An Evil Eye

137

Yashim stood listening to the sound of the muezzin calling the Friday prayer.

Only a fortnight, he thought, since he had gone to Friday mosque at Topkapi, to escape his awkwardness with the valide’s handmaiden. The day, of course, that Hyacinth had died.

He remembered the sound of the muezzin rising and falling as Melda told him that Elif had been pregnant.

That, too, had been Friday.

Hyacinth and Elif had died a week apart. Hyacinth had been trying to talk to him, the old eunuchs had said.

Hyacinth had died in Topkapi; Elif in Besiktas.

Yashim leaped, as if he had been stung.

“Hats!” he exclaimed. “Roxelana never liked the hats!”