with renewed vigour this time. No part of Celiaâs body, it seemed, could escape this cleansing zeal: the tender skin of her breasts and belly, the soles and arches of her pretty feet. No part of her was tooprivate. Celia blushed and flinched to feel Cariye Lalaâs hands spreading her buttocks, fingering the rose-coloured creases at the tops of her thighs.
From the brazier the girl now brought a small earthenware pot, its contents full of the clay that Celia had learnt was called
ot
. Since entering the House of Felicity, she had become accustomed to the bathing which took place constantly amongst the palace women, the ritual cleanliness that was a requirement of the new religion which they must all now espouse, and which normally took place in the cheerfully crowded and gossipy fug of the communal baths in the courtyard of the
cariyes
. This activity would have been regarded with amazement, and quite possibly dismay, by her distinctively muskier English and Italian friends who bathed rarely, if at all. Even when she was first brought to the palace, Celia had found herself enjoying those long scented hours in the bathhouse, some of the few in which she and Annetta could whisper freely with the other girls, uninvigilated, and unrestrained. The appliance of
ot
was the one bathhouse requirement, however, that Celia still regarded with both repulsion and dread.
Cariye Lala took a wooden implement like a flattened spoon and scooped up a small amount of paste from the proffered pot, smearing it deftly, here and there, on to Celiaâs skin. The
ot
, a sticky, clay-like substance, felt not unpleasing at first, smooth and scented and pleasantly hot to the touch. Celia lay back and tried to breathe slowly and calmly â a tip which Gulbahar had given her after her first time when she had not understood what was about to happen, and had brought both shame and disgrace on herself by slapping the Senior Bath Mistress smartly across the face. But it was no good. A searing pain, as if she had been branded by a red-hot flat-iron, spread across the whole of the sensitive flesh of her sex, making her sit violently upright with a cry.
âChild! Such fussing!â Cariye Lala was unrepentant. âThis is as it must be. See, how smooth and sweet you are to the touch.â
Celia looked down and saw tiny droplets of blood, no bigger than the minute prickings of a fine embroidery needle, on her sheared flesh. And where a few moments ago there had been a golden and womanly bush between her legs, she now found herself gazing, with a kind of fascinated horror, at the naked apricot-shaped bud of a little girl.
But Cariye Lala had not finished yet. Pushing Celia down once again, she busied herself with a pair of small golden pincers, pulling out any stray hairs left behind by the
ot
. The servant girl held a candle for her, so close that Celia was afraid that she would let fall some of its wax on to her skin. But even with the candle to help her, the old woman had to bend so low in her labours that Celia could feel her hot breath and the furzy tickle of hair against her still-smarting flesh.
How long she was in the ministering hands of Cariye Lala, Celia could not have said. After the Under-Mistress of the Baths had satisfied herself at last that not a single impious hair remained upon her body, Celia was allowed to sit up again. Scrubbed and plucked and rubbed all over with a succession of herbs and unguents, her fair skin glowed now with an unearthly translucence in the hammamâs pearly gloom. Her nails were polished. Her hair, dried and waved so that it shone like tarnished sunlight, was braided with strings of freshwater pearls. More pearls, the size of hazelnuts, hung from her ears and were coiled discreetly at her throat.
Celia did not know whether it was the heat of the bathhouse, or the smell of myrrh from the little brazier which the girl kept stoked in the corner of the room, but little by little she had begun to
From the brazier the girl now brought a small earthenware pot, its contents full of the clay that Celia had learnt was called
ot
. Since entering the House of Felicity, she had become accustomed to the bathing which took place constantly amongst the palace women, the ritual cleanliness that was a requirement of the new religion which they must all now espouse, and which normally took place in the cheerfully crowded and gossipy fug of the communal baths in the courtyard of the
cariyes
. This activity would have been regarded with amazement, and quite possibly dismay, by her distinctively muskier English and Italian friends who bathed rarely, if at all. Even when she was first brought to the palace, Celia had found herself enjoying those long scented hours in the bathhouse, some of the few in which she and Annetta could whisper freely with the other girls, uninvigilated, and unrestrained. The appliance of
ot
was the one bathhouse requirement, however, that Celia still regarded with both repulsion and dread.
Cariye Lala took a wooden implement like a flattened spoon and scooped up a small amount of paste from the proffered pot, smearing it deftly, here and there, on to Celiaâs skin. The
ot
, a sticky, clay-like substance, felt not unpleasing at first, smooth and scented and pleasantly hot to the touch. Celia lay back and tried to breathe slowly and calmly â a tip which Gulbahar had given her after her first time when she had not understood what was about to happen, and had brought both shame and disgrace on herself by slapping the Senior Bath Mistress smartly across the face. But it was no good. A searing pain, as if she had been branded by a red-hot flat-iron, spread across the whole of the sensitive flesh of her sex, making her sit violently upright with a cry.
âChild! Such fussing!â Cariye Lala was unrepentant. âThis is as it must be. See, how smooth and sweet you are to the touch.â
Celia looked down and saw tiny droplets of blood, no bigger than the minute prickings of a fine embroidery needle, on her sheared flesh. And where a few moments ago there had been a golden and womanly bush between her legs, she now found herself gazing, with a kind of fascinated horror, at the naked apricot-shaped bud of a little girl.
But Cariye Lala had not finished yet. Pushing Celia down once again, she busied herself with a pair of small golden pincers, pulling out any stray hairs left behind by the
ot
. The servant girl held a candle for her, so close that Celia was afraid that she would let fall some of its wax on to her skin. But even with the candle to help her, the old woman had to bend so low in her labours that Celia could feel her hot breath and the furzy tickle of hair against her still-smarting flesh.
How long she was in the ministering hands of Cariye Lala, Celia could not have said. After the Under-Mistress of the Baths had satisfied herself at last that not a single impious hair remained upon her body, Celia was allowed to sit up again. Scrubbed and plucked and rubbed all over with a succession of herbs and unguents, her fair skin glowed now with an unearthly translucence in the hammamâs pearly gloom. Her nails were polished. Her hair, dried and waved so that it shone like tarnished sunlight, was braided with strings of freshwater pearls. More pearls, the size of hazelnuts, hung from her ears and were coiled discreetly at her throat.
Celia did not know whether it was the heat of the bathhouse, or the smell of myrrh from the little brazier which the girl kept stoked in the corner of the room, but little by little she had begun to