And then, a rustle. Bilhah freezes. She blinks, trying to stare through the shifting shadows and the blackness. Someone is out here, with her

The woman who guards the entrance of the sleeping hall does not know what happens deep within the chamber. She does not see Bilhah as she climbs up onto the window ledge and slowly lowers herself down, clutching the ledge while her body hangs into the darkness. She has no idea that Bilhah has become adept at gently kicking herself away from the wall as she releases her hands.

Bilhah lands gently on the mossy grass below.

She pauses, catches her breath, and flicks the leaves from her skirts before she sets off into the night. The dew-soaked grass soaks her thin slippers but the night is warm, and the air filled with moisture, so that soon she is wiping the damp from her forehead.

For the last three nights, she has been exploring the perimeter of the Imperial Palace. It is hopeless: the palace gardens are a sprawling labyrinth surrounded by brick and iron, walls and gates that tower far above her head. Guards patrol the boundary.

There is no coming in and there is no going out, and she does not know why she persists, other than the fact that when others drift into sleep, she lies awake, disquiet flooding her limbs, thoughts spooling and spinning through her mind, so that sleep seems to belong to another realm, to another Bilhah, different and foreign to the girl she is now.

It is only during the day, when she tries to focus on the words of Spanish or Italian or Persian that her eyes blur and her head feels impossibly heavy. Twice Yasemin has called her out on a translation that is clumsy; she did so without rancor but with concern. Twice she has apologized, but resisted Yasemin’s questions, though they are gentle.

Now, she stumbles across the lawn, willing her limbs to loosen and for the ache in her hips to fade; for the walking to ease the heaviness that presses on her chest and weighs down her shoulders. She passes the grove of tangerine trees, the stone fountain, and the artificial stream that gives the air a green, wet smell. All is quiet apart from the wind stroking the leaves of the magnolia.

And then, a rustle. Bilhah freezes. She blinks, trying to stare through the shifting shadows and the blackness. Someone is out here, with her. She listens.

There it is again. Rustling. Someone walking through the grass.