When she heard Papa’s voice, she could not think: He is a prisoner. I am an employee of Hurrem Sultan. She simply thought, Hide, hide, HIDE!
IT feels like one of those rainy days in Salonika. The downpour blurs faces, trees, houses; you peer through the mist but everyone inhabits a sphere of haze that is all their own.
They have climbed the prison stairs, left the building, not seeing, not hearing. The late afternoon sun splashes golden puddles across the grass, but Bilhah can neither stop her trembling, nor can she exit her orb of mist.
Elvira grips her arm. The pressure hurts, but the pain does not touch her. There is only sunshine, no rain at all, but they are divided into separate compartments of the world.
“Come, let us return to the work tent,” Elvira says. “You must try to clear your mind. Turn your thoughts to the correspondence and the reports, and it will calm you.”
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