Page 40 of The Book of Heartbreak

Don’t be deceived by the purity of truth; it’s complex and rarely leads to the destinations we expect. The deadliest poisons are often the purest.

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

Unsurprisingly, things don’t go as planned the following day.

When we sneak into the basement flat to Azmi’s quarters to borrow the set of master keys, another locked door greets – or rather repels – us.

‘I suspected as much,’ Leon says.

‘And I assume you have a plan?’

‘I always have a plan.’ He grins, one eyebrow arching. ‘I’ll pick the lock.’

I glance at the two different locks. ‘It doesn’t look like an easy target.’

‘Not this one.’ Leon chuckles. ‘We can’t lose time here. Let’s just go upstairs.’

Sweat dampens my palms as the anxiety of defying Muzaffer gnaws at me, even though he’s unlikely to return for a few hours. It feels anything but honourable to ransack his house behind his back, but still I lead Leon up the stairs to Daphne’s room.

Bocek trails after us, her sharp eyes fixed on me, as if to remind me I’m breaking the rules.

‘Don’t judge me,’ I mutter once we’re stationed by the door, and she drops beside me, casually licking her paws.

The floorboards creak as Leon crouches down in front of the lock with a tweezer, or something like it, in his hands.

‘You seem quite . . .’ I cross my arms, searching for the precise term. ‘. . . experienced.’

‘One must acquire certain abilities to keep up with the demands of our endeavours,’ he responds with his usual arrogance. Then he turns his attention back to the lock.

After a few minutes of fiddling, the lock emits a loud clack, proving his mastery.

‘After you.’ He gestures with the flair of a true gentleman as he opens the door.

I hesitate at the threshold that separates Daphne and Defne, aware that the line I’m about to cross was never meant to be breached. Whatever happened here, Mum didn’t want me to know.

You’re risking yourself, I hear Munu’s voice in my head. Stop digging into the past!

But this isn’t about satisfying idle curiosity, it’s a quest for answers, for something – anything – that might help me break the curse.

I can’t lose my heart without a fight. And don’t I owe this to Mum?

She died with a broken heart. I need to find out what happened to her.

With this resolve, I move forward and scan the space, half expecting some remarkable revelation, and yet the room looks old . . . and ordinary.

The weathered carpet sprawls across the floor, blanketed by a layer of dust. Judging by the colour, it was once a soft, light green.

A faint odour of lavender lingers in the air, failing to mask the musty aroma of neglect.

It doesn’t take much effort to see that no living soul has been in here for a very long time.

The bed is pristine, as though my mother had tidied it just before her departure, its heavy wooden headboard adorned with carved leaves.

I walk over to the dressing table and examine an array of books beneath its speckled mirror.

‘I’m sorry,’ Leon says. ‘I didn’t think how hard it would be for you to be in this room, sifting through your mum’s belongings.’

I must look miserable.

‘It doesn’t feel like hers.’ I trace my finger through a layer of dust. ‘It feels like a stranger’s, and that somehow makes it worse.’

‘We don’t have to do this,’ he says, surprising me. ‘I don’t want you to be upset, Silverbirch.’

I consider this. Is he ready to give up his quest to conquer the curse?

‘Thanks for the pep talk, but I’m fine.’ I surrender to sarcasm to dismiss the idea. ‘Come on, time’s running out.’

And so we begin our search.

Leon rifles through a cabinet, regularly getting rewarded with plumes of dust, while I sift through the bedside tables.

A surge of adrenaline runs through me as I find a bunch of photographs in a drawer.

I flip through them. There’s Daphne, standing in front of the house with another girl.

In the background, Muzaffer’s Mercedes, with his driver, Gokhan, leaning against it, a watchful amusement in his posture.

Everyone looks younger – suspended in a snapshot.

Next, Daphne is hugging Azmi’s arm. It blows my mind how loyal Muzaffer’s employees are, and how well they keep his secrets.

The last photo is a group of teenagers, none of whom I recognise except Iris – it’s startling to see a face so similar to mine.

She’s all smiles, her hand on the shoulder of a young man – tall, dark and very handsome.

He’s smirking at the camera, sharing Iris’s joy.

None of the photos bear dates or notes.

I carry on, another drawer, and the next. Finally, one creaks open, revealing a bundle of papers.

Letters.

‘Look at these,’ I call Leon. ‘They’re in Turkish.’ I begin to leaf through them but Leon plucks them from my hands and I watch his eyes dart between the lines. Then, with a deep frown, he reads them out to me in English.

