Just when Max began to worry that Marguerite’s plan might just be to walk their way out of Turkey, they came to a halt outside a red-brick building. It was hooded by a green awning, with Çay sarayı printed on the side (“Çay sarayı,” announced Marguerite, “means tea palace, mon lapin!”), and flanked by little round balls of trees poking out of pots. Marguerite opened the door, and a bell trilled.

They trooped in. It was a café, almost empty, save an earnest young couple and a bored waiter.

“Salem? Hello? It’s me!” called Marguerite. “Yoo-hoo! Salem?”

“Sister!” A man emerged from the backroom, arms spread wide. They hugged, and Sister Marguerite turned to the others, beaming. “This,” she said, “is my very good friend Salem Sadik.”

Salem was soft and a bit blobby-faced, as though he had been carelessly shaped from some dough. His black hair stood up in foolish feathery tufts, but his eyes were sharp. He took in the motley crew. He smiled a soft misshapen smile, and spoke in soft misshapen French: “You have brought me your army, Marguerite!”

“I’ll explain, mon chou!” promised Marguerite. “But before we get to business, this one needs to sleep.” She put a hand on Max’s shoulder. “Could she borrow a bed?”

Max began to protest, but Marguerite was firm. And suddenly, sleep struck Max as a very good idea. She had hardly had any rest on the Bosfor. Her body had done what was needed without complaint, but now it was suddenly desperate to lie down. So when Salem ushered her up to the flat above the café, Max went without further protest.

The bedroom was painted in apricot, with sketches of birds on the walls, and a photo of a young woman on the bedside table. The bed was soft and the duvet warm. Max snuggled in, and a minute later, Salem appeared with a hot chocolate.

“Thank you,” she said sleepily. She pointed to the photo. “Is that your wife?”

Salem smiled. “Anne was my wife, yes. She was from Paris, like you. She was a wonderful woman, so kind, and so talented – all these sketches are hers,” he said, gesturing to the birds on the walls. “But Anne died twenty years ago.”

“Oh,” said Max, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I was and am a lucky man.” Salem drew the curtains against the afternoon light, dimming the room. “Sleep well, Max.”

A minute later, Sister Marguerite poked in her head, and whispered, “Rest well, mon lapin.” But Max was already asleep.