An Evil Eye

63

In the palace, in Bezmialem’s room, Ibou gave a small cry of disgust.

Ibou had always hated mice. Topkapi had been patrolled by a small army of cats, who came and went from the harem quarters at will, padding along ledges, creeping from rooftops and the branches of trees, invading the sanctuary night after night. They were tolerated as long as they kept quiet; only recalcitrant toms were dropped into sacks and drowned. The girls were amused by their feline affairs; some of them even put out milk.

But there were no cats at Besiktas. No cats, and now-mice.

With a moue of distaste, Ibou dropped the skirt onto the floor.

“Tulip!”

He heard the eunuch padding along the corridor.

“Aga?”

“This!” He pointed to the offending mass. “A mouse nest”-he dropped his voice to a whisper-“under a skirt that hasn’t been moved for days. It is too much.”

Tulip peered apologetically at the little brown heap. Then his long black face turned green, and he looked up wide-eyed.

“No, aga, it is not a nest. I cannot touch it! Allah preserve us!”

“What is it?” Ibou felt the eunuch’s horror invading his scalp: it made his hair crawl. “What is it, then?”

He peered more closely, then started back as if he had been stung.

“Bezmialem-where is she?”

Tulip shrank back. “Sh-she is sewing, Aga. With the other girls.”

“Keep her there, and fetch the imam.”

It was not, after all, a mouse’s nest: not unless mice made up figurines of wax and hair, studded with little children’s teeth.