Page 10 of The Book of Heartbreak

Those of the mortal realm who wish to understand the Hidden consider those blessed with the pure eye as fortunate.

Little do they realise that this gift is a burden, for the craft of seers is fraught with the worries of both the seen and unseen, their sanity besieged by the profound truths they withhold.

Excerpt from The Book of Revenge, Müneccimbasi Sufi Chelebi’s Journals of Mystical Phenomena

Unlike the rest of the house, my bedroom appears to have undergone recent renovations.

It’s massive, almost as large as the ground floor of the house I left behind in Cambridge.

The shutters are drawn back, revealing a breezy interior, though my pleasure is instantly dampened by the decor.

It’s as if someone picked up a highlighter and outlined every piece of furniture in glaring hues of pinks and yellows.

A large desk is crowned with a rose-gold monitor, and a light green swivel chair sits beside it.

An enormous bed is tucked beneath a bright pink canopy, next to a lilac armchair.

And then there’s the wallpaper: clouds barfing rainbows.

Do they think I’m seven? I wonder if it’s Azmi who decorated this room, as Muzaffer’s interest in me doesn’t seem to extend beyond ensuring that I obey his rules and stay well away from him.

I pluck a lollipop I’d saved for later from my bag, wondering why on earth Muzaffer is so secretive.

Does he think I’ll break locks and ransack his house?

I lean against the cool glass door of the balcony I spotted from the street.

A metal table, two chairs and an array of plant pots crowd the tiny space.

The yellow darkness of a slow sunset paints the stone tiles caramel, but despite the hour Istanbul doesn’t show any signs of slowing down.

I can still hear people, cars, gulls – cacophonies that are way outside any sane person’s comfort zone.

Munu stays inside, skimming through the room, examining everything.

She clicks her fingers to open the wardrobe and starts ransacking.

Unlike her, I have no appetite to discover whatever is lurking inside and I nip out onto the terrace to snatch a breath of fresh air.

Across the narrow street are higher buildings with colourful balconies stacked on their concrete bellies.

But, despite the abysmal lack of privacy, I’m instantly in love with this spot.

I feel like the queen of a long-lost kingdom sitting on my throne.

I suck at the lolly and lean over the edge of the balcony to see the sea glistening like a jewel at the end of the slope.

Still clutching the warm metal railing heated by the sun, I suddenly straighten, alerted by the instinctive feeling of being watched.

I turn my head to see a boy across the road, huddled over a green railing in the opposite building.

His red T-shirt and cargo shorts are faded, but he’s as radiant as the setting sun.

His face, framed by curls brushing his shoulders, is enchanting, as if someone hand-carved the most symmetrical, angelic features from marble and blew life into them.

Perhaps calling him a boy does him an injustice. He’s a modern Greek god.

His gaze, ready to send thunderbolts in my direction, feels invasive, even though he’s not close to me, standing a few metres away across the road on his own balcony. The hint of confusion on his face shifts into a scowl, as if he’s observing something he can’t quite decipher.

Then the scowl drops and he mouths a ‘wow’.

Fuck . Did I somehow offend this person, just by being here? Boys like him don’t pay attention to me. I divert my eyes, though his gaze remains electric against my skin.

From inside, I can hear Munu’s singing echoing off the walls.

I try to ignore the boy and study the street.

And, after a couple of minutes, I stare enough at the laundry lines to realise that watching the fluttering garments in the breeze is more therapeutic than I’d imagined. But the calm is quickly broken.

‘ Who are you?’ the boy asks, as if he’s accusing me of something.

I glance left and right, puzzled by his reaction. There’s no one else around. Why he’s so taken aback by me is beyond my understanding. I try to appear unbothered and roll the lollipop in my mouth.

‘Aren’t you too old for a lollipop?’ he persists, narrowing down the potential unseen balcony dwellers he may be addressing by criticising my choice of snack.

‘Me?’ I yank it from my mouth as a flush blooms on my cheeks. ‘Last time I checked, lollies didn’t have age limits. They’re not just for kids like you, rest assured.’

Oh God, I sound so stupid. The joke falls flat, a pale imitation of the witty retort I’d envisioned.

But he laughs, amused, clearly comfortable in his skin. ‘I turned eighteen in April,’ he says. ‘And you, I presume, are in double digits? Still old for a lolly, I’d say.’

I can’t block another whimpering ‘Me?’ Shit, Sare. You can’t keep acting like a wind-up toy. Now I see no option other than revealing my age. ‘Seventeen, and—’

And I can’t finish my sentence.

‘Heavens, Sare!’ Munu’s shriek makes me jump and I barely avoid a fatal tumble over the railing onto the street.

