She had no trouble understanding Monsieur Foucault’s translation of her greeting. But Mr. Mustafa’s response was rather more interesting. In fact, it made absolutely no sense, as far as Sophie could tell. His sentence—delivered with a deep bow—appeared to be a line from a nursery rhyme or a children’s song. She must have misunderstood! After all, Foucault showed no signs of surprise. He translated the nonsense line as a most conventional greeting and compliment.

Sophie sank into a chair, feeling even more confused. But her curiosity was piqued. Monsieur Foucault seemed eager to speak of French fashions versus English; after a bit, Sophie managed to steer the conversation back to Bayrak Mustafa.

“I am so sorry that Mr. Mustafa is neglected in our conversation,” she said sweetly to Monsieur Foucault. “Will you please ask him, for me, how our English cities compare to the great city of Constantinople?”

A flash of annoyance passed Foucault’s face, but a beatific smile quickly replaced it. “How very kind of Your Grace,” he cooed, “to think of my companion, Mustafa. As it happens, he and I have overstayed our welcome in your beautiful house, and must be on our way—”

“Please,” Sophie said, her tone as charming and as determined as his. “Do allow me to keep you for a moment. I am so curious about Constantinople!”

Foucault nodded politely and turned to Mustafa. Sophie listened closely, trying to keep her face brightly polite.

Sure enough, Foucault relayed her question. But Mustafa’s reply was a nonsensical jingle-jangle of words. And unless she was greatly mistaken, Mr. Mustafa spoke only nouns, no verbs.

What’s more, Foucault’s translation did not represent what she had heard, even given her imperfect knowledge of the Turkish language. In Monsieur Foucault’s words, Mustafa had found the capital of England to be far superior to the great city of Constantinople.

Foucault smoothly moved from his translation to a grandiose apology. “Do forgive me, Your Grace, but we must be on our way. I am”—he swept forward and kissed Sophie’s hand yet again—”your most obedient servant. I trust His Grace will find the inkwell amusing.” He paused for a moment. “I must beg you, Your Grace, to convey the fact that the inkwell is sealed. It must remain so until after it makes its long journey to the Ottoman Empire.”

Sophie smiled, rising to her feet as well. “Naturally, we will not disturb the inkwell in any way,” she said. “May I compliment you on your thoughtful and most beautiful gift, sir?”

Foucault bowed once again, then ushered Bayrak Mustafa out of the room, leaving in a babble of English words. Mr. Mustafa bowed silently and did not venture again into Turkish.