Page 24 of The Book of Heartbreak

‘Azylios, my love,’ she pleaded, her voice trembling. ‘Is it you?’

I quickly scribbled the name onto some parchment, knowing full well I could not speak with the maiden. Even the greatest seers are bound by this truth – conversing with the dead risks sending them back to the realm of Death.

‘You are not him,’ she said, her face falling with disappointment. ‘He has forsaken me, just as he abandoned Eudokia.’

I hurriedly noted this new name.

‘I am Theodora of House Doukas, cursed to love a man who will never be mine,’ the maiden declared, her voice heavy with sorrow. ‘I have committed grave errors, yet I have paid with far greater suffering. Please, noble one, end this torment.’

At the name ‘Doukas’, I dropped my quill with a thrill, transfixed by the desperate way she addressed me. What grave error have you made, angelic one? I wondered, without the capacity to ask.

The fragile thread I maintain between Theodora and myself won’t allow me to speak, yet I burn to know. How could one believe such words from a being whose lips bore the tender softness of rose petals? How could such a delicate creature ever bring harm to another?

I pause, unable to stop the blush that creeps up my neck.

My fingertips brush my lips to see if they in any way feel like petals; considering my likeness to Theodora, there’s a good chance.

I recall the way Leon’s gaze lingered on my lips yesterday when he gave me the sherbet lemon, and then I have to pinch myself to stop getting distracted by Leon’s opinion on my lips.

I refocus on the book. The dramatic, ancient ramblings of Sufi for Theodora – whom he calls his beloved maiden now – goes on and on.

He mostly finds resemblances between her and the fauna of Istanbul, which eventually becomes bland and repetitive.

I skip chunks of love declarations until, on 14th August of the same year, he has a significant entry.

My efforts have borne fruit. My beloved conversed with me again. A dream and two visions – but perhaps they were dreams too. It’s hard to discern any more.

Theodora now persists in finding me regardless of where I am.

Rüstem Pasha cautions me, suggesting that her pursuit might be a form of haunting, as she now shadows my every step, refusing to be confined by the boundaries between our realms. But I am convinced that her presence is but a manifestation of love and affection.

Since the third day, I have forsaken all sustenance but water sweetened with a hint of sugar, for hunger brings a clarity to my eyes, and such starvation is a meagre effort when I burn with the desire to remain with Theodora.

Beneath the largest fig tree inside the hallowed courtyard of ?emsi Pasha Mosque, I have made my abode. There, as I surrendered to the embrace of slumber, she appeared before me.

‘I cursed my sister,’ Theodora confessed. ‘And in turn, she cursed me. All that has befallen me, I have rightly earned. Neither of us shall find peace. Help us, noble man.’

‘Where is your sister, my dove?’ I wished to ask, but I sense she will depart if I speak. Some days, I worry that my search for a way to bind us supercedes my will to break her curse.

‘Eudokia,’ Theodora said, as if she read my thoughts. ‘Will she ever forgive me?’

Reader, as my chronicles repeat within these pages, the fundamental laws of our realm present two ways for lifting a curse: through a sacrifice deemed worthy, or by rectifying misdeeds that ensnared those it initially entangled.

Why did these sisters curse each other? What error did they commit?

Without understanding the nature of their wrongdoing, I cannot hope to correct it.

The notion of sacrifice looms as a possible means to break the curse.

I contemplate whether my humble soul might serve as a fitting offering to end their suffering.

I confided in Rüstem Pasha, and he declared that I have lost my senses.

But I cannot sit and wait while Theodora suffers for an eternity.

Perhaps I have weakened. Slumber overtakes me in Theodora’s absence, and light returns with her arrival. It dawns on me that perhaps it is I who ventures forth in search of her, rather than her coming to me.

I pause at this entry. My heart beats frantically, as if Theodora herself has materialised before my eyes.

I’m unsure what to make of it all. The book rests against the bedding, as if it’s grown in size since I started reading it. It has now proved the desperate warning of its foreword, which I fear I have taken too lightly.

I feel the urgent desire to summon Munu, to share everything I’ve read, but I’m still angry with her, and I certainly don’t want to be the first to make contact.

You’re not a child any more, I tell myself. You’re almost eighteen.

Still, I turn off the light to stop myself reaching for my pendant – or the book – again.

At breakfast the next morning, the table is set for one person – there’s no Muzaffer in sight.

Worrying is my first reaction. In the last couple of days I’ve noticed the number of pills he takes has dramatically increased, plus he doesn’t look very well.

