“Oh . . . I . . . Of course.” Am I getting the boot? That’s what it feels like. I stumble over my feet as I get up from the couch and head to the door, my head in a fog. He follows.
“I’ll text you in the morning,” he says and leans down to give me a kiss on each cheek. “Ciao.” This time, la bise is cursory. His lips don’t linger; they barely touch my cheek.
“à demain.” I walk out and watch him shut the door behind me.
What the hell just happened?
Apparently, I’ve stepped out of a time machine, because I’m right where I was a few days ago: wondering why a cute boy has closed a door on me. Agonizing over whether he’s opening another door for someone else, someone he has to attend to. I’m not a single step closer to fixing my academic failures. I thought I was resuscitating my life, but multiple organ failure strikes again.
Leila
Few see Pasha’s inner apartments. The bedroom, of course—all the girls called at night are privy to that chamber. But the Terrace Kiosk is reserved for those in his counsel. The large windows of the Kiosk look onto the tulip garden aflame in yellow-orange-red blooms. Silk rugs line the floor. Pasha leans back against a red brocade settee. I sit at his feet. He rests his hand on my head, stroking my hair and gathering my braid. I am the perfect pet.
To all who see him, Pasha cuts a fine figure. His dark almond eyes pierce as easily as they laugh, ready to respond according to the moment and his mood. His beard and mustache are always neatly trimmed, thanks to the expert groomers who live in fear that their straight blades will nick his skin. When he stands, his sinewy body and broad shoulders reveal his training in combat and in self-assurance.
“Be happy,” another woman in the serai told me when I had come of age three years ago, almost still a child. Childhood here is painfully short. As a child you learn, too soon, that time is a luxury you are not afforded. “Our Pasha is handsome and still youthful. There are many less appealing masters to whom you could succumb.” Though my body has borne his weight, my mind and my heart will never yield to my captor.
A servant arrives to bring us our tea and pours it in steaming arcs into our filigreed-glass cups of green and crimson. Mint and cardamom scent the air between us. Pasha draws me up to sit next to him.
“You know I have accorded you a place few others, men or women, have occupied.” He sips his tea in dainty drams, lest his tongue burn.
“Yes, Pasha,” I say and cast my face downward, feigning humility and gratitude.
“I have given you the finest clothes and jewels and my time. I have employed tutors to teach you as if you were a man, because your acumen called for it. Because like Süleyman’s haseki, I thought you worthy of elevation, of one day ruling by my side. Thus, you have lived a life of leisure that most orphans could only dream of. And now the time has come for you to repay my favor.”
I tense but keep smiling, always wearing the mask. “Yes, Pasha. Your kindness toward me has been immeasurable.”
He smiles, too. “Very good. The tutor tells me your English has advanced, more than anyone’s in the court. And now you must use it to my advantage in places where I myself cannot.”
“Pasha?”
“We are to have visitors tomorrow. A lord from England. A poet-traveler who they say is entranced with our customs, adopting traditional dress in his travels. But I am interested in the real reason for his visit. It is said he is a confidant of his King George who has taken an increased fascination in our part of the world. I must know to what end.”
A spy. He wants me to be a spy.
There are many things the Pasha could ask me to do. Indeed, I could not refuse even the vilest without forfeiting my life. But I could not have imagined this.
“You will serve as his