“We do not have time—”
Huma held up a hand heavy with gold, cutting off Mehmed. “We do not have time to panic, or to display weakness. We have all the time in the world to allow you to engage in your much-deserved holiday as you take full advantage of the pleasures of your harem. Indeed, were the new sultan to spend an entire week of debauchery and riotous celebration with his women, no one could blame him. Or interrupt him. Or access him. And no one could discover how tenuous his power truly was and how close he came to being murdered before he could rule.”
“But the assassin—”
“Did not exist. It never happened. No one would ever attempt to take the life of the sultan, because to admit an attempt happened and nearly succeeded is to admit that it is possible to imagine an Ottoman empire without you at its head.” Her darkly lined eyes narrowed. “Do you understand? You are not hiding here. You are reveling. You are enjoying your power.”
Mehmed nodded, one slight dip of his head.
Huma’s face returned to its cheerful, lovely mask. “I have already sent the chief eunuch notice to inform the pashas and viziers of your activities. Word will spread. We have all the time we need.”
It was a good lie. And in order to be a good lie, it had to be believable. Lada did not want to think about why it would be so easily believed, how much time Mehmed had already spent here, whether there was precedence. She did not want to think about any of this.
It made her weak, this avoidance of reality. And still she recoiled when her mind tried to settle on it.
Huma stood, a rustling of silks and a cloud of sweetness trailing in her wake. But there was an undertone to it, a sharp scent that made Lada’s eyes water and her head swim. “Now go to your rooms. Servants will be by to see to you shortly.”
Mehmed opened his mouth as if to argue. Huma raised a single perfect brow. “Let your mother take care of this, my precious son.” The soft and comforting words were spoken in a tone that pierced like a needle.
Feigning a look of indifference, Mehmed walked past her, followed by Radu. Lada stood to leave as well, but Huma’s arm shot out, blocking her way. “Take a meal with me.”
“I would rather return to my room.”
Huma traced a finger down the line of her own hip, stroking the material of her dress lazily. “It was not a request.”
Lada took a step forward, but Huma seized her wrist. Huma laughed, and in her laugh Lada heard all the secrets she had never been privy to. “Ladislav Dragwlya, daughter of Vlad, who sent forces, including his own son, to fight at Varna, thus invalidating his treaty with the Ottomans and leaving his children’s lives utterly forfeit. Ladislav, whom no one in the world other than her beautiful brother and a powerless sultan care about. Little Lada, who is in my house under my protection, sit down.”
Lada remembered the feeling of skin and tendons clamped between her teeth, the resistance of flesh meeting the determination of her jaw. For one brief, dizzy moment, she considered attacking Huma, savaging her the same way she had Mehmed’s attacker.
Instead, she sat.
“Good girl.” Huma clapped her hands and a trio of delicate flowers in girl form came in, setting food and drink in front of them, then gliding silently away. Lada watched the girls, and as she watched them, she wondered, Are they Mehmed’s? Has he been here? Has he picked these flowers?
Huma’s pointy red tongue flicked out, running along her teeth as she considered the meal in front of them. Lada was reminded of a snake, which confused her. Women were the garden, and men were the snakes. Her nurse had explained how men and women came together in the marriage bed to her when she was very young, around the same time her religious tutors had taught her the story of Adam and Eve. The two had mixed together in her head, until it was men and their snakes that had persuaded Eve to lose her beautiful, perfect garden.
No garden could survive the introduction of a snake. Everything would be lost, would then belong to the snake forever.
Lada knew more now, of course, from the rude talk and graphic stories of the Janissaries. They had only served to further her conviction that her interpretation had been correct all along.
But here was Huma, and she was no garden. She was a serpent. “Murad liked his girls very young. I spent several years eating almost nothing so that I could stay small and undeveloped.” She picked up a leg of chicken, roasted and covered with cracked flakes of pepper. Her eyes rolled back as she bit into it, a soft, satisfied hum slipping through her lips. “I thought I would die of want before I ever managed to conceive an heir. But then precious Mehmed took up in my womb, and I could eat again.”