I’d wanted to ask him about it, but the constant sour expression on his face proved a deterrent.

He isn’t your problem, I almost hear Munu advise. But no matter how hard I try, how dysfunctional our relationship is, or how angry I am with him for not reaching out to Daphne, I still feel trapped by my concern.

What if he’s really sick?

I rush into the kitchen to find Azmi cleaning the fridge. ‘Mr Gümüshus has a medical appointment,’ he says when I ask after his whereabouts.

I don’t ask what it is. It must be something serious, and I don’t know how much more of the truth I can face this week.

With Muzaffer’s sudden absence affecting me more than I expected, I avoid my room after breakfast, where The Book of Heartbreak waits like an unspoken threat, and retreat instead to the garden with my sketchpad.

I settle by the small pond, the reflection of the Judas tree overhead rippling across the water.

I try not to dwell on what Theodora might have done to be locked in the tower, or why she and her sister Eudokia cursed each other.

But more than anything, I still can’t grasp what The Book of Heartbreak has to do with me.

Just because Theodora and I share a similar appearance, it can’t mean I’m her reincarnation, I keep repeating to myself.

Drawing always helps me unwind. Just a few hours in the sunshine, and I’ll be ready to return to the shadows of those pages and uncover the end of the story – and Sufi Chelebi’s fate.

As I finish a sketch of the tower a few hours later, alone in the garden, I hear footsteps. I turn to see Muzaffer, leaning on his walking stick, watching me. Despite the vibrant colours of the sunny day, he looks ghastly. Pale and worn.

‘Are you okay?’ I can’t help myself. ‘You missed breakfast.’

‘Medical appointment,’ Muzaffer says. A wasp whizzes past him but he doesn’t flinch.

What’s wrong with you? I want to ask, but I can’t.

‘What is it you’re drawing?’ He’s slow to close the distance between us. When he sets his eyes on my draft, he frowns. ‘The Maiden’s Tower?’

‘I’m quite drawn to it,’ I mutter. ‘It looks like a fairy tale.’

‘They ruined it with the recent renovation,’ Muzaffer grumbles.

I wonder if he knows anything about the tower’s history that might prove useful, considering all the historical tomes in his personal library. ‘Do you know the story of the tower?’

‘I’m sure there are books that will help better than I would.’ He readies himself to leave and, strangely, I find that I don’t want him to.

‘I read one . . .’ The words leave my mouth before I can stop myself. ‘A version of the story different from the one Daphne told me. She said the myth says a man kept his daughter confined in the tower so she wouldn’t die at eighteen as foreseen by a seer’s prophecy. But she still died.’

‘She told you that story?’ He doesn’t seem to approve. It stings how he still avoids Mum’s name.

‘I came across this . . . book that instead mentions a curse on the tower, and two sisters – written by an Ottoman man – Müneccimbasi Sufi Chelebi. He was in love with the maiden.’

How can I explain that a magical book appeared to me, claiming curses can be broken?

‘Sufi Chelebi?’ His frown deepens. ‘Never heard of such a name.’

‘He was the sultan’s chief seer in the 1500s,’ I carry on. ‘And the maiden was named Theodora and she had a sister, Eudokia, who cursed her. They cursed one another.’

‘Why would sisters curse each other?’ Muzaffer sounds agitated. ‘That building was nothing but a watchtower. These old tales are just musings. Why are you wasting your time like this?’ He shakes his head. ‘You have everything you need – go shopping, find some friends your age to show you the city.’

His dismissive frustration hurts me more than I can imagine.

‘Why did you invite me here,’ I retort, ‘if you hate me so much?’

‘I don’t hate you.’ His features smoothen, surprise flashing in his eyes. ‘Why would I hate you? You’re all I have left.’

‘Why don’t you let me in Daphne’s room?’ I push, emboldened by his reaction. But his face shifts into a frown again.

‘Do you not like your room? You can redecorate it if you like.’

‘My room is fine.’ I shrug. Does he really care about me enough to let me redecorate a whole room? It looks like a nursery but I can live with it. ‘I just thought I could see her stuff. Find a keepsake.’

His cat, Bocek, darts from a nearby bush before he can reply, then slows down like a little madam when she’s by Muzaffer.

‘There’s nothing there,’ he retorts as Bocek nuzzles his legs.

‘Why did you and her fall out?’ I drop my voice. I’m afraid to hear the answer.

He considers my question. Perhaps the cat soothes him, because when he speaks again, he sounds calmer.