‘I leave you alone for two minutes and you’re already flirting with a rake?

’ Munu whizzes onto the balcony, ignoring my near miss, clearly only caring about the danger of death by heartbreaks.

She tugs at a lock of my hair. ‘Look at him – a predator!’

‘Ouch. Stop it,’ I hiss, trying to push her away while pretending my struggle is just a yawn. Not that I care what the boy thinks of me, but he’s still watching me with keen interest. The last thing I need is rumours about my sanity spreading among the neighbours.

‘I’m so disappointed, Sare Sila Silverbirch, I truly am,’ Munu tuts, attempting to drag me inside by clawing my hair as if I’m a naughty puppy.

‘I know boys like him very well – it only takes one hello to be doomed. Look at that smirk. Absolutely, explosively beautiful and he knows it – the cheeky bastard. He’d blow up any girl’s heart in a minute. ’

‘Be reasonable,’ I groan, no longer caring who might hear me. I’ve never flirted with anyone, not once in my life. How can Munu assume I’ll throw myself at the foot of the first boy I bump into in Istanbul? ‘Let go of my hair—’

‘Why is she harassing you?’ the boy asks.

What. The. Fuck.

Time stops.

Munu freezes, my curls still in her hands.

I’m already frozen.

The boy watches us with an amused expression, rubbing his chin with his thumb. The possibility of me looking remotely normal is now long gone.

‘W-what?’ I gawk at him, finally rescuing my hair from Munu’s grip.

‘The catty Tinkerbell.’ He points at Munu, leaving no doubt that he can see her. ‘I asked why is she—’

‘W-who are you?’ I somehow find the power to speak, cutting the boy off.

‘My name is Leon Dumano?lu. My aunt and I rent this apartment, which belongs to Mr Gümüshus, and the last time I checked he lived alone with his housekeeper. So really I should be asking, again, who you are?’ His gaze darts between Munu and I. ‘You and your ethereal.’

‘M-my— What?’ I stall, trying to decipher the strange term. What on earth is an ethereal?

‘That flamboyant little spirit latched on to your head?’ He laughs. ‘Unmissable in that pink dress and with those spectacular wings. Tell me, is she yours, Sare Sila . . . Silverbirch?’

I barely register him addressing me by my full name, too stunned by his acknowledgement of Munu. No one other than me has ever been able to see her before. I cling to the balcony railing for support. Ransacking my mind for a way to respond, I come up blank.

‘For the sake of screaming sinners,’ Munu curses, back to her usual sniping. ‘First of all – my dress is fuchsia, not pink. Second, I’m not a mere spirit. Third—’

‘Don’t tell me you’re an angel,’ the boy teases Munu.

‘I—’ Munu shrieks as she begins to shrink. ‘Of course I’m not an angel!’

‘You can see her?’ I stare at them both in bewilderment, still unable to believe what’s happening here.

‘Obviously.’ Leon’s smile is smug, and it makes my heart gallop. ‘I’m a seer. I have the pure eye.’

The word seer washes over me, reaching out from ancient stories. At this revelation, Munu shrinks even further, hiding behind my hair as if using my body as a shield. Meanwhile, I’m left wondering what the hell a ‘pure eye’ is.

‘Who do you work for?’ Leon lifts an eyebrow. ‘Grey?’

‘Who?’ I’m puzzled, unsure if he’s questioning me or Munu, or both of us. ‘Grey?’ I hesitate, conjuring images of silver strands. ‘Do you mean Muzaffer?’

‘What’s the deal with you two?’ Leon leans above the balcony rails as if he wants to lower his voice, but still needs to be heard. ‘A punishment? A haunting? A curse?’

Hearing the word curse from him stuns me. How casually he speaks of such things.

‘Munu is my friend.’ I scowl, baffled by his implication that our relationship must be negative.

‘Don’t spare our names for him!’ Munu yells, as if she hasn’t already given mine away, but her voice dwindles into a mere hum as she continues to shrink.

‘The ethereal don’t make friends. They work for the Hidden and—’ Leon tilts his head. ‘Is she getting smaller or am I seeing things?’

‘Tell him to shut up!’ Munu whines, entangled in my curls. ‘The Hidden shall not be spoken of by filthy mouths!’

‘Calm down . . .’ I dip my fingers into my hair in search of Munu. Fuck! This isn’t the eventless start I’d hoped for in Istanbul.

Leon’s grin takes on a devilish edge upon observing my misery.

‘I’m informed about every ethereal authorised to roam in Istanbul right now, and your sassy sprite isn’t one of them.

So tell me – does she possess a permit to remain on this side?

’ His head moves forward like a wolf’s. ‘What’s your mission ? ’