An Evil Eye

141

“It’s late, Tulin. I feel tired, I want to sleep.”

Tulin hovered. “Yes, valide.”

The valide turned her head. “You can go now. Leave a lamp.”

She gestured to the lights.

“The Kislar aga did not come?”

“No, valide. I sent the message.”

“Well, well. No doubt he is busy.”

“No doubt, valide. Perhaps you should tell me what you wished to talk about, and then-”

“And then?” The valide’s glance was quizzical.

Tulin shrugged. “He has many calls on his time.”

“Ah, yes.” The valide turned over and rested her face on her pillow. “I suppose you are right.” She closed her eyes and nestled down. “I wanted to tell him I can’t go to Besiktas.”

“Valide?”

“Too old, Tulin. Too much change. It makes me ill.”

Tulin’s fingers twisted the button on her jacket. “Once we’ve made the move, you’ll feel much more comfortable.”

“Nonsense.” The valide munched her lips. “Let’s talk about it in the morning.”

“You promised me, valide. You promised the Kislar aga, too.”

“Promised? I promised nothing, Tulin. I made a plan-and now I have changed my mind. You may still go to the orchestra, every week.”

But Tulin didn’t want to go to the orchestra every week.

For months she had sat at the feet of the woman who had been-still was-the most powerful woman in the Ottoman Empire. Old as she was, and frail, her memories had been instructive.

Tulin certainly had made plans.

She twiddled the button very fast, between her fingers; and her eyes grew narrow.

The valide lay back on her cushions, her eyes closed.

Tulin picked up a pillow, and very slowly she crept toward the divan.