Lada had been expecting punishment, so the invitation to join women for an afternoon meal came as a shock. She was escorted by a narrow-shouldered bald man to a section of the palace she had never visited.
Two women stood when she entered the elegant room. One was young, perhaps only a few years Lada’s senior. She had her hair wrapped in a cheerful blue scarf, with a veil over the lower half of her face. Her eyes were big and projected a brilliant smile.
Lada flinched as the woman rushed forward, but she only took her hands and squeezed them.
She spoke Turkish. “You must be Ladislav. You poor dear. Come, sit. I am Halima. This is Mara.”
Lada allowed herself to be pulled toward the cushions around a table, taking in the other woman, who sat straight-backed and corseted, her structured dress in contrast to Halima’s flowing layers of silk. This woman’s hair was dark brown, elaborately curled and formally twisted in the style of the Serbian courts.
“Why am I here?” Lada asked, tone as blunt as she could manage in her confusion.
“Because no one knew what else to do with you.” Mara’s tone was cold, her eyes narrowed. “When they discovered why you beat that poor child, the men refused to acknowledge the topic further. We were asked to speak with you about your feminine issues.”
“Did you not understand what was happening?” Halima leaned forward, eyes crinkling in sympathy. “You must have been so frightened! I knew to expect my monthly courses, and still I nearly fainted at the blood! But here you are, with only your brother. You must meet with us, let us teach you and help you.” She clapped her hands together in delight. “It will be fun!”
Lada remained where she was, standing stiffly by the table. “I want nothing you can offer.”
“Oh, but you must have questions! Do not be afraid. You cannot embarrass us. We are wives, after all.”
“That is exactly the fate I am trying to avoid,” Lada muttered.
“Then you are a fool,” Mara answered.
“Oh, be kind, Mara! She does not understand. It is a wonderful thing, being a wife! Murad is so attentive, and we are taken care of better than we could ever hope for.” There was no hint of furtiveness or secrecy in Halima’s tone. Her statement was as honest as her big, stupid eyes.
“You are married to Murad?” Lada asked, the sultan’s name foul on her tongue.
“We both are.” Halima smiled brightly. Lada looked in horror toward Mara.
Mara’s smile was the bitter winter to Halima’s brilliant spring. “Yes. We are both his wives, among other wives and many concubines.”
Lada recoiled. “That is an abomination.”
“If I recall correctly,” Mara said, “your father has another son, from a mistress.”
Lada did not answer, but her face was confirmation. They never spoke of the other Vlad, but Lada knew he existed.
Halima gestured eagerly, as though she could pluck the thoughts from Lada’s mind and smooth them out into more pleasant shapes. “That is how it is done here. Men are allowed to have more than one wife, if they can provide for them. And the sultan has a tradition of keeping a harem. We are all loved and cared for. It is such a privilege to be a wife!”
Mara took a sip of tea from a delicate teacup, unlike any Lada had seen. When she spoke, she spoke in Hungarian. “Halima is an idiot.”
Halima tilted her head to the side. “What?”
Mara continued. “She is a child. She fancies herself a princess in a tale. Murad choosing her as a wife from among the harem was the biggest thing a girl like Halima could ever accomplish. I do not know whether to strangle her or to do everything in my power to keep her in her glittering fantasy.”
Lada answered in Hungarian, intrigued by Mara’s honesty. “What about you?”
“I am here for the same reason you are. My marriage to Murad was the seal of a truce with my father and Serbia. My presence here keeps Serbia free.”
Lada scoffed. “But Serbia is not free.”
Mara raised a single eyebrow. “What do you think freedom is?”
“The right to rule yourself! Not to be beholden to a foreign nation for safety.”
“Every country is beholden to other nations for safety. That is what treaties and borders are.”
“But this is different!”
“How so?”
“You! You should not be forced into a marriage! It is not fair.”
Halima coughed deliberately, her lips turned down. “Perhaps we could speak in a language everyone understands? So no one’s feelings are hurt by being left out?”
Mara continued without acknowledging her fellow wife. “Hmm. And what do you think would have happened to me if I had stayed in Serbia? I would have been married to another man not of my choosing. I despise my husband and this entire empire, but at least here I have accomplished something. Halima’s marriage to Murad keeps her safe and taken care of. My marriage to Murad keeps all of Serbia safe and taken care of. It is not fair, no. But it is more important than fairness. Do you love Wallachia?”
Lada scowled at the trap of the question. She knew where it would lead, but she had to answer truthfully. “Yes.”
“Just as I love Serbia. I serve my country and my family by being exiled. We must all do what we can, Ladislav. This was my contribution.”
Halima cleared her throat prettily. “Are we ready to speak in Turkish now? I thought of some advice I would like to give Ladislav!”
Lada picked her way through the meal, observing the two varieties of wife before her. She could never be like Halima, grateful and naive. But could she be like Mara—resigned to a fate she did not choose, in defense of her country?
Halima kept up a chirping discourse, talking of nothing of substance with such dreamlike joy Lada almost understood Mara’s protectiveness of her. There was something comforting about the mindlessness of it all. And Lada enjoyed Mara’s wry, biting comments, often delivered in a language Halima did not understand. Maybe Lada would ask to meet with them again. It would be nice to have someone to talk to besides Radu and their hated tutors.
Halima was in the middle of a lengthy story. “…and Emine, she is my dear friend, you know she joined the harem on her own! It was quite the scandal. She left her family and walked right in! Of course they had to take her then, her family would not have her back, and so—”
“What?” Lada interrupted, confused. “Simply because she entered the harem?”
“Oh yes! That is why we met you here. If you enter the harem building, you are technically the property of the sultan! It has to be that way, you know. To protect the bloodline.”
Mara noted Lada’s look of horror with a bleak smile. When she had finished eating, she primly wiped her mouth. She spoke in Hungarian again. “It is good for you to be with us. Try to be like this beautiful idiot. The sooner you stop fighting, the easier your life will be. This is what your purpose is.”
Lada stood so abruptly she nearly fell backward. “No.”
She turned and fled from Mara’s heavy, knowing gaze, feeling the weight of it on her shoulders for long after.
THE MAN WAS FAT.
Tiny purple veins painted his face, webbing out from around his nose. His eyes were watery, his jaw weak, his fingers strained around too-tight rings.
He trembled with age, illness, or nerves. Lada trembled with rage.
Radu silently prayed to whichever god was listening that she would not get them both killed. He had no idea what set her off on that poor maid, but she had drawn official attention as being a problem. Now they stood in one of the opulent courtrooms of the palace. There was more silk and gold in this single room than in the whole caste at Tirgoviste. Various dignitaries stood nearby, murmuring among themselves, waiting their turn to speak with Halil Pasha, the horrible man who had made Radu and Lada watch their first impalings. Normally Radu would have seized this opportunity to listen in and get a feel for the court, but he was too sick with fear and could look only at Lada. If only Kumal were here, if only he lived in the capital. Radu knew he would help them.