“See? There is your past and here is your future.” She points to clots and filigrees of rich brown that coat the sides of the cup, coffee ground as fine as powder.
“Can you read me my future, Your Highness?” Kamil must be there, she thinks with the guilty hope that her desire be revealed as fact.
“Of course, my dear, of course.” Asma Sultan scrutinizes the inside of the cup, turning it this way and that until Sybil fears she can no longer bear to wait.
Finally, Asma Sultan says, “The past is the vessel of the future. Let me try to understand the shape of the vessel first.”
“Yes, of course,” Sybil responds, disappointed.
“A man, an old man who has known you all your life. Here he is.” She points to a long streak extending from the dregs to the rim of the cup.
“That must be my father.”
“There is also a woman here, a mother, your mother, I think. You were very close to her.”
“Yes. Yes.”
“Here she disappears from your life.” Pointing into the cup, she looks up. “I’m sorry for your bereavement.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.” Gulls argue hoarsely high above. “She’s been gone some years now.”
“And here are other women of the same age as you.”
“One must be my sister, Maitlin. I don’t know the others. Who might they be?”
Asma Sultan twists the cup and holds it close to her eye. “They are English. I see this by their dresses.”
“Goodness,” Sybil exclaims. “You can see that much detail?”
Fixing her black eyes on Sybil. “Oh, yes, my daughter, I can see.”
“Two Englishwomen? In my past? My aunt, perhaps.”
“Recent past. The cup is deep with time and I am moving up toward the future.”
“Then perhaps someone at the embassy.”
“Is there a woman important to you? A simple employee wouldn’t appear in your cup.”
Sybil thinks. “Really, I can think of no one who is English. I have a close acquaintance, but she is Italian.”
“No.” The slight tone of impatience in Asma Sultan’s voice is immediately submerged by resignation.
“Ah, my foolish girl. You do not see your life as clearly as the eye of this cup does.”
Stung, Sybil prompts, “Perhaps I’ll have better success with my future.”
“No, no, we cannot go on until the past has been fully explored. These women, look here, their signs end. Perhaps they returned to England?”
“Good heavens. It must be the two governesses. They have played quite a prominent role in my life of late.”
“Governesses?”
“Hannah Simmons and Mary Dixon. The governesses who were killed. We spoke of them the other day at Shukriye Hanoum’s.”
“Of course. But why are they in the vessel of your past? You must have known them well, that they should play such a big role in your life?”
“No, I didn’t know Hannah at all and I met Mary only a few times. We barely spoke. I suppose they appear in the cup because of their murders. I’ve been helping with the inquiry.” Sybil couldn’t quite hide the pride in her voice.
“I see.” Asma Sultan’s eyes slide closed for a moment. “Please continue.”
“Well.” She hesitates. “It seems the two deaths might be linked.”
“Linked? How?”
“Of course, to start with, both were employed by the palace. And they were found in the same area.”
“Where was that?”
“One at Chamyeri and one at Middle Village.”
“Those are some distance apart.”
“Mary’s clothes were found at Chamyeri.”
“I see. But all this might have been coincidence. Were there any other links?”
Sybil hesitates again, remembering Kamil’s warning, but decides that the horse has bolted from the stable. She had already spoken of this at Leyla’s. “They both had the same necklace.”
“Why would that be of significance? Perhaps they frequented the same jeweler.”
“But it had a tughra and a Chinese inscription.”
“What did the inscription say?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Your Highness. I can’t remember.” Sybil is flustered. “Something about a bowstring.”
There is a pause before Asma Sultan asks, “That is unusual, but what would it have to do with their deaths?”
“It’s not as trivial as it seems. It’s possible that it’s a secret code for some kind of plot against the sultan.” She tries to be matter-of-fact, but excitement and pride color her voice.
Asma Sultan smiles thinly. “That is indeed important. So, these are the two women shaping your future.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Your Highness. I’m just helping, nothing more.”
“Who else shares your theory of a plot centered on that necklace?”
“It’s Kamil Pasha’s idea, not mine.”
“Who is this Kamil Pasha?”
“Magistrate of Beyoglu Lower Court, Your Highness.”
“Ah, Alp Pasha’s son.”
“Do you know him?” Sybil asks, unable to keep the excitement from her voice.
Bemused, Asma Sultan responds, “I knew his mother. You are fond of the magistrate?”
“Why, no.” Blushing. “I mean, I think he’s a splendid investigator. If anyone can discover the truth of the matter, he can.”
“I see. And who does he think is behind this plot-or is it plots? Has he had anyone arrested yet?”
“I don’t think he knows yet. I suppose Hannah and Mary couldn’t be involved in the same plot, since there are so many years between them. But it is odd that they both had that necklace, isn’t it?”
“Forgive me. It all sounds rather fanciful.”
“Yes, when I tell it to you like this, it does rather.” Sybil smiles wanly.
Asma Sultan’s intent questioning has made her uncomfortably aware that she has broken her promise to Kamil. She has lost any desire to hear her future foretold. The shadow of the villa has fallen over the patio, and her shawl is no longer sufficient to warm her. Sybil considers the long shadows and becomes concerned about the time. She is suddenly anxious to get away.
“Your Highness, it has been a great pleasure to speak with you and I treasure your hospitality, but I must beg leave to return home or I’ll be late to dinner. Father doesn’t like me to be late.”
“Of course, of course. I’m glad to see you are a dutiful daughter. Fathers-they do expect so much of one. And you are expecting the magistrate to dinner tonight, aren’t you?”
“How did you know?” Sybil is flustered.
“You mentioned it the other day at Leyla’s.”
“Oh, of course.” Sybil beams and rises to her feet. “It was such a pleasant afternoon. Thank you very much.”
“Oh, before you go, my dear, I’d like you to see something. Come, come over here.”
Sybil follows Asma Sultan to an area of the patio screened by a stone lattice.
“I am going to show you something quite special. Not many people know about this. One of my mother’s protégés was an architect. She designed this especially for her. Arif Agha, go and steady Sybil Hanoum.”
The eunuch appears beside Sybil, takes her arm in his long, steel fingers, and looks expectantly at Asma Sultan. Sybil is uncomfortable and wants to leave, but the eunuch holds her arm tightly. When she pulls at her arm, his grip tightens.
“Don’t be alarmed,” the old woman says gently. Her hand glides over the carved stone and stops over a protrusion. “You see this lever here. When you pull it, an extraordinary thing happens.”
She pulls the lever and the part of the floor on which Sybil and the eunuch are standing begins to move downward with a low grinding noise. The eunuch lets go of Sybil’s arm. She runs to the edge and tries to catch onto the receding tiles.
“Isn’t this marvelous? This is a device that allows the women of the harem to fish and dabble in the sea without ever being seen by anyone outside.”
Sybil claws at the tiles, but can’t lift herself out. Soon the patio is far above her. She can see Asma Sultan’s head silhouetted against the sky. She is still explaining.
“You can swim in complete privacy. My mother spent time here, fishing. Remarkable, isn’t it? She said it reminded her of her girlhood, when she was free. After my father died, she was sent with his other women to live at the Old Palace. She never left there again. She told me she missed this spot most of all.”