When
she saw Sitti Hatun at the head of the table—tiny and perfect, and perfectly miserable—Lada nearly laughed. Her rival was diminished, unworthy of even scorn.
Lada saw a familiar face and took a cushion beside Mara. Mara frowned thoughtfully, and then she smiled.
“Ladislav. You have grown.”
This afternoon alone, Lada felt she had grown by leagues. She carefully tucked the corners of her mouth back down around her memories. “Yes. You look well. Where is Halima?” Looking around, Lada did not find her. The room’s doors were attended by eunuchs, with most of Murad’s wives and concubines present.
A twist in her stomach demanded Lada remember that it was very likely at least a few of the women here were Mehmed’s.
No. She refused to think about it. If they were here, they were like Sitti Hatun: duties, forced upon him. Not a choice, not a desire. Not like her.
Mara smiled, though it was mirthless. “Did you not hear? Halima had a child not two months ago. She is still in confinement.”
Lada could not help the gasp that escaped her. “Murad’s new son is Halima’s?”
“Oh yes. She was violently ill all nine months of carrying him, and then nearly died giving birth. He is the ugliest infant I have ever laid eyes on. He never stops crying. Halima has never been happier.”
Lada snorted a brief laugh. “Poor happy Halima. And you? Are you happy?”
Mara took a sip of wine. Most of the women around them had none, but she made no secret of drinking it. “Serbia is peaceful. My husband neither requests nor demands my presence. I am quite well. You are, too.”
Lada blushed, looking down and toying with her plate. Did she wear Mehmed’s touch on her skin so obviously that others could see it? “What do you mean?”
“You are not the same miserable, terrified creature you were when last we met. You have stopped fighting.”
Mara’s words struck deep, and Lada struggled to disagree. But it was true. Lada let her eyes rest on the empty space around Sitti Hatun, the way all the women around them talked to her without saying anything. Even surrounded, Sitti Hatun was alone. She had been bartered by her father. Lada quickly tamped down a brief swell of pity. That was what fathers did. It was up to daughters to figure out survival by any means possible.
She turned back to Mara and spoke the truth. “I stopped knowing what to fight against.”
Mara lifted her glass. “May you find some measure of happiness in your surrender.” She drank deeply. “May we all.”
Tortoises with large candles melting onto their backs made a circuit through the garden. Pools of light crept slowly along to illuminate different groups of people, like snatches of conversations overheard in passing. The flowers surrounding them, black in the night, would suddenly bloom into brilliant color before slipping back into silhouette.
As one of the tortoises labored past her, Lada felt as though she were rising from the darkness, a burning brand. She burned far more brightly inside, though, knowing Mehmed was nearby. She had partaken of too much wine at dinner, troubled by Mara’s questioning. She did not want questions tonight. She wanted something simple. Something physical. Something real.
A song began, the singer telling the tale of Ferhat and Shirin.
Standing alone, motionless as a mountain, Lada let the candle tease her location. She kept her eyes fixed on the spot where she could feel Mehmed watching her, even if she could no longer see him. Then, a smile pulling her lips at the memory of feeling his, she stepped into the shadows, backing deeper into the garden’s secret corners where the tortoises had not yet made their leisurely trek.
Even the music was muted by the dark, drifting in snatches, twisted and distorted by the wind into mere rumors of a tune. She felt alone. It was no longer a feeling of desperation, but rather one of anticipation. Mehmed would leave the pavilion he shared with Sitti Hatun and find her. She knew it down to her toes. It was foolish and reckless, and that made it better. Lada wanted no careful thoughts of the future. Tonight, the future was only as long as it took him to follow her.
She found a sheltered spot under a tree with branches arching overhead to create a roof, and tucked herself against its trunk, relishing the feel of the bark against her skin. As much as she used her body as a tool, she had never truly appreciated skin before.
“Lada,” Mehmed called, his voice a rough whisper carried on the heavy night air and trailed by the scent of broken flowers.
She could see him, backlit by the distant garden party. He turned one way, then the other, searching. A giddy thrill went through her, seeing him desperate to find her.
The memory of the last few weeks was as sharp on her tongue as the taste of him, and so she said nothing. Let him wait, let him search, let him be alone. She would go to him when she chose to, just as earlier in her bedroom she had let him touch her only where she allowed.
But his head turned in her direction, and he walked forward, steps tentative, posture searching. He reached out and found her face without fail.
“How did you know where I was?” she asked, disappointed and thrilled in equal measure.
Mehmed’s laugh was a silent exhalation. “This is the best area of the garden tactically. Your back is protected, but you have an open view of everything going on, while remaining hidden. Of course you are here.”
Lada’s scowl at being predictable was erased as Mehmed’s mouth met hers with greedy intensity. He pushed his body against hers, pressing her back into the tree. She grabbed his shoulders and spun him around, pinning him there. He smiled against her mouth, and she bit his bottom lip, hard enough that he startled. He twisted his fingers in her hair, pulling her in tighter, his mouth leaving hers and finding her neck. Everywhere he touched burned with feverish heat, aching and tender. He put his hands around her wrists, then paused. “What are these?” he murmured against her neck, feeling at the leather braces beneath her sleeves.