As the days turned into weeks, Flora and Hamid settled into a comfortable routine at the yali. One day resembled another, making it hard to mark time. Slowing it down to a crawl. Or, rather, stretching it out as far as it would go.

By the time Flora and Hamid emerged from the bedroom each day, the staff were serving lunch in the garden, under the pergola by the sea. Dinner was served in the bay-window of the selamlik salon.

With a shared sense of purpose, which brought them closer together, Siran and Hifsi managed the handful of eunuchs who made up their household. They were preparing the yali for Ramadan, Hifsi said happily. All Flora knew was that Ramadan was a month of fasting and worship for Muslims. Siran, who had been living side by side with Muslims in her village, explained that for one month, schools and shops would close, and people sleep until noon. After dusk, everyone would then resume the activities of daily life, slaughtering animals, distributing meat to the poor, and opening their homes to strangers, sharing their nightly meals, and awarding gifts to family and friends. Preparations in Muslim homes would have been going on for months, with sweet and savoury foods pickled and cooked, new clothes made, houses redecorated, pots and pans polished and resurfaced.

The joyful preparations lightened Siran's mood. It was a relief for Flora to see her develop a closer bond with Hifsi. Hopefully, his company made the separation from Anoush a little easier on her. The household buzzed with activity, and Flora marvelled at how quickly this once-unfamiliar place began to feel like home.

A couple of times, she wanted to ask Hamid about the strange words he'd spoken in his feverish delirium. They lingered in her mind like a half-remembered dream she couldn't quite shake. But the occasion never presented itself, and she told herself it was nothing, soon forgetting about it.

On most afternoons, they followed the coastal path to Therapia, hand in hand, just the two of them, it seemed, although she was certain Hifsi was never far away. She appreciated Hifsi, but she didn't care for the other eunuchs, mostly because they didn't seem to care for her.

"Just ignore them," Hamid told her. But it was hard, because she felt their malign presence, whispering, listening, lurking in the woodwork.

Rarely would they meet another living soul on the narrow path along the shoreline. Colourful sails dotted the sea as fishermen laid the nets they would pull up and empty before sunrise the next day. Hamid never tired of watching them. "They seem happy," was all the explanation he gave.

In the village harbour, clusters of women would wash the blood off the marble tables where, earlier, they had cleaned the catch of the day. Seagulls flocked around them, and the smell of fresh fish hung in the air. As the heat of summer set in, Flora and Hamid took to the hills for their walks, where the air was cooler, taking along a picnic and enjoying the dramatic views. How long did that blissful period last? A couple of weeks at the most.

One day in mid June, when they arrived in Therapia earlier than usual, they came across a woman cleaning fish. She stuck her fingers into the gills, clubbed it over the head and gutted it with a knife. The woman worked efficiently. Flora had seen the procedure before and it only lasted a couple of minutes, but this time, the blood and the smell made her feel nauseated and faint.

With a rowdy pack of children tailing them, they hurried through the meandering village streets, to the Café on the main square where she could get a drink of water and rest. Lined up on a bench with their backs rested against the house wall, a group of threadbare habitues sat, legs apart, sucking their water pipes. Only men, fishermen mostly, and some farmers who came down from the hills to sell their produce in the morning market. Coffee and narghile were their reward for a day's hard work, before it was time to head home.

Flora pretended not to notice the men's insolent stares. She should be used to it by now, but it made her skin crawl. "What have I done," she whispered to Hamid.

"Perhaps because you are not wearing a veil," he said. "They think it immodest."

She became defensive. "And you, what do you think?"

He laughed and squeezed her hand.

She had crossed no boundaries, done nothing wrong. It's how the men made her doubt herself which terrified her. As if they saw something in her which she thought she'd hidden – something buried and forgotten, or something she pretended wasn't there at all. Perhaps the nausea made her highly strung. Even so, she resolved to never come back here.

The tables and chairs that stood scattered in the shade of an ancient plane tree were intended for the beautiful people of the city who spent their summers in the yali around Therapia. High season was still a week away, so the tables were all empty save one, where a foreign gentleman sat reading a newspaper. When they passed, he tipped his hat in greeting.

"Is it today's paper," Hamid asked.

"No, I'm afraid it's from 4th June, a few days ago," the man replied. "I found it inside."

When the man had finished his coffee, he rolled up the newspaper and handed it to Hamid. "I've read every article twice already. Please, take it."

Hamid invited him to sit down. The man introduced himself as MacGahn, an American journalist. He was holidaying for two weeks in gorgeous Therapia before catching the steamer back to New York. MacGahn was open and friendly, a talker with an ego to match his strong opinions. Just back from a short trip to London, he said, where he had briefed the Queen and various politicians on the Bulgarian massacres. "I was a member of the investigation, you see."

Hamid frowned. "MacGahn, you said? The man behind the article in The London Daily News?"

"Ah, you read it? Yes, it made quite an impact."

Hamid's mood darkened. He scowled and said nothing, so to be polite, Flora asked about the massacres. What investigation? What were the conclusions?

MacGahn, seemingly oblivious to Hamid's displeasure, was more than happy to describe in excruciating detail how Muslims had slaughtered Christians. Thousands had died. Villages burnt to the ground. Pregnant women, gutted. Babies pierced on bayonets. He had borne witness to the atrocities with his own eyes. The charred bodies were heaped in piles, the skulls, the stink of rotting human flesh preyed on by animals.

