“A few months ago, a sage came from Salonika. He brought his wisdom, and he also brought along this song"

When Bilhah walks into the scribes’ quarters the next morning, Yasemin hands her a small piece of parchment.

“Read it and begin to devise a response,” she orders.

Bilhah looks up at the woman. Her skin is smooth and youthful, but she has crow’s feet around her eyes. How long has she lived here? She looks down at the parchment. The text is in Arabic.

She glances up again, tries to read the expression on Yasemin’s face, but it is expressionless. The room is suddenly hot. Yasemin’s shadow lies across the parchment, and even when Bilhah looks down, she feels the woman’s presence, a warmth, the faintest sound of her breathing in and out, the rustle of her silk dress as she stands, waiting for Bilhah’s response.

Her mind works furiously. She could take a pen and pretend to begin, try to begin, but the letters, even with the lessons from Aisha — are still a jumble in her mind. She could bend over the page for a minute or two and then feign illness: a fainting fit or start clutching her stomach. She could excuse herself, slip the parchment up her wide sleeve, and run in search of Aisha.

Yasemin does not move. She stands over her, waiting.

Someone standing over her. The shadow of a person, looming up beside her, slowly congealing into leathery skin and dark eyes and wide, strong palm. The sudden smell. Papa — oil, ink, stale sweat, anger. Her own hailstorm of fear and fury, fury and fear. A spark of recklessness at the thought of defying him, running, hurling something, anything. The deadness that spread over her limbs, that stopped her from running, speaking even, until even breath was unnatural.

Bilhah grasps her hands together to stop them shaking. She swallows and looks up and gives Yasemin a wide smile. “Perhaps you can tell me some of the background of the piece, so that I can compose a response that is commensurate to the writer’s station.”

Yasemin dips her head. “Of course. That is a wise request.”

Her voice is not harsh. It is low and mellifluous. But that may be misleading.

Yasemin continues. “This was written by none other than the Sultan himself.”

“I see.”