“I am Bilhah. A newcomer.” She has picked up a few words of Ottoman Turkish, and she uses it now, though she can try again in Spanish or Greek
Three weeks later, Spring 1535
Imperial Palace, Istanbul
Darkness. Quiet. Bilhah waits for her eyes to adjust and for the darkness to shift into the shape of shadows. The dining room, the great atrium — the rooms of the palace are bright with the glow of a thousand copper lanterns. The sudden entrance into the sleeping hall of the palace has blinded her.
The line moves forward gradually. From the pile on the right, take a sleeping mat. A few more paces, select a blanket, then a pillow.
Bilhah steps forward, watching, watching. A woman presides over the sleeping mats, and she gives Bilhah a tiny nod, as if to acknowledge her newness.
There are tricks in the selection, Bilhah is certain. Some mats are thicker, some are worn and the bamboo splinters into your fingers as you lift it. The next pile is harder as it is further inside the room and darker. She cannot see the blanket, but lets her fingers choose. After a moment’s hesitation, her fingers close over the scratch of wool rather than the coolness of cotton. She may regret it: surely this sleeping hall will get warm as it fills and the night progresses, but for now the nights are cold. Arms laden, she walks deeper into the sleeping hall.
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