Yamina found it difficult to sleep in the harem. She lay awake worrying over what Mihri had told her about the intentions of the Black Eunuch.

She could hardly believe they were true and yet she knew that Mihri would not frighten her unnecessarily. She could not help now she was looking out for it, noticing that the Kizlar Aga’s eyes often rested on her when he entered the harem.

She tried to efface herself, to make herself unobtrusive and yet she had the feeling that it was impossible to hide, whatever she did and however she behaved, she was seen and watched.

Mihri, she knew, was trying desperately hard to find out what was afoot so that they would not be taken by surprise.

Yamina did not know whether it was significant or merely routine, when she was ordered by the Haremlik – the Lady Stewardess – to attend a first lesson in the art of love.

Since her arrival she had been accepted as Mihri’s sister and therefore in the eyes of the harem was not the ordinary odalisque who had been brought in for the Sultan’s pleasure.

But every newcomer was forced to take part in the teaching that was given by the older and more experienced women and supervised by the Sultan Valideh herself.

It would be impossible for Yamina to be treated differently and not to be subject to the usual rules.

She therefore told Mihri what her orders were, but the Ikbal held up her hands in horror.

“No! No! This must not happen!” she cried.

“But why?” Yamina asked.

“Because you will be shocked!”

“Shocked?” Yamina questioned in surprise.

“The Eastern idea of lovemaking is very different from yours as a Russian or mine as a Circassian.”

Yamina looked at her wide-eyed and Mihri went on,

“At first I could not believe what I was hearing, but then I told myself that if I was to have any power in the harem, if I was ever to rise from an odalisque to a Kadin, then I must learn everything the others learnt and do it better!”

“I understand,” Yamina said.

“For me there is no escape,” Mihri said, “I am here, this is my life – and now I am grateful, very grateful, that I listened to what I was taught. I realise it was important from the point of view of a Turk.”

She paused to say almost violently,

“But you, Mistress, are different.”

Yamina started and put her fingers to her lips.

“Be careful!” she whispered. “I am your sister.”

“You are someone I have respected and honoured since first I came to you in Balaclava,” Mihri insisted.

Now her voice was so low it was hard to hear the words.