“A parchment that has been inked heavily brings its own message. There is a level of force. I do not appreciate people being forceful with me”

“I was sent to bring you this missive.”

Hurrem Sultan does not thank her, merely stretches out her hand to take the parchment. Bilhah stares — as the woman moves her hand, the precious stones on her rings flash red, green, and blue. She is like a song bird, with her swift sudden movements and the bright colors that shine from her.

Hurrem rubs the corner of the letter between two fingers.

“Can you identify this parchment?” she asks.

Bilhah tries to read the woman’s face through her fine veil, but it is inscrutable. She touches the parchment with her fingers. When she was little, she noticed that other little girls stuck their fingers into the honey jar; she dipped them into ink, loving the thick, slightly oily feel and the way the black beaded into little round balls that rolled back and forth on her fingers.

She would gather up the scraps of parchment from the floor of the workshop, bury them in the sandy soil beneath the magnolia tree, and then try to find them again. Years working with Papa have given her fingers a secret knowledge: it is not just the thickness of the parchment, but the suppleness, the density of the grain, the number of scars she can feel, even if they are not visible to the eye. She wills her fingers to do their work.

“This is goatskin.” Goatskin is pebbly and scarred.

Hurrem Sultan nods and her veil dances gently.

“Correct. She should have sent calfskin.”

Bilhah speaks. “Or at least sheepskin, which has its own softness.”

Calfskin produces the finest parchment, but Papa always preferred to use sheepskin, as the fat makes the parchment extra soft and supple.

“I, too, prefer sheepskin.” Hurrem Sultan claps her hands and gives a little laugh that tinkles through the room but brings up a level of fear in Bilhah. “That is what is fitting for a ruler.” She lifts her veil and brings the parchment close to her eyes. “Then, too, the writer would not have had to ink her words with so much force, for the parchment does not absorb so much ink and so remains clearer. A parchment that has been inked heavily brings its own message. There is a level of force. I do not appreciate people being forceful with me.”