Page 37 of The Book of Heartbreak

Courage may lead to wisdom, yet also lays the foundation for betrayal.

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

When I finally navigate my way downstairs, the tower is no longer the fairy tale I once thought it was. The space feels hollow now, cloaked with darkness and my own sorrow. I scan the foyer until I spot Leon in the silver glow of the moonlight. He leans on the wall, hands in his pockets.

‘All done?’ he asks, as if nothing just happened upstairs. As if I didn’t just lose everything. As if we didn’t kiss.

I nod, and an awkward silence fills the air between us.

He kissed me. I shiver as I step towards him. And, what’s worse, I kissed him back.

‘What happened upstairs . . .’ He hesitates as our eyes lock, his voice strained by a tone I can’t decipher. ‘It was—’

‘It was nothing,’ I interject, fuelled by shame. I can’t bear his regret on top of everything else.

Leon’s face is partially shrouded with shadows, but the hurt beneath his frustrated expression is unmistakeable.

‘It’s not the first time Munu made things worse than they already are,’ I say. ‘And I’m sorry you had to deal with me in that state. It was completely unacceptable for us to . . . you know. We’re only business partners.’

He pauses a moment, considering my words. ‘You had to deal with me too, by the looks of it.’ He clears his throat. ‘I wasn’t really thinking, and I was under pressure – the ethereal was in such a panic. I didn’t know what was happening to you.’

‘I can’t really remember,’ I say. I force a smile to make the lie convincing. ‘Don’t worry, it didn’t mean anything.’

‘Of course,’ he says, with an enthusiasm that matches mine.

‘Glad we’re clear on that.’

‘Where’s Munu?’ Leon is quick to change the topic.

I shrug. ‘She’s gone.’

Leon nods in response, seemingly distracted.

We walk out into the courtyard in silence, side by side, back to being two strangers.

I watch him as the sea churns around us like an unsettled child, savouring every contour of his face, every curve and line.

My heart welcomes an unfamiliar rhythm in our closeness.

A deep longing surges within me, compelling me to reach out to him.

I yearn to touch his skin, to rake my fingers through his hair once more, to press my lips against his.

This new-found hunger for physical contact overwhelms me, leaving me aching inside.

Fuck. One kiss, and I’m already falling for him?

I seethe at my own weakness. Don’t be an idiot, Sare.

Love, Munu whispers in my head, is a disease. It rots everything.

Even with the slim chance that I’m something other than a mission or a charity case for Leon, and he feels the same wildfire raging in my chest – the curse still looms above me, a monstrous shadow destroying any chance of a future.

The Hidden decided my fate before I even drew my first breath, casting me as the vessel of this curse, to live and die with it.

In four months, I will turn eighteen and be empty of emotion. Love will abandon me forever.

But I will not be obedient. I will not bow to the ways of the Hidden.

Whatever my mother or Iris has done, I will unearth it.

You could die, I hear Munu again.

I could die, I repeat to myself. But I will die with the truth.

‘So.’ Leon distracts me from my haunted thoughts. ‘Did you manage to learn anything useful about what reactivated the curse?’ He tries to sound casual, but I know he’s just as keen as I am to uncover the mystery.

I tell him everything – everything he needs to know – carefully weeding out the details about how the curse claims its victims through heartbreaks. I can’t bear the thought of him knowing, of being seen as some pathetic freak doomed by love.

His eyebrows arch as I finally fall silent. ‘Eudokia cast the curse, but your mother and aunt awakened it?’

I nod. ‘There’s no one else.’

‘And we know for certain that Iris died here, didn’t she?’ Leon’s brows furrow.

‘Do you think that Iris died here, cursing my mother?’ I frown. ‘But my mother was nothing like Theodora. She was kind and . . . sad. She wouldn’t harm her sister.’

‘Someone must know something,’ Leon says. ‘A friend or a relative. Someone.’

‘There’s only Muzaffer.’ I sigh. ‘And he won’t speak.’

‘Then a clue in the house—’

‘He doesn’t let me in Mum’s room,’ I interrupt, sounding more annoyed than I’d intended.

‘All you need is a key,’ Leon says.

He makes it sound easy, and perhaps it is easy, but right now, I’m exhausted.

‘You don’t look very motivated.’ A playful smile plays on his lips.

‘I’m too tired.’ And hurt . ‘I need ten hours sleep and six bars of chocolate before I can feel motivation.’

‘You’re funny.’ The stars inside Leon’s eyes shine brighter than the ones dying above us. ‘I like it.’

He likes it.

