then exchanged the knife for the scissors.

William struggled to rise to his feet.

"Don't move." Her commanding, chilling voice was unknown to her, that of a new self who demanded to rise from the depths, where she had been buried under docility.

Siran's shriek made her swirl around. She saw herself mirrored in the horror of Siran's eyes: the long hair a tangled mess, the face contorted with loathing and the jewel encrusted knife clasped in her hand - as she looked at it, the knife took on a new meaning, profound and troubling.

She turned to William and met his gaze. "Get out."

He gave her a long look and mumbled through his teeth: "I will destroy you, both you and your Turk. You Turkish whore."

Before she lunged at William, she caught the quizzical look Anoush darted at her - disapproving, disgusted even. 

William moved towards her. "Get out!" She raised the knife and lunged again, furiously, kicking at his legs, forcing him backwards, wobbly step by wobbly step, until he stumbled out the front door and landed on his back in the muddy street.

Attracted by the noise and the commotion, a face appeared from behind the curtains of a window across the street. Eyeing Flora's wild hair and the knife in her hand, two passersby helped William get on his feet. He shrugged off their aid and staggered away without a backwards glance.

Inside, Flora carefully placed Hamid's knife on the counter. She wasn't sure where the blind rage had come from, she had felt possessed, and in her heart she knew with certainty she would have killed William without remorse. Fear and profound relief tumbled around inside of her, and the growing seed of doubt William had planted, breaking her heart. If Hamid had left the palace, why had he not sent word to her?

Siran's muffled sobbing pulled Flora back to the present. She turned to see Anoush cradling her sister, face grim. "There were rumours about you at church, about you and the Turkish murderer." Anoush's voice was broken and hoarse. "I defended you to everyone."

"Please, Flora," Siran wept. "Tell us it isn't true."

"But it is true, isn't it," Anoush said flatly.

Flora heard Siran's sobs like a rippling brook which flowed beneath her unbridled emotions. Her eye fell on William's walking cane, forgotten among the crushed tulips on the floor by the counter, and she stood there as if held by a charm. She picked up the cane and placed it outside on the pavement, rested delicately against the wall.

_______________________

Author's note

The relationship between the Persian and Ottoman empires was a complex tapestry of conflict and cultural exchange spanning several centuries. The two empires engaged in numerous wars, particularly during the 16th and early 17th centuries, as they vied for territorial control and religious supremacy. The rivalry intensified with the establishment of the Safavid dynasty in Persia, leading to a series of prolonged conflicts.

Despite these hostilities, there was a significant cultural exchange between the two empires, with Persian language, literature, art, and architecture greatly influencing Ottoman culture. The late 17th and early 18th centuries saw a period of relative peace and increased diplomatic and trade relations. In the 19th century, both empires faced internal challenges and external threats, occasionally collaborating against common enemies but also experiencing tension and border disputes.

The Persian influence was evident in the use of the Persian language in Ottoman literature and poetry, the adoption of Persian calligraphic styles, and the incorporation of Persian elements in Ottoman music, cuisine, and customs. Persian carpet designs and motifs, as well as tile-making techniques, significantly influenced Ottoman textiles and architectural decoration. Miniature painting in the Ottoman Empire was heavily inspired by Persian techniques, themes, and stories. Furthermore, Persian Sufi orders and poetry, especially the works of Rumi and Hafez, had a considerable impact on Ottoman Sufi mysticism and literature. The embedded image is an antique Persian textile.