An Evil Eye

133

Tulin stepped to the window and looked out over the gray leaded roofs and curving domes of Topkapi, here and there touched by pockets of melting snow.

Her face was grave; she had not slept well, visited by dreams in which the valide was dead, or trapped in a room engulfed in flames. She had woken from one such dream beating her hands on the quilt, surprised to find herself in a cold room, the morning already advanced.

Quickly she broke the ice on the washbasin, and splashed her face. With a grimace she let her shift slip to the floor, then stepped forward and cupped the water in her hands and dashed it over her neck and breasts.

She dried herself carefully with a towel and picked up the shift, which she folded and laid on the bed.

She rummaged in the bags hanging against the walls, finding a pretty patterned jacket she didn’t recognize. She held it up. When she tried it on, it fitted well; she smoothed her hands down the sides and wished she had a mirror.

After a while she grew bored of staring out over the Topkapi rooftops. It was only in one corner, beyond a dome, that she could discern the outline of the land beyond: the Galata Tower and the trees of Taksim, where they kept the water.