books, all seeming to say the same thing in the same way, drowning the reader in torrents of words, making him wade through dull pages and obfuscating chapters in search of what he wanted. Only his real interest in learning about the woman who had first owned his talisman kept him working.
He flipped pages, tossed books aside, picked up others to scan them and then reject them. Obviously, most historians were more interested in Suleiman than in his bride. In some sources, the remarkable woman who had bent a sultan to her will merited no more than a paragraph. In others, the writers dismissed her as little more than a romantic fable. In his irritation, Preston ripped a page, then glanced over his shoulder. That ice witch of a librarian could probably hear a torn page from three rooms away.
He tried more of the histories, but each was more tedious than the last. They utterly misunderstood the glory of Roxelana’s power. Their ponderous voices drowned her drama in floods of facts and citations only the most dedicated academic could care about.
He found one letter, in a volume of a compilation immodestly called The World’s Story, that purported to be an eyewitness account, written by someone who claimed to have met the sultana. Preston didn’t believe a word of it. The writer described her as “stout,” but that was preposterous. The Roxelana he saw in his dreams, the enchanting creature known as Khourrem Sultan, the Laughing One, had won a crown with only her wits and beauty. She could not have been stout. It was not possible. He wished he could punish the writer for daring to say such a thing—but of course, the offender was long dead and gone.
So was Roxelana, for that matter, but she had left her secret behind.
Preston shoved the book away. He propped his chin on his fist, and closed his eyes to see her in his mind, to savor the image he had held of her since he first heard her story in his dusty billet in Jerusalem. She had been lean, he was sure, with slanting dark eyes and a slender bosom. Her fingers were long, the nails filed to curving points. Her hair would have been her glory, dark and Slavic, curling around a pronounced jaw, a sign of her strength.
He opened his eyes, and leaned back in the hard wooden chair. Why could these fools, these pretenders to wisdom, not see what he did? Roxelana, the slave bride of Suleiman the Magnificent, had been a diamond of a woman, hard and brilliant and many-faceted.
He left the pile of books where they were, and walked out of the classics room, through the foyer, now gloomy with sudden rain, to the double glass doors. He adjusted his fedora to a jaunty angle as he trotted down the grand staircase to Fourth Avenue. He was about to become a man of letters. If he cared to, he could write her story properly, with all its intrigue and excitement.
He wouldn’t do it, though. Her secret was his. It had come into his possession when he—let us say, acquired —the sapphire. As he turned west on Madison to wander toward the water, he wished he could bury his face in that thick black hair, trail his fingertips across her lean shoulders. Roxelana had been a woman worthy of him. Probably the only woman worthy of him. She could have matched his determination, his clarity of purpose—and his ruthlessness. The world demanded ruthlessness. How else could a man—or a woman—achieve his or her rightful place?
Preston found himself in the Public Market, his swift steps ringing hollowly on the wooden walkway. He smiled at a Chinese vendor hawking some sort of silk slippers, and grinned at the fish vendors in the high stalls, who offered shining silver salmon and baskets of oysters dripping salt water. He bought a paper from a newsboy, and tucked it under his arm. He walked past the day stalls to climb the narrow stair to the café. He took one of the metal tables in the window and ordered coffee.
With a mug of coffee in his hand, he opened the paper, but he didn’t read it. His
He flipped pages, tossed books aside, picked up others to scan them and then reject them. Obviously, most historians were more interested in Suleiman than in his bride. In some sources, the remarkable woman who had bent a sultan to her will merited no more than a paragraph. In others, the writers dismissed her as little more than a romantic fable. In his irritation, Preston ripped a page, then glanced over his shoulder. That ice witch of a librarian could probably hear a torn page from three rooms away.
He tried more of the histories, but each was more tedious than the last. They utterly misunderstood the glory of Roxelana’s power. Their ponderous voices drowned her drama in floods of facts and citations only the most dedicated academic could care about.
He found one letter, in a volume of a compilation immodestly called The World’s Story, that purported to be an eyewitness account, written by someone who claimed to have met the sultana. Preston didn’t believe a word of it. The writer described her as “stout,” but that was preposterous. The Roxelana he saw in his dreams, the enchanting creature known as Khourrem Sultan, the Laughing One, had won a crown with only her wits and beauty. She could not have been stout. It was not possible. He wished he could punish the writer for daring to say such a thing—but of course, the offender was long dead and gone.
So was Roxelana, for that matter, but she had left her secret behind.
Preston shoved the book away. He propped his chin on his fist, and closed his eyes to see her in his mind, to savor the image he had held of her since he first heard her story in his dusty billet in Jerusalem. She had been lean, he was sure, with slanting dark eyes and a slender bosom. Her fingers were long, the nails filed to curving points. Her hair would have been her glory, dark and Slavic, curling around a pronounced jaw, a sign of her strength.
He opened his eyes, and leaned back in the hard wooden chair. Why could these fools, these pretenders to wisdom, not see what he did? Roxelana, the slave bride of Suleiman the Magnificent, had been a diamond of a woman, hard and brilliant and many-faceted.
He left the pile of books where they were, and walked out of the classics room, through the foyer, now gloomy with sudden rain, to the double glass doors. He adjusted his fedora to a jaunty angle as he trotted down the grand staircase to Fourth Avenue. He was about to become a man of letters. If he cared to, he could write her story properly, with all its intrigue and excitement.
He wouldn’t do it, though. Her secret was his. It had come into his possession when he—let us say, acquired —the sapphire. As he turned west on Madison to wander toward the water, he wished he could bury his face in that thick black hair, trail his fingertips across her lean shoulders. Roxelana had been a woman worthy of him. Probably the only woman worthy of him. She could have matched his determination, his clarity of purpose—and his ruthlessness. The world demanded ruthlessness. How else could a man—or a woman—achieve his or her rightful place?
Preston found himself in the Public Market, his swift steps ringing hollowly on the wooden walkway. He smiled at a Chinese vendor hawking some sort of silk slippers, and grinned at the fish vendors in the high stalls, who offered shining silver salmon and baskets of oysters dripping salt water. He bought a paper from a newsboy, and tucked it under his arm. He walked past the day stalls to climb the narrow stair to the café. He took one of the metal tables in the window and ordered coffee.
With a mug of coffee in his hand, he opened the paper, but he didn’t read it. His
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