The harem festivities hum with life tonight. The gathered women wear careful smiles and sharper calculations.
I stand near the fountain, sherbet warming in my hands, watching the performance. A dancer moves through the center, her movements fluid and hypnotic. Around me, women cluster in their usual groups, laughing and applauding at the right moments.
I'm trying to be invisible. Trying to listen without being noticed listening.
"Leyla." Gülnar's voice cuts through the music like a blade wrapped in honey. "How lovely to see you here. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten us entirely, spending so much time in other quarters."
She glides toward me with three women flanking her, their expressions mirroring her calculated warmth. Every eye in the vicinity turns our direction.
"The festivities are beautiful," I say carefully, keeping my voice neutral. "The musicians are particularly skilled tonight."
"Yes, they are." Gülnar's smile sharpens. "Though I wonder if you're truly here for the music, or if you're hoping a certain prince might make an appearance. Prince Selim seemed quite taken with you the other day, didn't he?"
The words land loud enough that nearby conversations falter. I feel the shift immediately—the way attention pivots toward us, hungry for scandal.
"His Highness was kind enough to share breakfast and conversation," I reply evenly. "He's very knowledgeable about poetry."
"Poetry!" Gülnar laughs, the sound carrying across the gathering.
"How charming. Tell me, Leyla, is it the poetry that captivates you, or the poet? You've managed to catch the attention of not one but two princes. Such a remarkable achievement for someone who arrived in disgrace. You must share your secret—how does one collect royal attention like prizes?"
The insinuation is clear. Around us, whispers bloom like poison flowers. I see women leaning toward each other, eyes bright with the promise of scandal. This isn't a joke—it's a rumor in the making, the one she already started and now just fueling the fire.
I force myself to smile, to take a sip of sherbet as if her words barely register. "I'm hardly collecting anything. Prince Mehmet has been generous with his protection, and Prince Selim enjoys intellectual conversation. There's no mystery to either, unless one is determined to create one."
"Oh, but mysteries are so much more interesting than truth, don't you think?" Gülnar's eyes gleam with malicious delight. She turns to address the women around us, her voice carrying.
"Our clever Leyla claims she's simply lucky. What do we think, ladies? Is it luck that makes princes compete for her attention? Or something more... deliberate?"
Laughter ripples through the gathering—some genuine, some nervous, all of it feeding the narrative Gülnar is weaving. I feel the weight of judgment settling over me like a shroud.
"I think," I say carefully, keeping my tone light, "that we should return our attention to the performance. The dancer has been working hard to entertain us, and it seems rude to ignore her artistry in favor of idle speculation."
The deflection works partially. A few women turn back toward the dancer, though most continue watching our exchange with undisguised interest.
Gülnar's smile doesn't waver. "You're quite right. How thoughtless of me." She gestures toward the cushions where musicians sit, redirecting the conversation with practiced ease. "Have you heard the new composition they performed last week? The melody was exquisite."
We fall into safer territory—discussing music, poetry, the upcoming festival. But I feel the damage spreading. Behind every polite word, the whispers grow. By morning, the entire harem will be discussing whether I'm manipulating the princes, whether my relationship with Mehmet is genuine or calculated.
As the gathering begins to thin, women drifting toward their quarters in small groups, I prepare to leave. I'm gathering my shawl when a servant passes close—too close—and something falls beside my cushion with a soft flutter.
A folded note.
I reach for it automatically, but Gülnar is faster. She gasps theatrically, her hand snatching the parchment before my fingers can close around it.
"Oh? A message?" Her voice carries across the remaining women, stopping conversations mid-sentence. "For our clever Leyla? From whom, I wonder?"
She unfolds the note with deliberate slowness, her expression shifting through surprise to scandalized delight. Around us, women crowd closer, their curiosity palpable.
My heart hammers against my ribs, but I keep my face carefully neutral. Whatever trap this is, showing fear will only make it worse.
"Well?" someone asks eagerly. "What does it say?"
Gülnar's eyes meet mine, triumph gleaming in their depths. But I speak before she can, my voice cutting clear and steady through the tension.
"If it's from you, Gülnar, I already know the contents—poison disguised as perfume."
The barb lands perfectly. Laughter breaks the tension—genuine laughter this time, surprised and delighted by the directness. Even some of Gülnar's usual supporters smile, unable to hide their amusement.
Gülnar's face tightens, her mask cracking for just a moment. She recovers quickly, forcing a laugh that sounds brittle. "How witty. Though I assure you, this isn't from me." She carelessly drops the paper back on my lap.
Safiye materializes at my elbow, her timing perfect, her hand catching the letter. "Come, child. The hour grows late, and you look exhausted."
She guides me away from the gathering, her hand steady on my arm. Behind us, I hear the whispers restart—speculation about who sent the note, what it might have meant, whether it was a test or a message or something else entirely.
"Well handled," Safiye murmurs as we walk. "But the seed is planted now. By morning, everyone will be discussing secret letters and divided loyalties."
"I know," I whisper back. "Thank you for the intervention."
She pats my hand. "Get some rest. Tomorrow will be difficult."
In my chambers, I check the note—and find it empty, sit in the quiet darkness and think. The note doesn't matter—it was always blank. The point wasn't what it contained but what it suggested. Gülnar wants people thinking I'm receiving secret correspondence, playing games with the princes' affections.
I should go to Mehmet. Should tell him what happened. But he's dealing with investigations affecting entire provinces, with corruption that starves families. This is just harem drama. Petty and cruel but ultimately trivial.
And I don't want to antagonize the brothers. If I run to Mehmet every time Gülnar spreads rumors, it looks like I can't handle myself. Like I'm weak.
I'm not weak. Not anymore.
Instead, I pull out parchment and ink, carefully mapping everything I heard tonight. Which women seemed most interested in Gülnar's insinuations. Who laughed genuinely versus who looked uncomfortable. The patterns of loyalty and enmity that govern this place.
When I finish, I send quiet word to Esma, Safiye and Nurbanu through trusted Mehmet’s servants. Keep an ear out for anyone repeating Gülnar's rumors. Trace any new whispers about me and Selim. Let me know what's being said when they think I'm not listening.
I burn the blank note in my lamp's flame, watching the edges curl and blacken. It never mattered what was inside. The damage was done the moment it appeared.
Tomorrow, I'll face whatever rumors have spread. Tomorrow, I'll continue gathering information about Kemal's corruption, about the suffering in Diyarbekir.
Tonight, I sit in the darkness and remind myself that I've survived worse than Gülnar's machinations.
I've survived my own family's betrayal.
This is nothing.