The Blue Hour

Chapter 33: Peresto

The meeting with Reshid had left an uneasy flutter in her stomach, so Peresto headed over to the hammam where she would be made to relax. She shared it with the wives, favourites and children of the Sultan, and of the heirs to the throne. All in all, there were three hammam in the Imperial harem, warm and comforting, buzzing like bee-hives. Sometimes she chose to visit one of the less exclusive baths, busier with more gossip to tap into. Not today. After hearing Reshid's account of his meeting with Midhat Pasha, she craved privacy.

As the odalisques removed her clothing, piece by piece, she felt lighter. With the uneasy flutter still in her stomach, she slipped into a hot pool and an odalisque known for her long, soft fingers washed her body and hair.

The icy fear which had seized her when she heard about the prophecy still held a tight grip on her insides. She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift back to her disturbing conversation with Reshid. He had delivered her plea for help to Midhat Pasha and returned twenty-four hours later with nothing more than a bandaged head and a request from Midhat to meet.

She had not been able to hide her irritation. "Did you not make him understand the urgency," she asked.

"I did, Your Highness. He said he understood."

"The Ulema and the army are with us?"

"Yes, Midhat says they are."

"So why risk a meeting?"

Reshid had not replied. He talked, nervously, she thought, about Midhat who was in direct contact with the softa and encouraging them to arm themselves. Midhat was confident, he said, overconfident, perhaps.

"And what does Midhat tell the softa?"

"He says the infidel are not the enemy, the Russians are."

"Well, on this we agree. And they listen to him?"

"They worship the ground he walks on."

A note of bitterness in Reshid's voice? Was he an envious man? Beneath his simple dervish dress, Reshid was an ambitious man, and proud. How else could he have the audacity to love her? He didn't have to tell her for her to know he did, even though, in all the years they had known each other, he had never set eyes on her. Not until last night.

But she had seen him, once, many years ago, before their first French lesson, she had secretly watched him through concealed holes in the drapery, and been disappointed. His tired appearance and dishevelled grey hair did not seem to match his thick and youthful voice, the voice of a person who is curious and hungry.

During their lessons, she liked to close her eyes to focus all her senses on his presence beyond the drapery that separated them, to capture the nuances in his voice, the slightest movement, or hints of scents, that might clarify and deepen the meaning of his words.

This time, restless thoughts clouded her perception. "Rifles," she asked.

"Everything," Reshid said with measured steadiness. "Knives, scimitars, rifles. They seek revenge on the infidel." He paused, and added: "He gives them money."

She considered this with unease for a moment, but forced her thoughts away.

"And Hamid? How is he?"

Reshid answered with a wariness he usually did not have. "The Prince is restless, your Highness."

She swallowed, her voice dropped to a whisper. "He is so far away, out of my reach."

Through the drapery, she thought she sensed her teacher nod, her heart sank, and she was overcome with anguish. "Doubt is treacherous, it's an illness."