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arranged meetings between Nur Banu and her allies from various nations around the world, to oppose or attenuate her rash son’s policies.
    ‘I find Phoenician difficult.’
    ‘Feyra. Not Phoenician:
Venetian
.’
    A word misheard as a little girl was now the password that opened a map for Feyra. Her mouth opened too.
    Nur Banu exhaled in a long sigh. ‘Yes, I am Venetian. I have allowed everyone to forget it. I have almost forgotten it myself. But when I lived in that life, I was Cecilia Baffo, daughter of Nicolò Venier.’
    ‘
Venier
?’ Feyra uttered the name that was a curse in Constantinople.
    Nur Banu caught the intonation. ‘Yes. My uncle is Sebastiano Venier, Admiral of Lepanto and Doge of Venice.’
    No wonder the general population had been allowed to forget this. The Venetians had been enemies to the Turks for centuries, had taken their gold, raped their women, and even desecrated the graves of their Sultans. Mehmet II’s crown had been taken from his tomb by Venetian marauders with the hairs still attached. And worst of all, most reviled of these pirate conquerors, was Sebastiano Venier, the figurehead on the warship that was Venice. The Doge’s reputation was trampled daily in the pamphlets sold onstreet corners and his image burned in the alleys. Since he had crushed the Ottoman fleet a few short years ago at the Battle of Lepanto, the Sultan and all his people breathed revenge day and night.
    ‘Yes. You will have noticed my son holds no love for me. He thinks my policies are pro-Venetian, that I have a partiality for my old home. And he is right.’ The Valide Sultan looked from the window with eyes that now saw a different view. ‘Oh Feyra, have you ever seen a city that floats on the sea? Have you ever seen towers that reach like spears instead of crouching in domes; have you seen a blade that is straight and not curved? Have you ever seen glass that glows like a jewel and palaces where hard stone is rendered as delicate as lace? Now my son plots the worst of all things against Venice, and only you can prevent it.’
    ‘
Me
?’
    ‘Yes, Feyra, you. You are my
Kira
; you go between me and the world. But the world is bigger than this city. I’m going to send you on the hardest errand of all.’
    ‘Why me?’
    ‘To understand that you must know my history. I was born Cecilia Baffo, daughter of Nicholas Venier and Violante Baffo. My father was Lord of Paros, governor of the thousand small islands off the coast of Greece called the Cyclades, under the rule of the Republic of Venice. Although I lived, at that time in Venice, I was staying on the islands with my father in the summer of 1555 – 962 by our reckoning.’
    Twenty-one years ago, thought Feyra. Before she herself was born. ‘And it was there that you were captured?’
    ‘In one sense, yes. There was a great Masque held at our palace at Paros, to celebrate my betrothal. I was to be givento Ridolfo Falieri, a man of great wealth, and on the night that I was given to him, I fell in love.’
    ‘So he was a good man?’
    ‘Not at all. He was old and cruel and crabbed with age – the match purely dynastic. No, I did not fall in love with
him
. There was a sea captain at the Masque, a young protégé of the Sultan, whose ship was moored at the island to pick up supplies. Within the space of one hour I had given myself to him. The corsairs were his crew; we took my father’s horses and rode to the shore, but I went willingly. I wanted to put the sea between myself and Ridolfo, true; but I could not bear that the captain should sail away without me.’
    Feyra pleated the sheets between her fingers. ‘It was my father that you loved.’ It was a statement, not a question.
    ‘It was your father,’ her mistress confirmed. She looked at Feyra closely. ‘And by the time we reached Constantinople, I was with child.’
    Feyra went still. She could see that her mistress was beginning to have difficulty speaking; she could hear the slur in the