The Aviary Gate by Katie Hickman

sound.
    â€˜Lie down – over there.’
    Cariye Lala pointed to an octagonal-shaped slab of marble in the middle of the room. Positioned in the ceiling above it was a small dome, its sides pierced to let in the natural light.
    Cautiously, Celia walked across the room, the unfamiliar wooden pattens clacking on the floor. Although she was now four inches taller than normal, her nakedness made her feel somehow shrunken in size. For the first time she hesitated. Instead of lying down, she sat herself awkwardly on the slab, the small shock of cold white marble stinging her buttocks. She held the purse that Annetta had given her awkwardly in one hand.
    â€˜
Cariye?
’
    Celia’s heart beat faster now. She must delay no longer. In her palm the purse felt heavy, and strangely unreassuring. What if Cariye Lala did not understand? How could she possibly ever explain what she hoped to receive in exchange for this money, all two hundred and fifty aspers of it, a small fortune to Celia herself, who in spite of being
gözde
still carried the ranking of one of the lowliest members of the harem? The very thought made two spots of shame rise to Celia’s cheeks. She thought of Annetta, and willed herself to have courage.
    â€˜Cariye Lala?’
    But Cariye Lala was far away in a bathhouse world of lotions and depilatory creams, priceless vials of attar of roses, balm of Mecca, and jars of honeyed unguents, all set before her in gleaming rows like an apothecary’s shopfront. As she worked, she sang to herself: her voice, surprisingly sweet and clear, echoed from the marble walls. Celia’s mouth was dry; beads of sweat, like tiny seed pearls, pricked her brow. Desperately she rose to her feet on the teetering pattens.
    â€˜For you, Cariye Lala.’ Celia touched her gently on the arm. Wordlessly, the old woman took the purse from her. Then it was gone, vanished. Had she secreted it away in some hidden fold of her robe? Celia blinked. Where did it go? Two hundred and fifty aspers! She tried not to think what Annetta would say. The whole transaction had been accomplished so quickly it was as if it never happened.
    Celia blinked again, uncertain what to do, but now Cariye Lala was leading her back to the marble slab. The little room was hotter than ever. With a shiver she imagined the unseen hands behind the walls feeding the furnace beneath the floor with gargantuan logs brought specially on the Sultan’s own timber boats all the way from the forests of the Black Sea. The women had often watched them coming up the Bosphorous from the palace gardens.
    Washing Celia was wet work. In preparation Cariye Lala had stripped herself almost naked; a thin cloth was tied around her bony shanks, but her old dugs swung freely as she worked, their nipples long and shrivelled, the colour and texture of dried plums. Sometimes they knocked against Celia’s back and legs as she lay face down on the marble.
    What now? Poor Celia was tormented. What should I do now? Shall I say something to her, or just keep silent? The marble, burning to the touch now, stung her cheek and neck. For a woman who seemed so frail, Cariye Lala was full of surprising energy. She gripped Celia by the upper arm, and set to with a will.
    As she worked the servant girl handed her water in silver pitchers, first hot, then gasping cold. Cariye Lala sluiced and scrubbed. On her hand was a rough hessian mitten with which she rubbed Celia all over. Celia’s skin was so fair that soon that milky whiteness, which the Sultan would in a few hours be offered for his enjoyment, had flushed to a rosy glow, and finally, a stinging crimson blush. A small moan escaped from Celia’s lips. She tried to pull herself away, but she found herself now in a vice-like grip. Cariye Lala was able to hold her down with as much ease as if she were a prize-fighter. Celia struggled briefly, then lay still.
    Turning Celia over on to her back, the old woman began again,