The Sultan's Seal by Jenny White

loyal and disloyal. He shifts members of his staff continually and reportedly trusts no one. Several of our regular dinner guests were recently sent into exile. I find it frightening to think of the consequences.
    To make matters worse, the city is full of refugees. Now that some of the Ottoman provinces in the Balkans have become autonomous, terrible reports have reached our ears of Muslims killed by Christian neighbors in revenge for the sultan’s brutal repression of their earlier rebellions. They are all fleeing to Istanbul, the center of the Muslim world, where they believe themselves to be safe. The streets are a Babel of languages and colorful regional dress, even more so than usual.
    There have been more riots in the streets of Stamboul—not to worry, my dear, not in Pera—about the banned parliament, although food shortages and high prices contribute to the instability. We are safely fortified here amid the other foreign residences. I suppose it is not surprising that the sultan has tightened his grip on the reins, although it is hard to imagine what might topple a sultanate that has reigned for half a millennium. Pax Brittanica surely would benefit the people here, as it has done the peoples of India and Asia. Father tells me that this is a possibility. I dearly hope so, for the sake of peace. At any rate, the sultan is no enemy of Europe. I’ve heard he is a devotee of theater and opera and of detective stories and police thrillers, if you can imagine. I’m told his chief of wardrobe sits behind a screen and reads to him every night, sometimes an entire book, as he is an insomniac. He is particularly fond of detective mysteries and has new books immediately translated and read to him. He also engages in wood carving and cabinetmaking, rather unusual hobbies for a regent. I can’t help but think that a man who loves to read and who crafts his own furniture will bring progress and discipline to his empire. Mother thought him quite charming, but he rarely receives visitors anymore simply for the pleasure of it, so I shan’t have a chance of making up my own mind.
    As for my own entertainment, you needn’t worry, dear sister. There is much to do here. Thursday evening, I am going to the theater with Madam Rossini and her family to see a new French play, and a few weeks hence the Italians are holding their annual saint’s day fair in the garden of their Residence. There is a charity ball soon at one of the new hotels. Tonight, in fact, we’re having a ball here at the Residence. There’s no shortage of entertainment in Stamboul. You needn’t worry that I have withered on the vine. And I have Father. His work keeps him occupied, but I share in this, to his great satisfaction, I believe. I must run now and consult with the chefs and the musicians.
    Be well and give my love to all our family. Perhaps I can convince you yet to come on a visit. You will be well surprised at our comforts and the color and excitement of living in the Orient.
    Affectionately,
    Sybil

7
Your Rolling Pearl
    I never did learn to ride the water like Violet. Our pond was a different kind of classroom than the sea. Eventually I learned to move freely in this different medium. Tired of the confines of the pond, Violet wanted to swim in the Bosphorus. I told her about the boys who had not reemerged. She wanted to ask Halil about the currents, but I was anxious about questioning him. I had the sense that he knew about our swims at the pond and disapproved, but his loyalty to me, I think, kept him from reporting our indiscretions to my mother. After all, Violet, as my servant, was responsible for looking after me. But I doubt he would have kept a dip in the Bosphorus from my mother, since, apart from the danger, it was likely we would be seen and bring disgrace on the family.
    Violet stamped her foot. “Well, I’ll go to the village, then, and ask the fishermen. You’re afraid,” she taunted me.
    I was scandalized. A young woman did not