Cybele's Secret by Juliet Marillier Page B

connections. Fortunately, my husband possesses all three and put them to good use on this occasion. In his previous position, Murat had attracted a powerful enemy. He was anxious to move on, and we were in a position to help him.”
    “That must have been difficult. Dangerous, even.” I knew the palace was the scene of hair-raising political intrigues.
    “Money changed hands,” Irene said casually. “A sum that would shock even a merchant’s daughter. The exchange was done expertly, and in secret.”
    “And Murat was content to become a household steward?”
    “Oh, that’s only his official title,” Irene said. “Murat is a great deal more than a domestic manager. His talents are many, his inside knowledge invaluable. I have never considered him a slave, although I do keep slaves in my household: Nashwa and Olena, whom you met in the hamam, for instance.” Irene’s tone was matter-of-fact. “I can see that shocks you, Paula. But you do not know this country. If I had not secured responsibility for these women, it is entirely likely they would have been sold into an existence of utter hardship and degradation. Here, they are trusted members of the household, with all their needs taken care of. Ariadne, the young woman who helps in the library, is not a slave. She’s more of a protégée, someone I thought worth educating.”
    “I’m sorry I seemed critical,” I said. “What you’re doing here is admirable. It makes my own life’s ambition fade into insignificance.”
    Irene’s eyes sparked with interest. She leaned toward me. “Oh, do tell me!”
    Feeling a little awkward, I explained to her about the bookselling business that would eventually expand to include a printing press on which I would publish scholarly texts.
    “It’s a fine ambition, Paula.” She did not sound in the least patronizing, and I took heart from that. “As a dream, it has practicality. At least you did not tell me you hoped to wed a prince and live in a castle.”
    “Actually, I do live in a castle.” I felt obliged to mention this. “But there’s no prince, and the place has leaky roofs and collapsing floors. Like Murat, it’s a jewel in its own way. One of a kind.”
    Irene gave a lazy smile. “He is certainly that. Now”—she rose gracefully to her feet—“we’d best get you into some proper clothing and send you home before that ferocious young man bursts in and demands to know what I’ve done with you. And look—what perfect timing! Here is Ariadne with some garments for you. I want to dress you in the Greek style. I think the look will suit you, Paula. The line of the skirt and coat is ideal for a slim figure.”
    My protests fell on deaf ears. The clothes, she assured me, were surplus to needs. They had belonged to a member of the household who had moved on. If I liked them, I could keep them. On went fresh smallclothes and shift, then a narrow skirt with little pleats at the side and a blouse with embroidered borders and over it a long waistcoat in a fabric that seemed either cobalt blue or rich bronze, depending on how the light caught it. It fastened with cunning silver clasps shaped like tulips. On top of this, I had a knee-length coat in a lighter blue, with sleeves to the wrists and a pattern worked in many colors of silk thread around the hem. This was worn open in the front. Ariadne rolled my curly hair into a neat bundle at the back and put a little blue hat like a round box on top of my head. Over that went a gauzy scarf anchored with hairpins.
    I was shown my reflection in a bronze mirror and found it startling. The outfit covered me up quite well. Yet it seemed designed to catch the eye, to make men look at me. I was not at all sure it was appropriate wear for a walk through the streets of Istanbul.
    “Thank you,” I said, feeling a sudden longing to be back at the han with my father. “If I can repay your kindness in any way, please tell me.”
    “I will, Paula. Do come back soon. Would