Mehmed put his head against the door and took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. Radu had to strain to hear it, as Lada no doubt had to do on the other side of the heavy wood door. “I did not know about the baby until I returned, after I met you at the pool. And then I did not know how to tell you. I still do not, I have no idea how to feel about it. It is…a duty. It is the same as sitting through endless councils, hearing the complaints of pashas and the petty disputes of Janissaries and spahis.”
Mehmed paused, as though listening to something, then shook his head. “She is detestable. And the harem, I— It is not real, Lada. I visit, and they flit about like phantoms, like paintings. None of them are real to me.” He paused again, placing a hand flat against the door. “You are the only real thing in my life.”
Radu gasped with the sheer physical pain the words sent through him. But the sound of his agony was covered by that of the door opening. Mehmed reached in and pulled Lada out to him, and then his mouth was on hers and his hands were in her hair and he was holding her so tightly, so tightly, and they stumbled back into Lada’s room and closed the door.
Radu tripped forward, feet dragging, until he stood outside the room. He wanted to be inside it. He wanted to be the only real thing to Mehmed, just as Mehmed was the only real thing to him.
He wanted—
No, please, no.
Yes.
He wanted Mehmed to look at him the way he had looked at Lada.
He wanted Mehmed to kiss him the way he had kissed Lada.
He wanted to be Lada.
No, he did not. He wanted to be himself, and he wanted Mehmed to love him for being himself. His question, the question of Mehmed, was finally answered, piercing him and leaving him shaking, silent, on the floor.
He did not want this answer.
THOUGH MEHMED HAD TO leave far too soon lest his absence be discovered, Lada could still feel the memory of his hands and lips.
She did not know what it meant or what they had set in motion. But Huma had been right, after all. Because the way Mehmed looked at Lada as he left made her feel as powerful as she ever had.
They would see each other again at a late-evening party. Until then, the men were attending a bathhouse, and the women were meeting for a more intimate meal.
Lada had not planned on going, but her room was too tight, just as her skin was too tight. She had to do something lest she burst. The last place she wanted to be was around Nicolae and the Janissaries, and Radu was not in his chambers. So she found the gathering, slipping in with her secret wrapped around her as securely as armor.
When she saw Sitti Hatun at the head of the table—tiny and perfect, and perfectly miserable—Lada nearly laughed. Her rival was diminished, unworthy of even scorn.
Lada saw a familiar face and took a cushion beside Mara. Mara frowned thoughtfully, and then she smiled.
“Ladislav. You have grown.”
This afternoon alone, Lada felt she had grown by leagues. She carefully tucked the corners of her mouth back down around her memories. “Yes. You look well. Where is Halima?” Looking around, Lada did not find her. The room’s doors were attended by eunuchs, with most of Murad’s wives and concubines present.
A twist in her stomach demanded Lada remember that it was very likely at least a few of the women here were Mehmed’s.
No. She refused to think about it. If they were here, they were like Sitti Hatun: duties, forced upon him. Not a choice, not a desire. Not like her.
Mara smiled, though it was mirthless. “Did you not hear? Halima had a child not two months ago. She is still in confinement.”
Lada could not help the gasp that escaped her. “Murad’s new son is Halima’s?”
“Oh yes. She was violently ill all nine months of carrying him, and then nearly died giving birth. He is the ugliest infant I have ever laid eyes on. He never stops crying. Halima has never been happier.”
Lada snorted a brief laugh. “Poor happy Halima. And you? Are you happy?”
Mara took a sip of wine. Most of the women around them had none, but she made no secret of drinking it. “Serbia is peaceful. My husband neither requests nor demands my presence. I am quite well. You are, too.”
Lada blushed, looking down and toying with her plate. Did she wear Mehmed’s touch on her skin so obviously that others could see it? “What do you mean?”
“You are not the same miserable, terrified creature you were when last we met. You have stopped fighting.”
Mara’s words struck deep, and Lada struggled to disagree. But it was true. Lada let her eyes rest on the empty space around Sitti Hatun, the way all the women around them talked to her without saying anything. Even surrounded, Sitti Hatun was alone. She had been bartered by her father. Lada quickly tamped down a brief swell of pity. That was what fathers did. It was up to daughters to figure out survival by any means possible.
She turned back to Mara and spoke the truth. “I stopped knowing what to fight against.”
Mara lifted her glass. “May you find some measure of happiness in your surrender.” She drank deeply. “May we all.”