The choices laid out before her were legion: carpets woven of richly dyed wools and precious silks, tapestries from the time of the Ottomans, heavy silver jewelry set with amber and carnelian and onyx, perfumes from Europe, inlaid furniture set with mother-of-pearl, brass coffeepots and trays and candlesticks, bags and shoes made of Kilim carpets, housewares fashioned of copper and brass. So much more, Amira’s head was spinning.

Not wanting to appear greedy—or childlike—Amira strolled through the cavernous arcade, admiring a fragment of tapestry here, an intricately carved perfume bottle there. Shopkeepers called out to the couple, entreating them to stop and look, to enjoy a delicious cup of tea. Ali bestowed a princely smile on all. And when Amira lingered over a silk carpet and later an antique writing desk inlaid with mother-of-pearl, he entered into spirited negotiation with the shopkeepers. In spite of his great wealth, he understood, as did Amira, that haggling was an expected—and much-savored—part of any transaction. “That’s all? Are you sure that’s all you want?” he asked after the bargaining ritual had been concluded.

She nodded tentatively, wondering if perhaps she’d disappointed him in some way.

He laughed. “Perhaps you haven’t spent enough time among other women, learning how to manage a man. Else you’d have been taught to be more demanding.”

Amira was silent. Was Ali mocking her? It was certainly true she knew precious little about “managing” a man. She had believed it would be enough to simply bow to his wishes.

“Don’t look so serious, Amira. I was just teasing you. I’m very touched, actually, that you require so little by way of material things. That will make it much easier for me to spoil you.”

Instinctively—and sensing perhaps that such a statement might diminish her in Ali’s eyes—Amira refrained from saying she had little interest in mate- rial things. And later that day, when it was time to dress for dinner, she chose what she felt might please him: one of her more elaborate Paris creations and the sapphire jewelry that had once belonged to her mother. She was rewarded with Ali’s murmurs of approval.

They dined at the century-old Pera Palace, the most imposing of Istanbul’s grand old hotels. “I thought you might like this place,” Ali said, as Amira admired the ornate paneling, the majestic dimensions of the main dining room. “Greta Garbo stayed here. So did Agatha Christie, Mata Hari, Josephine Baker, and Leon Trotsky. Not to mention assorted kings and queens. And now you, Amira … a royal princess of al-Remal.”

Amira clapped her hands and laughed. “How wonderful. But how do you know all this?”