“Tsk, tsk.” The valide shook her head. “These girls from Circassia! It is the mountains, Yashim. It makes them stubborn, and leaves them ignorant.”
“And this-” Yashim gestured at the walls. “This harem…”
“Encourages them to be silly, too. I know it, Yashim. Almost alone of all the women who come here, I have the benefit of an education. Ne t’en souviens-tu pas? Between you and me, Yashim, it’s like catching snowflakes. They have desires, hopes, plans, secrets. And they wear them on their faces, like maquillage.”
“And die, as a result?”
“Of course. Death is a secret, like any other.”
She touched a hand to her cheek, and smoothed it back.
“Tell me, Yashim, what did you make of our friend Monsieur Gautier?”
“‘Everything that is beautiful is useless,’” Yashim quoted. “It seemed insincere.”
“Very silly,” the valide agreed. “It could have been written by one of our girls.”
“If any of them knew how to write,” Yashim pointed out.
“Or understood French, Yashim.”