“A parchment that has been inked heavily brings its own message. There is a level of force. I do not appreciate people being forceful with me”
“I was sent to bring you this missive.”
Hurrem Sultan does not thank her, merely stretches out her hand to take the parchment. Bilhah stares — as the woman moves her hand, the precious stones on her rings flash red, green, and blue. She is like a song bird, with her swift sudden movements and the bright colors that shine from her.
Hurrem rubs the corner of the letter between two fingers.
“Can you identify this parchment?” she asks.
Bilhah tries to read the woman’s face through her fine veil, but it is inscrutable. She touches the parchment with her fingers. When she was little, she noticed that other little girls stuck their fingers into the honey jar; she dipped them into ink, loving the thick, slightly oily feel and the way the black beaded into little round balls that rolled back and forth on her fingers.
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