I feel a fluttering, not in my heart, but in my stomach. Leon searches his pockets and hands me a sherbet lemon. This time, he offers it without a challenge.

‘Thanks.’ I accept it. ‘Thanks for tonight.’

I might be a fool with a wild imagination, but I swear the surrounding darkness seems to lighten, as if infused with hope by the warmth of his smile.

It’s almost time for morning prayer when I finally make my way home.

In the pre-dawn tranquillity, I stand in the hallway and think: what other time would be better to wander around without Muzaffer or his sidekick Azmi’s eyes on me? I have to find out what happened to Mum, why she left Istanbul, why she never returned. It has to be something to do with the curse.

So I take a deep breath and motivate myself to break one of Muzaffer’s rules.

Through the archway lie two reception rooms, a small office and a library.

I’ve got used to the way Muzaffer deals with grief by simply ignoring it.

I know there are no photographs anywhere.

No remnants of Iris and Defne. But right now, I’m fuelled by desperation to find something.

Anything to help me shed light on the past.

I tiptoe into the library, where cabinets and drawers may be concealing evidence from the past. When I catch Bocek slipping in behind me like a ghost, I jump, clamping my mouth to block a scream. But she’s unfazed, with her paws neatly together like a vigilant guard, gaze fixed on me.

‘Just looking,’ I whisper to her. ‘Keep quiet, no meowing.’

I swear her eyes narrow – or maybe it’s just my imagination, warped by the revelations of the past few days. I ignore the uneasiness the cat stirs in me and refocus on my task.

Tall wooden shelves tower on both sides, shouldering hundreds of books. Walking up to the nearest shelf, I run my fingers along the spines.

There’s a drawer in one of the bookcases, and it doesn’t surprise me to discover that it’s locked.

I feel stupid. What am I doing here, rummaging through shelves?

It’s not like I’ll find a book titled A History of Muzaffer’s Creaky Mansion – Year Two Thousand and Six .

Still, I won’t give up. People don’t merely live and die and vanish.

They leave traces behind. There must be something, somewhere, that belonged to Daphne or Iris.

Finally, my investigation pays off and I stumble upon some bits in a cabinet.

An old copy of Around the World in Eighty Days , inscribed: Iris, with love from your father .

Then a tattered copy of a book called Doctor Zhivago , by Boris Pasternak.

It’s well read to the extent that its pages might fall out, but inside the cover, with the neat handwriting I know so well, it reads: Defne A Gümüshus, 09/10/2005.

Her handwriting clasps tightly around my throat. I run the tip of my finger along the words, as if it can connect me with this Defne Gümüshus, whom I never met.

Defne, who owned this book.

Defne, who inscribed the book and left it behind.

Daphne, who will never laugh again, never read another book, now rotting in a cemetery a thousand miles away.

I was so occupied with the curse, so distracted by the hope of breaking it, that I’ve neglected my grief. Now it pours down on me as I hold Mum’s book. Sharp as the day she died.

Iris, Daphne’s voice whispers from the pages as I flick through. Why do you hate me so much?

The morning beyond the shutters shines brighter, and soon the house will awaken. I need to take the book and leave, but instead I cling to it, frozen in time. All I want is to rest my cheek on her name, and weep.

No tears shall fall, I repeat the first rule. Don’t you dare cry, Sare.

But I miss Mum. I miss her so much.

I miss her even more now, knowing it was the curse that condemned her to love those who would never love her back. And worse, she had to look at me every day and see the spitting image of a sister who hated her. No wonder she was so broken, and yet I always judged her.

I cradle the novel in my hands, wishing it could tell me everything. The scars on my palm, the reminders of my past heartbreaks, sting like candle flame against my flesh. I’ve had enough turmoil for one night. I’m numb enough without fluttering, or any other threats from my heart.

Perhaps my heart is tired, just as I am.

Perhaps I fooled myself into thinking that by moving to Istanbul Daphne might still be alive somewhere else, somehow.

Lost in my own agony, I fail to realise I’m no longer alone.

‘Sare?’ Azmi’s voice breaks through my reverie as he approaches.

Startled by the intrusion, I step backwards still holding Doctor Zhivago.

Azmi gazes at the open cabinet, the sight of my investigation drawing a frown across his face. ‘Did you need something?’

I shake my head. No one can give me what I need.

He walks towards me, trying to see what I’m clinging so tightly to. ‘You shouldn’t be opening these cabinets.’

‘I’m just looking around,’ I retort. ‘Why is it such a big deal?’

‘Your grandfather wouldn’t like his collection to be handled without his knowledge.’ Azmi points at the copy of Doctor Zhivago . ‘Please, may I?’