‘ Defne, sweet muse of my cravings. Every moment away from you is eternity, and my love burns me like fire. My being can no longer endure the absence of you— ’ He clears his throat. ‘Sorry, I’m doing my best to directly translate the words.’

‘Right,’ I mumble, unable to stop the flush of embarrassment creeping up my neck. Sweet muse of my cravings – what does that even mean?

‘ Soon, we’ll be inseparable ,’ Leon continues. ‘ Till then, I’ll lie restless, envisioning your touch against my skin. Eternally yours, A .’

For a prolonged moment, I examine the carpet, and Leon can’t seem to lift his gaze from the letter. Who the fuck was this A – a poet or something?

‘Any idea who this flowery A might be?’ Leon asks, mirroring my thoughts.

‘No idea. I told you before, Daphne didn’t even tell me about her family.’

‘It doesn’t sound like a casual affair, does it?

’ Leon says, skimming the next one. ‘Check this one out. Iris isn’t herself any more.

It’s impossible to live with her, knowing she hates me.

I pity her, despite how miserable things are.

I want her to be well, and I know it would help her if I left.

Papa says she’s ill. What sort of illness can change a person so quickly?

She was fine only a couple of months ago.

I feel uneasy, as if something awful will happen – but I shall do as you ask and wait.

You’re the only thing that makes life bearable. D. ’

I let Mum’s words sink in, rendering me speechless.

‘Did you know that your aunt was ill?’ Leon asks, distracting me.

‘No.’ My voice croaks with this newest discovery. ‘I know nothing about her.’

‘Looks like your mum’s boyfriend stopped her from fleeing Istanbul.’

And yet, when Daphne eventually managed to escape, it was without this A. How did they fall out? Where is A now? My head buzzes with a million questions.

A greeting card remains in the drawer, a faded glimpse into old Istanbul on it. I pick it up and turn it over. Turkish scribbles.

‘An address?’ I pass it to Leon.

‘Fuck,’ he gasps after studying it. ‘You’re not going to believe this.’

‘What does it say?’ I inhale his musky scent as I draw closer.

‘Well, there is a return address . . .’ Leon frowns. ‘Somewhere in one of the Prince’s Islands, Büyükada. But the note—’

I’m impatient. ‘Yes?’

A flash of discomfort appears in Leon’s face as he begins to translate.

‘ 15th April 2007. My dearest, please write to me. You told me not to call you, but I’m sick with worry.

Has your father or Iris discovered the baby?

Or did you leave already? If I don’t hear from you by next week, I’m coming there.

I worry your father won’t take it well. Praying for you. Arda Banguo?lu .’

The note hits me like an electric current.

The baby, the baby, the baby.

It can’t be me , I reassure myself. My mother had me in the UK, not here. It must be another baby. Perhaps she had a miscarriage, or she gave it away.

But I was born on 10th December 2007.

‘Silverbirch . . .’ Leon brushes a curl away from my cheek. His touch isn’t enough to distract me this time.

The truth crashes on me like a ton of bricks. I am the baby. I was conceived here, in Istanbul, and that means . . . I try to step aside but slam my thigh into the open drawer. My hand, searching for a support, finds Leon’s.

‘He’s talking about me.’ I take a deep breath, trying to ignore how hard my heart is beating now. ‘ Me .’

I stumble as I find my way to Daphne’s bed. The mattress squeaks as I perch on its edge.

‘Are you okay, Silverbirch?’ Leon says, following me.

I’m not.

Can my mother’s lies really be that deep and crooked? It all feels so fucked up, so wrong.

Rule number two, I recite. Channel sorrow into rage.

My anger rises like an animal, wild and untamed. I’m desperate to rip up the card and the letters, to burn the house down, to leave and never come back.

Just like Defne did.

‘She told me my father was a one-night stand in Cambridge.’ I try my best not to cry, choosing to attack the subject rather than avoid it. Make a joke of it. Make it small, until it stops hurting. ‘Why did she lie? A passionate lover in Istanbul sounds much more exciting.’

No tears shall fall, I remind myself. Rule number one.

‘Mothers are complicated,’ Leon ventures cautiously.

I burst out a laugh. It’s the only way to release the anger without crying.

Leon’s brow furrows with concern, as if he’s worried that I’m losing it.

Perhaps I am .

‘If you need a break, or a bit of fresh air, we can leave.’ He kneels down before me. ‘We can always come back later.’

His dark eyes are full of compassion. I imagine my head on his chest, like it was the night we were in the tower, resting in the curve that perfectly aligns with my cheek.

Like I’m a piece of him and he’s a piece of me.

As if together we’ll become a whole. If I give in, he’ll make me forget all of this.

I never wanted anything more than to hug him right now.