In the darkness, with Flora's hot breath on his cheek, the image of the dead favourite and her baby crept upon him. Something was watching them, he could feel it, something cold and relentless. He peered into the blackness and struggled against the urge to wake her and run. He counted her breaths, featherlight on his cheek, but by four he had again lost himself in anxious thoughts.

Leave the empire, he thought obsessively. He knew they would need passports and tickets but had no idea how to organise it. Was it a complicated procedure to secure the documents? Would it take long? The not knowing made him more anxious. Covered in cold sweat, he untangled himself from her, climbed out of bed and on silent feet found Hifsi sleeping by the wood stove.

"Take my horse and ride to the city," he said. "Find Reshid - only Reshid, no one else."

Hifsi gaped at him, still half asleep. "Yes, Your Highness."

Hamid hesitated. He trusted Hifsi, but what he asked him to do would be the real test of loyalty, and it made his stomach ache with worry. Hifsi must have sensed his anxiety because he crawled to his knees and kissed the hem of Hamid's tunic: "My Lord, please have faith in me."

He took Hifsi's hand and helped him stand. "Ask Reshid to organise travelling documents for Mr and Mrs Cordier. And tickets for the America steamer."

"America, Your Highness?"

"This will be last thing you do for me. When I leave, I will grant you your freedom. If you want to, you are welcome to begin a new life with us in America. Whatever you decide, it is your own choice. You are a free man."

Hifsi's eyes glittered in the darkness, he bowed and kissed Hamid's hand. "I swear, I will not breath a word about this to anyone."

Perhaps. But there was Reshid as well, who would have to resist the temptation to betray their secret departure to Peresto. She would do anything to stop him

To quiet his spinning mind, he followed Hifsi to the stables, helped him saddle the horse, and watched him ride into the night. Left alone in the empty yard under the cloudless night sky, a terror as overwhelming as anything he had ever felt filled him.

In the morning, he told Flora about Hifsi's mission to the city, but not about the rest, not about his nightmares, or about the enemies he saw in every shadow. If he confessed to feeling shattered and lost, she would leave him. Prophecies, curses, and black magic - it's no life, she had said, and he had heard contempt in her voice. With effort, he composed himself, keeping his fears to himself.

They embraced Ismail and his brothers and with their blessing started their journey back to the yali. Above their heads, a hawk circled, looking for prey. Since they were short of one horse, Flora rode behind him with her arms wrapped around his waist. Trailing behind the cart, out of earshot from the others, they spoke in hushed voices of their new lives in America.

Siran had prepared handkerchiefs scented with lemon and fennel for Flora to inhale to calm the nausea. Several times, she proposed they stop to stretch their legs or drink from the water of a sunlit stream so that Flora could rest. Hamid didn't mind, he couldn't get rid of the feeling that something was wrong, that something terrible awaited them. It felt safer to be here, in the mountains, where time had stopped.

The sun broke through the clouds. They rode in silence, each consumed by their own thoughts.

"I've been thinking," Flora said. "I have to sell the shop."

"There's no time."

"It's the only money we have. What else will we live off? Besides, the steamer only leaves in a couple of days."

Without looking at her, he sensed her apprehension about the future and wanted to reassure her they would create a new shop together in New York, like she had said they would, but the words got stuck in his throat. He could not tell her they would be alright, when he did not know.

For the hundredth time, he tried to visualise their future in America, but his blank mind only sent his heart racing. Stick to the things you understand, he told himself, like taming hawks and flying them.

He grew restless. For a moment, he abandoned himself to the soothing rhythm of the horse and to the warmth from Flora's body which enfolded him like a soft blanket. But anxiety wormed its way back into his system. Hifsi had to join them to America or he would pay with his life for Hamid's disappearance. A flash image of Jurad's head in the dust made him shiver. His mind jumped. What if Hifsi had not found Reshid? He licked his dry lips as his mind circled back to his conversation with MacGahn. If Murad was too mentally unstable to rule, and Hamid had vanished - he tried, but failed to picture his cousin Yusufeddin on the throne.

"Are you unhappy about the baby?" Flora asked quietly. "Is that why you are so quiet?"

"Unhappy," he said with a pang of guilt. "The baby is the best thing that has happened to me."

Inscrutable and quiet, the yali waited for them. After they had washed the dust off their bodies, they made love in the pool of the hammam and again in their room, clinging to each other with a sense of desperation. He watched the faint smile on Flora's lips as she fell asleep in the warmth of the afternoon sun, which filtered through the curtains. A shadow fell on her face, and he saw with horror, that the darkness grew from within him, vicious and loathsome, it escaped the confines of his skin and slowly enveloped her, like a toxic mist. With a start of fear, he pulled away from her and sat up straight. 

He wrapped himself in a blanket and smoked a cigarette on the balcony. Again, he tried to visualise them stepping off the steamer in New York, but could only invoke a hazy image, like on a misty day: the two of them on the quay, Flora with a swollen belly. What did New York look like? Would they live in an apartment? No, in a house above her glove store. And he, a carpenter? He shook his head, put out his cigarette and contemplated the restless sea. A warm wind stirred. He looked to the sky. Did they hunt with birds in America? Not that it mattered.