"The Turks, of course, denied all responsibility, but the Daily News printed my story, and it spread across Europe, causing outrage among the public. Even the Queen asked to see me, to hear a first-hand account of events." He looked quizzically at Hamid, perhaps trying to divine where his political sympathies lay. "Whatever anyone else says, that was the truth of the matter, just as I relayed it...' he concluded, almost too firmly.

After a moment's silence, he went on, "Perhaps you have heard the provinces of Serbia and Montenegro are also rebelling now, demanding independence." He chuckled. "I'd like to think my writings inspired them. I have probably done more to smash up the empire than anybody else, except the Turks themselves."

Hamid unrolled the newspaper and snapped it against the table to flatten the ruffled front page. The rude gesture embarrassed her. There was no way MacGahn could realise who he was insulting and, frankly, the massacres were truly horrific. She was certain Hamid also thought so. He would never condone such violence, so why was he upset? He'd had nothing to do with it.

The blood drained from Hamid's face. She followed his gaze to the newspaper in his hand. "What's wrong?"

Puzzled, she walked around the table to read aloud over his shoulder. "Ex-Sultan Abdulaziz, suicided."

MacGahn said, "Yes, big news. Apparently, the old man slit his wrists with a pair of scissors that someone had given him for trimming his beard. If you can believe it. I mean, when did a Sultan, or ex-Sultan, last trim his own beard? Either way, it's good riddance."

After this, conversation was sporadic, until Hamid finally stood up and announced they had to get back to the yali. They made an abrupt farewell. She couldn't make any sense of it. Was Hamid more upset by MacGahn's talk of the massacres, or because his uncle was dead from suicide?

"MacGahn is right, it wasn't suicide," Hamid said. "It was murder."

"Are you sure? Could you slow down, please?" She had to trot to keep up with his brisk stride.

"Of course I'm sure." His voice was calm. Chillingly so. "Murad killed him."

"Murad? Your brother?" It was unimaginable. Water and rest in the shade had dissipated her nausea, but now it returned. Unimaginable, and yet she did believe it possible, although she couldn't understand how Hamid knew with such certainty.

She tried to imagine the murder. Perhaps a cloaked man had slipped into Abdulaziz's bedroom with a knife hidden up his sleeve. Or one of his wives, perhaps. Several of them, even – one or two to hold a cushion over his face to keep him from screaming, and another to slit his veins. The blood gushing out – there must have been so much of it, warm and sticky on the floor.

As soon as they were back at the yali, Hamid scribbled something on a note, which he handed to Hifsi. "Give this to Peresto [Something I wondered about, would Peresto not have sent Hamid a message as soon as it had happened, the ex Sultan's death? It seems strange no one else would have told him, if it had been a few days ago... Perhaps something could be briefly weaved in later on to show the reason why Peresto hadn't wanted to worry Hamid unduly, so she'd kept the news from him? Or it had been dangerous for her to get a message to him?] . Saddle a horse, but get back here as soon as you can."

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"We need protection."

"Why? What do you mean? What kind of protection?"

"Murad killed Abdulaziz and he will kill us."

A chill went through her. "Us? How can you know?"

"I just know."

They didn't make love that night. Hamid held her tightly, with his nose buried in her hair. His feet against hers were icy, his knees folded into hers. She felt disoriented and scared, although she wasn't exactly clear on why she should be. Why would Murad want to kill them now? Hamid was already in exile, and had done nothing to make Murad believe he was a threat.

Of course, she knew why. Hamid had told her about the gruesome law of succession that shaped his relationship with Murad, even though it had long since been revoked. The paranoia, the fear, and the distrust it still provoked. But she couldn't get her head around it.

A muffled shuffle of boots sounded somewhere nearby – probably just the eunuch whom Hamid had instructed to keep guard outside their door. She thought of the silk cocoon in her book, now cut open, soaked in warm water, the loosened strands captured and unwound into long continuous threads until it had vanished altogether.

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Author's note

While the hammam tradition has its origins in the ancient Roman and Greek baths, the Ottomans had already developed their own bathing culture before conquering the Byzantine Empire. The conquest of Constantinople and exposure to Byzantine baths further influenced and refined the Ottoman hammam, resulting in the distinctive style and features that characterised these institutions throughout the empire's history.

The architecture of Ottoman hammams was characterized by grand, domed chambers with intricate tilework, marble floors, and ornate fountains. The bathing process involved moving through progressively hotter rooms, culminating in the sıcaklık (hot room), where attendants would scrub and massage the bathers.

The perception of hammams as places of promiscuity or sexual indulgence is largely a product of Orientalist fantasies and exaggerations that emerged in Western literature and art during the 18th and 19th centuries. In reality, Ottoman hammams were strictly segregated by gender, with separate facilities or different hours of operation for men and women. This segregation was in line with Islamic principles of modesty and gender separation.

However, it is true that hammams were places where people gathered to socialize, gossip, and form connections. In some cases, this social atmosphere may have led to flirtation or even clandestine encounters, particularly in the context of same-sex relations, which were tolerated to a certain extent in Ottoman society. However, overt sexual activity within the hammam would have been considered highly inappropriate and scandalous.

The embedded painting from 1785, is signed Jean-Jaques-Francois Le Barbier. If you look carefully, you will see several women wearing the platform clogs.