Anger flared the boy’s nostrils. “Who are you?”
Lada leaned against a tree, plucked another fig, and took the biggest, messiest bite she could. “I am Lada Dragwlya, the daughter of Wallachia.”
“You should be fasting.”
She spat the pulpy skin at his feet, and took another bite.
He frowned thoughtfully. “I could have you killed for that.”
Radu trembled, starting to bow.
“Oh, stand up, Radu.” Lada grabbed his shirt and yanked him upright. “He is a stupid boy. If even the tutors are allowed to beat him, I doubt the head gardener is under his command. He is probably a pampered captive, like us.” She felt no sympathy for the boy. He reminded her of what she was—powerless, young—and it made her angry.
The boy stood, stomping a foot. “I am no slave. This is my city!”
Lada snorted. “And I am the queen of Byzantium.” She turned on her heel, pulling Radu along.
“I will see you again!” the boy called. It was not a question, but a command.
“I will burn your city to the ground,” Lada called back over her shoulder. The boy’s only response was a burst of surprised laughter. Lada was shocked when her lips answered with their first smile in weeks.
Lada furiously scrubbed the blood from her nightclothes.
As she did, she cursed her mother, for making her a girl.
She cursed her father, for leaving her here.
And she cursed her own body, for leaving her so vulnerable.
She was so busy with a stream of cursing that she did not hear the door open.
“Oh,” said the maid, a girl fragile and darting as a bird.
Lada looked up in horror. Evidence of her womanhood draped over her hands, the red an undeniable testament. She had been caught. An image of herself crawling and weeping swept through her mind. That was what a wife was. What a wife did.
And now this maid, this spy, knew she was old enough to be a wife.
With a scream, Lada jumped on the maid, hitting her around the head. The maid dropped to the floor, bracing against the blows and crying out. Lada did not stop. She hit and kicked and bit, all while screaming obscenities in every language available to her.
Arms pulled at her, a voice she knew pleading desperately, but she did not stop. She could not stop. This was the end of her last shred of freedom, all because of the prying eyes of a maid.
In the end, it took two palace guards to pull her off. Radu looked at her with the terror of a small prey animal startled from its den. Lada would not answer his questions. It did not matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
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.