Soundlessly, he left the room. As he crossed the open field above the rose garden, on his way to the falcon hide, Siran caught up with him. There was a guest, she announced breathlessly. Princess Sultana Peresto. She waited for him under the pergola by the sea.

Instantly, his mood turned black. "Keep Flora away from her, Siran," he said.

"Will the Princess be staying?"

"She will not."

"There's something else," Siran said. "Hifsi has returned from the city."

Hamid jolted, he shot her a look of concern.

"Everything went well," she hastened to add. "He did as you asked, Reshid will make the arrangements."

"He'll get the documents ready in time?"

"He will."

"Where is Hifsi?"

"In the stables, caring for the horse, he drove her quite hard."

He exhaled. "When are we leaving?"

"In seven days."

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven he counted in his head as he descended towards the rose garden where Peresto waited in the shade of the bright green canopy of wisteria and the lush leaves of a rambling vine. The puny grapes were still green and hard.

"Hamid," she said, pushing herself up from the chair. "I hope I am not intruding."

They stood together, looking out across the Bosphorus, beyond the rippling waves to the fine line where the blue waters merged with the sky. A gentle wind was blowing. A fish jumped, making a circle in the water.

"I'd forgotten how peaceful it is here," she said.

"It is," he said.

"Did you ever return here after she died? I can't remember."

"A couple of times, while father was alive."

"I came once with your mother when you were a boy. We went bathing in the grotto, didn't we? You asked me to teach you to swim."

Hamid nodded. His mind was elsewhere, on Flora who slept peacefully in their bed. On the soft swell of her belly. He turned his head and glanced over his shoulder; in the sunlight, his vision was blurred, he could barely make out the closed balcony doors of their room. Peresto followed his gaze.

Quickly, he said, "I see that you've been served tea, can I get you anything else?"

"Some water perhaps," she said.

Forty-three tiled steps from the pergola to the terrace doors, he counted as he returned to the house. Ten more, until he found Siran in the salon. Flora was still sleeping, she assured him. Relieved, he returned to the pergola, trailing a eunuch who carried a silver platter with sweets and a crystal carafe of rose water. This time, he counted forty-one steps from the terrace to the pergola – he must have got it wrong the first time.

The eunuch poured and retired. They sat under the clusters of fading flowers, sipping their drinks. Petals sprinkled the ground, like silvery tears. Countless. He remembered finishing his tea at this table as a boy, and his mother getting up from her chair, displeased at something. What had he done? He couldn't remember, but it was an unpleasant memory.

"You will have a fine harvest of grapes," Peresto said with a nod to a pile of cut vine branches on the ground. "You've pruned it just in time – the grapes will get plenty of energy to grow."

He looked at the pile and his heart stopped in his chest; next to it lay Flora's large-brimmed hat, pruning shears and gloves.

"Oh, that, yes," he said, and slumped back in his chair with feigned nonchalance. A nervous tension radiated from his gut, as if Peresto's every gesture, every word she spoke, were forebodings of trouble. She knew about Flora, he could feel it. And about the baby? Why else was she here?

"I wouldn't have come if it wasn't necessary," she said, as if reading his mind. "It's Murad, he is not well." She poured more tea and handed Hamid the steaming glass.

He shrugged indifferently, but inside he couldn't breathe. The carafe with rose water was empty, the chairs in the pergola were empty, Peresto wasn't there, nothing was. It was all emptiness.

She sighed and lowered her head. "Your brother tried to jump out the window. Three times. They've nailed them shut in his apartment."

"What?"

"The windows, they've nailed them shut."

He felt a flash of anger. "Did he kill our uncle? And the baby?"

"The papers say that..."

"I know what the papers say. I'm asking you."

She shrugged. "It's possible. He blames himself." She plucked at the folded fan between her fingers. "They haunt him, day and night. He doesn't eat, doesn't sleep. He's not well, Hamid."

He closed his eyes. Thoughts came to him, inadvertently, of Flora's hawk in the falcon hide. Before leaving, they would set it free, let her return to the wild.

"The Valide sent me," Peresto said. "She wants you back at the palace."

"The Valide? Why?"

"To give back to Murad his will to live, and his will to rule. She thinks only you can get through to him now."

He laughed bitterly. "Has she forgotten that Murad condemned me to death?"

"She vows for your safety," Peresto said.

"That doesn't make me trust her."

"You trust me."

He grimaced and looked at her, full into her pretty, heart-shaped face.

"I know what you did to him. He told me. The morphine, it was you."

Her cheeks flushed. "To save him," she said.

"To destroy him."

"You were not there, Hamid." She looked at him with a desolate smile and was silent for a while. When she next spoke, her voice was low. "After you left the harem... You should have seen him. He wasn't sleeping, wasn't eating, only drinking. You know how he gets."

He felt his face contract in a spasm. Reluctantly, he admitted to himself that he knew only too well, and even so, he had abandoned him.

