through the first gate,’ said Valentina. ‘I am wearing my very best gown and all of my jewels, just in case. It’s not every day you get invited to the greatest palace in the world.’
‘The Divan has never seen anyone like you before,’ Al-Qasim said with a smile. ‘You will astonish them all.’
‘That,’ said Valentina, ‘is the plan.’
It took ages to get ready. The women servants helped me and Valentina wrap our heads in veils of the finest silk so that only our eyes were visible. We stood face to face and stared at each other. She looked like a very glamorous wraith.
‘Are you telling me that I have to wear this all the time now?’ she asked.
‘Apparently so,’ I said, my voice muffled by the fabric. ‘At least, whenever we go outside. Or if we’re in the presence of any local men.’
‘I will become invisible,’ she said.
‘That might not be such a bad thing under the circumstances. Think of it as a Carnevale mask.’
She picked up one corner of my veil and peeped underneath. ‘That does not sound like the Isabella I know. I would have thought you’d protest at hiding under all this.’
‘Under normal circumstances, perhaps. But at times like these, I quite like disguises. Just think: we can go anywhere we wish in the city, and nobody will know who we are.’
‘Speaking for myself,’ said Valentina, ‘I’d prefer to be famous.’
At the appointed hour, there was a loud knock at the door. Mirza announced that our carriage was ready, and helped us into long capes of wool and fur that completely hid all of Valentina’s fabulous Venetian silk and lace.
‘First veils and now this,’ she muttered. ‘What is the point of getting dressed at all? It’s not far. Can’t I just shiver for a while?’
‘We’ll need all these layers, by the sound of it,’ I said, ‘if we have to stand about in the cold.’
‘Ridiculous,’ said Valentina. She drew up her hood.
‘But, sadly, inevitable,’ said Al-Qasim.
Out in the street, sure enough, a light powdering of snow covered the roofs and whirled around corners. A carriage waited for us, covered in red silk and with doors of gilded latticework. It was drawn by two fine black horses, each with a glittering gold headband sprouting peacock feathers — although feathers, silk and horses alike were all rather damp.
‘How extraordinary,’ said Valentina.
A troop of a dozen guards stood in two lines in front of the carriage. Each wore a high conical hat from which erupted greatswathes of white feathers, and all carried razor-sharp pikes on long red poles.
Al-Qasim hesitated in the doorway and stared at them.
‘What is it?’ said Willem.
‘They are kapici , the Sultan’s own gatekeepers,’ said Al-Qasim.
‘Poor fellows,’ said Willem. ‘Imagine having to walk around with that on your head.’
‘Are you worried?’ I asked Al-Qasim.
He shook his head. ‘No. But it is unusual.’
‘Unusual in a dangerous way?’
‘I don’t think so.’
The man at the front of the troop spun on his heels and came towards us. He genuflected to Al-Qasim.
‘I am Captain Aziz Skender, of the Sultan’s kapici .’
Al-Qasim bowed. ‘We are honoured to have you attend us, Captain.’
‘The honour is mine. The Sultan himself has requested that we escort you to the palace.’
‘We thank you,’ said Al-Qasim.
‘Let’s get out of this snow, then,’ said Valentina. ‘My boots are already soaked through.’
Willem and Mirza helped us into our seats. The floor of the carriage was filled with heated bricks to keep our feet warm, and there were rugs of soft black fur to wrap around our knees.
Willem had decided he couldn’t miss a chance to see inside the palace and had appointed himself our official bodyguard again, although this meant hours of protocol instruction from Al-Qasim. Mirza would escort us only as far as the palace gates. They took up their appointed positions on foot behind the carriage, and at a bark of command from
‘The Divan has never seen anyone like you before,’ Al-Qasim said with a smile. ‘You will astonish them all.’
‘That,’ said Valentina, ‘is the plan.’
It took ages to get ready. The women servants helped me and Valentina wrap our heads in veils of the finest silk so that only our eyes were visible. We stood face to face and stared at each other. She looked like a very glamorous wraith.
‘Are you telling me that I have to wear this all the time now?’ she asked.
‘Apparently so,’ I said, my voice muffled by the fabric. ‘At least, whenever we go outside. Or if we’re in the presence of any local men.’
‘I will become invisible,’ she said.
‘That might not be such a bad thing under the circumstances. Think of it as a Carnevale mask.’
She picked up one corner of my veil and peeped underneath. ‘That does not sound like the Isabella I know. I would have thought you’d protest at hiding under all this.’
‘Under normal circumstances, perhaps. But at times like these, I quite like disguises. Just think: we can go anywhere we wish in the city, and nobody will know who we are.’
‘Speaking for myself,’ said Valentina, ‘I’d prefer to be famous.’
At the appointed hour, there was a loud knock at the door. Mirza announced that our carriage was ready, and helped us into long capes of wool and fur that completely hid all of Valentina’s fabulous Venetian silk and lace.
‘First veils and now this,’ she muttered. ‘What is the point of getting dressed at all? It’s not far. Can’t I just shiver for a while?’
‘We’ll need all these layers, by the sound of it,’ I said, ‘if we have to stand about in the cold.’
‘Ridiculous,’ said Valentina. She drew up her hood.
‘But, sadly, inevitable,’ said Al-Qasim.
Out in the street, sure enough, a light powdering of snow covered the roofs and whirled around corners. A carriage waited for us, covered in red silk and with doors of gilded latticework. It was drawn by two fine black horses, each with a glittering gold headband sprouting peacock feathers — although feathers, silk and horses alike were all rather damp.
‘How extraordinary,’ said Valentina.
A troop of a dozen guards stood in two lines in front of the carriage. Each wore a high conical hat from which erupted greatswathes of white feathers, and all carried razor-sharp pikes on long red poles.
Al-Qasim hesitated in the doorway and stared at them.
‘What is it?’ said Willem.
‘They are kapici , the Sultan’s own gatekeepers,’ said Al-Qasim.
‘Poor fellows,’ said Willem. ‘Imagine having to walk around with that on your head.’
‘Are you worried?’ I asked Al-Qasim.
He shook his head. ‘No. But it is unusual.’
‘Unusual in a dangerous way?’
‘I don’t think so.’
The man at the front of the troop spun on his heels and came towards us. He genuflected to Al-Qasim.
‘I am Captain Aziz Skender, of the Sultan’s kapici .’
Al-Qasim bowed. ‘We are honoured to have you attend us, Captain.’
‘The honour is mine. The Sultan himself has requested that we escort you to the palace.’
‘We thank you,’ said Al-Qasim.
‘Let’s get out of this snow, then,’ said Valentina. ‘My boots are already soaked through.’
Willem and Mirza helped us into our seats. The floor of the carriage was filled with heated bricks to keep our feet warm, and there were rugs of soft black fur to wrap around our knees.
Willem had decided he couldn’t miss a chance to see inside the palace and had appointed himself our official bodyguard again, although this meant hours of protocol instruction from Al-Qasim. Mirza would escort us only as far as the palace gates. They took up their appointed positions on foot behind the carriage, and at a bark of command from
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