Sofia
dressed.“That’s it.”
“That’s it?”
The Quince nodded. “Now we would just let the children romp about if we were on an outing, feed them sweets, weave garlands for their hair. I’m sorry I can’t pamper you with that diversion today. I don’t suppose you’re quite as frisky as an eight-year-old, either, but you are free to go. Your time is your own—and that of the moon—until the mistress comes for your religious instruction.”
XXVII
“Religious instruction” smacked much the same as it had in the convent. Prayers and scriptures memorized in Arabic were not much different from prayers and scriptures in Latin, although they presented themselves much deeper in the throat. The postures and prostrations had parallels, too. Sofia concerned herself with the meaning to the same degree.
The main difference—and benefit—she found in Islam was that in a harem, unlike the theoretically feminine world of a convent, no bishop or priest would ever come to catechize her. The religious instructress certainly took her duty just as seriously as Sister Seraphina had, but she was much more content with a mindless mimicry. Greek and Armenian girls balked at declaring God to be One and Muhammed his Prophet. They, who clung to their native beliefs with tearful fervor and cared to argue Trinity and Transubstantiation, took much more of that woman’s attention than Sofia, who held her tongue. Of course one recalcitrant girl in the whole convent declaring when pressed (and there was a lot of pressure) that it was all a waste of time did not present quite the challenge of a shipment of a dozen new girls a week from as many different lands and creeds.
Reprieve also came with the fact that, on account of her menses, Sofia was barred from the harem mosque for the whole first week of her stay, for all that it was a shrine exclusively for women to begin with. She was expected to pray on her own, which she never did unless someone was watching, not till the end of her life.
By the time she was required to take her place in the ranks of new girls, her personality, bleeding or no, had made its mark. Everyone had already forgotten that she was a novice and that all eyes should scrutinize her every move. Since prayer and recitation were always performed in groups, Sofia perfected the skill the convent had first taught her of keeping no more than one syllable or posture behind the leader. In this fashion, her dissent—if passive lack of care deserves the name—was never remarked.
But with the end of her period and the dropping of the walnut shells from her limbs of their own accord, Sofia began to feel the limits of her new station. She had impressed everyone there was to impress among the charwomen and frightened new girls who shared her quarters. Already she was their undoubted leader, even over the language barrier. The religious instruction turned quickly into reading and writing at which she studiously remained no more clever than was necessary. Here, too, nothing taxed either mind or soul. But she had yet to see the wonderful Nur Banu Kadin again. Or anyone else of more than menial or spiritual account—which meant no account at all.
Sofia grew restless.
The Italian word seraglio is actually derived from the phrase meaning a cage for wild beasts and, like a beast, Sofia began to pace the halls of the warren in which she found herself. Her steps measured the hallways from one dour guardian eunuch to another until she thought she would roar with tedium. And this was only after a week!
One evening of particular restlessness, she found herself unwatched in the dim corridor she recognized from her first visit to the palace. Here was the door which had taken her into the presence of those dark, piercing eyes. She measured the shadows of the hall in front of it for several minutes. No one came. The door remained shut. At length, Sofia could contain herself no longer. She dared to let herself into that room once more.
To her dismay and confusion Sofia found the room dark and deserted. Had what she’d seen that first day been only a reflection in a mirror, it could not have vanished more quickly and without a trace. Not only was the room deserted of people, but it was also in the process of being stripped of most of the furnishings that had made it so elegant as well.
Rugs and mattresses lay stacked in coils against the wall. Fine sweetmeat services and copperware peeped out of their shipping crates. Chests of silk and damask sat open and half full, while other garments in neatly folded stacks and heaps of jewelry, all like so much dross without people to animate them, waited nearby.
Nur Banu was clearly deserting the place—harem walls could never be a barrier to such a powerful woman. Nur Banu and all her glittering, lively suite—
And Sofia Baffo would be left alone in this—this prison. The thought overwhelmed her, flooded her with heat and fear. Her knees grew heavy, her head light, and she sank to the empty, echoing floor with a gasp.
Later Sofia had only a vague memory of how the great white eunuch came and quietly led her away, closing and locking the door behind him. She remembered how, when she couldn’t walk, he picked her up in his arms like a child and carried her up to her narrow bed on the third floor.
At some point, through a haze, his face took on the aspect of someone she knew. Yes, that young Veniero from the convent garden, from the ship. Inexplicable guilt overwhelmed her at the recognition, coming in tangible waves and roughness. Veniero—Giorgio—come to save her once again, but this time...this time she would take him at his word.
No. This was a eunuch. She remembered the paper in the lurching candlelight of a ship’s cabin. No children... no virile young Venetian sailor...
Later she recognized it all as delirium.
“Smallpox.” The word entered her fevered