Chapter 12: First Entry into the Harem

The carriage passes through the outer gates of Topkapı Palace, and Lucia’s breath tightens as our world narrows into stone walls, guarded courtyards, and the quiet footfalls of the eunuchs escorting our carriage deeper inside. The air becomes cooler, and scented with a mixture of rosewater and polished marble. Whispered voices echo softly, as though they must never be raised.

We stop before a tall wooden door carved with geometric patterns and Lucia is told to disembark.

“This leads into the Courtyard of the Harem,” says Hasan Ağa. “You will enter alone.”

Lucia’s fingers tremble on the bracelet. I feel her fear like a pulse against my spirit. Two blue-robed eunuchs open the door and Lucia steps inside.

The courtyard beyond the heavy door is quiet, enclosed by high walls and latticed windows. A fountain murmurs in the centre with its water reflecting the bright sunlight. Several women move through the space with practised grace, each dressed in layered silks that whisper as they walk.

Lucia freezes. She’s the only woman dressed in Venetian blue, making her stand out as a foreigner. A stern middle‑aged woman with sharp eyes approaches us. She’s followed by three teenage girls in simple grey and white outfits that are clearly a uniform.

“You will remove your garments,” says the middle-aged woman in Ottoman Turkish.

Lucia blinks, not understanding. I whisper the translation into her mind. Fortunately the bracelet has seen fit to provide me with the tools it thinks I need to carry out my duties. Understanding the words being spoken to us is an essential tool. Lucia stiffens in alarm.

“My ... garments?” she replies in her own language.

The woman nods, clearly able to understand Lucia’s words, but speaking Turkish in reply.

“Foreign clothing is not permitted in the harem.”

I again translate and Lucia’s breath catches. She looks down at her Venetian dress; the last piece of home she has left. I move closer, invisible to all but her.

“It’s not a punishment,” I whisper softly. “It’s a transformation.”

The three young attendants move forward and guide Lucia behind a screen. Hands move quickly as laces are unfastened and jewellery removed. Fortunately the bracelet had the foresight to make the Maristela Bracelet invisible to all but Lucia’s and my eyes. Lucia’s dress is folded away and her shoes taken. One of the attendants unpins Lucia’s hair. Lucia stands in a thin shift, shivering despite the warm air of the harem.

Then the attendants bring new garments: soft silk trousers, an embroidered top, a sash of deep green, and a veil decorated with pale gold threads. They dress Lucia with efficient gentleness, smoothing the fabric, arranging her hair, placing a delicate scarf over her shoulders. When she steps out from behind the screen, she looks like someone else. The transformation is amazing. She no longer looks Venetian, but nor is she Ottoman. She’s something in between. Someone unique.