An Evil Eye

154

“ It’s too extraordinary,” the valide said. “I put the whole thing down to that wretched Kislar aga. The one you recommended, Yashim.”

Yashim shifted uncomfortably on the divan.

“Ibou was hardly to blame,” he said. “The dealer tricked him. Perhaps even the dealer didn’t know.”

“Pouf! A dealer always knows. It’s his business, Yashim. Like horses, like girls. She must have had a crooked pedigree. I never much liked her myself. Valide this, valide that. And desperate to get to Besiktas, of course. I saw that straightaway. But I enjoyed her magic. It reminded me of Martinique.”

“Martinique?”

“Where I grew up. Chickens. Trances. We called it voodoo. Brought back happy memories.”

“She denied you water,” he said. “She pushed Hyacinth over the parapet, too. It wasn’t magic.”

The valide waved a hand, and her bangles chinked.

“It’s always magic, if you want.” She shrugged. “Talfa believes in it. So did the girl you brought here-Melda. What happened to her friend?”

“Elif believed she was pregnant,” Yashim said. “She thought Donizetti Pasha had given her a baby.”

The valide clapped her hands together. “That’s it, Yashim.” Her face was serious. “He is round, like a mushroom-but she was very young. He twirled a mustache. He caught her eye.”

“Tulin gave her something,” Yashim said. “A potion.”

The valide shivered. “It was very cruel,” she said.

“Melda believed it, too. She believed she had a secret that was too dangerous to reveal.”

“Tsk, tsk.” The valide shook her head. “These girls from Circassia! It is the mountains, Yashim. It makes them stubborn, and leaves them ignorant.”

“And this-” Yashim gestured at the walls. “This harem…”

“Encourages them to be silly, too. I know it, Yashim. Almost alone of all the women who come here, I have the benefit of an education. Ne t’en souviens-tu pas? Between you and me, Yashim, it’s like catching snowflakes. They have desires, hopes, plans, secrets. And they wear them on their faces, like maquillage.”

“And die, as a result?”

“Of course. Death is a secret, like any other.”

She touched a hand to her cheek, and smoothed it back.

“Tell me, Yashim, what did you make of our friend Monsieur Gautier?”

“‘Everything that is beautiful is useless,’” Yashim quoted. “It seemed insincere.”

“Very silly,” the valide agreed. “It could have been written by one of our girls.”

“If any of them knew how to write,” Yashim pointed out.

“Or understood French, Yashim.”