An Evil Eye

138

The Grande Rue was still full of people, many of them in a holiday mood after the ceremony of the bridge; many of them from Istanbul, visiting the European quarter for the first time. Loafers sizing up the opportunities; knots of veiled ladies peering into the unfamiliar vitrines of the European shops, with their regimented displays of hats or pastries or upholstered chairs; dignified gentlemen astonished by the height, and apparent solidity, of the stuccoed buildings.

The crowd moved like treacle: Yashim dodged and weaved, veering around the groups of visitors and diving between startled families. The road seemed longer than it had ever been, but eventually it began to slope downhill. He raced, panting, past the base of the Galata Tower, and flung himself down the long flights of steps leading to the waterfront.

He had saved Roxelana, for the moment.

But with Roxelana gone, everything was changed.