Sensing his guilt, Peresto said, "Getting you out of the palace was the right thing to do. If you hadn't left, you would likely be dead by now." She paused. "Murad was sick with drink. One of my girls found him roaming the servants' corridors. Looking for you; he had overheard someone talking of the prophecy. "

She shot him a glance before she continued. "Anyway, he took a liking to her – Ayse. The girl soothed his nerves. She and the morphine. May Allah forgive me, I let it happen. I feared for him, Hamid. I feared for his sanity. But more than anything, I feared for you."

Hamid sat quietly, counting the seconds – twenty-two – until she spoke again.

"The point is," she said gently. "Murad is weak, always was weak. It's not your fault. It's not his fault either, or mine. A man can't change what he is, you can't change him and neither can I. Hamid, I did what I could. I hope you believe that."

It wasn't fair to blame Peresto, but he couldn't rid himself of the dull resentment he felt, and had always felt, towards her.

She looked to the sky where seagulls sailed in from the sea and blinked at the strong afternoon light. "Anyway, he needs you now," she said, sounding flat and tired.

"Did he himself ask for me?"

Peresto shook her head. "The Valide asked for you, as I said. At the next crescent moon, it will be Ramadan and the people will demand to see their Sultan. Time is running out for Murad, and she knows it. You are her last hope." Her voice was quiet but firm.

Ramadan; Hamid had forgotten about it. The month during which the Sultan, as Caliph, unites his Muslim flock. Every day, riding an open carriage to and from the mosque, on display for his adoring people. Every evening at the palace, hosting glorious iftar feasts to break the fast. On the twelfth day, the Sultan would invite the dignitaries of the empire to watch him open a silver chest with the holy mantel of the prophet Muhammed. The Sultan would rub the mantel with pieces of cloth and ceremoniously gift them to his guests. For generations, this is what Sultans had done during Ramadan. All except this one, because this Sultan would not rise from his sick-bed.

"Doctors have examined him," Peresto said. "He must rest, they say. But it's been weeks already. Every Friday his subjects wait for him outside the mosque, thousands of them. Where is our Padishah, they chant. Oh beloved Sultan, don't abandon us." She inhaled and fixed her hard gaze on him. "Hamid, they fear they have been forsaken." Her slender fingers moved quickly, clutching her fan with one hand, then with the other. She rose and looked towards the sea, as if searching the horizon for something. "Whatever you feel, they feel it too," she said. "The despondency, the outrage, the fear." A painful grimace appeared on her face, and she quickly turned away from him. "The indignity of it all."

Everything went dark, as if he had fallen into an abyss of despair, anger, and humiliation. He blinked. Blinked again. Through the transparent gauze that covered the back of her hair, he could see her long neck straighten, and inadvertently, he, too, sat up straighter. A silence ensued.

"They've sent for a doctor from Switzerland," she said.

"Who has?"

"Midhat Pasha."

With small, graceful steps, she paced the terrace, returned to the table and sat, folding her hands in her lap. She inhaled deeply with a glance at Flora's pruning gear on the ground. "We can't wait any longer. We need clarity, a neutral, expert opinion everyone can put their faith in: either the Sultan can hold his throne, or he cannot." She sought his gaze. "Everyone will put their faith in the decision made by this Swiss doctor. That is the agreement."

He felt crushed by an immense weight, unable to move or breathe. If the Swiss doctor ruled that Murad was unfit to rule, the throne would be passed on to him, that was the agreement reached by the empire's dignitaries. He needed time. Time to save himself. Silently, in his head, he counted to seven. All that had troubled him during the sleepless nights, his fears and doubts, all of it vanished and he knew what he must do.

"How long before the doctor arrives?"

"Any day now."

"The Valide is right," he said in a deliberately frivolous tone. "I can get Murad back on his feet before the doctor pronounces his opinion."

She looked at him with perplexity, and opened her mouth to say something, but he was on his feet already, and not listening. All he could think of was that it was possible. It wouldn't be the first time he had talked sense into Murad, got him cleaned up and back on his feet. And he could do it again. "I'll do as you ask. I will return to the palace with you."

"Immediately," he added, as if fearing that his resolve could weaken at any moment, and scatter into whirling confusion and mad thoughts.

"Good," she said wearily, turning towards the house and lifting her gaze. He followed it and saw Flora looking down at them from the balcony of their room.

_________________________

Author's note

In an earlier draft, Flora and Hamid rested in a cemetery on their way home from the monastery, and I imagined that it looked  a bit like in the embedded image.

Ottoman cemeteries, which comprised the majority of burial grounds, followed traditional Islamic practices that emphasised simplicity, equality, and the belief in the afterlife.

The deceased were buried promptly, usually within 24 hours, after being washed, shrouded in white cloth, and honored with a funeral prayer. The graves were typically modest, with simple markers or tombstones bearing inscriptions from the Quran and the name of the deceased, reflecting the Islamic belief that all individuals are equal in death. Family and friends would visit the graves to pray and to remember their loved ones.

Despite the ideal of simplicity, some wealthy or prominent Muslim families constructed more elaborate tombstones or mausoleums, reflecting the social hierarchies of the time.