In Art, Truth

James Fadeley

The woman paused, her hand slightly trembling, before drawing the aging book away from the shelf. She swallowed as she opened the back flap, giving the air the taste of dust, and read the names written there.

The bottom of the checkout card held two entries. The first was her own, Ece Şahin, with a return date of June 9, 1924. Beneath it, the same date was entered in the checkout column, under the name “Ali Veli”.

Ece scoffed, shaking her head. It was a ludicrously common name, not unlike what the English might call a “Tom, Dick and Harry”. Yet that fact only fueled her unease. She knelt, setting the book on the carpeted floor beside a copy of the Chronographia by Michael Psellos, also opened to its card. Like the former book, her return date back in May coincided with the next borrower, one “Murad Osman”.

She glanced up, scanning the bookshelves before discovering another familiar title. L’art Byzantin by the Frenchman Charles Bayet. Setting it beside the prior two, she opened the back. Returned by Ece Şahin on June 2. Checked out that same day… by Mehmet Ağaoğlu.

Ece’s brow rose in surprise. Ağaoğlu was a fellow art historian and a very respected one at that. Yet an inkling pestered Ece, her stomach fluttering faintly not with butterflies but moths. Something didn’t add up, but she couldn’t remember exactly what. Perhaps her assistant, Haluk, knew.

She narrowed her eyes, comparing the three signatures beneath each of her own.

The elifba alphabet did not make it easy. Read right-to-left, the cursive of individual characters changed based on their position. She focused on the simple alif characters that all three possessed, and only looked elsewhere when she was sure their slants were nigh identical. Although not the same letters, the ġayn in Ağaoğlu used a “hook” like the opening ain of both Ali and Osman, names of Arabic spelling. Then she concentrated on the opening mims, the M’s, that began both Murad and Mehmet. Again, alike right down to a slight descender dipping below the cell’s bottom line. She considered factors to suggest discrepancies but found little – the cards were of the same factory quality. The stroke width and ink color suggested the writer had used the checkout desk pen.

Most damning was how all three signatures curved downward after completion, lightly smudging the final letter. As if aborting a paraph, an underlined flourish to finish their work. Perhaps the signer was more accustomed to writing checks than borrowing books.

Ece swallowed, her pulse racing. She was almost certain that the signatures were from the same person. Someone who clearly did not want to be identified.

Someone who was trailing her research.

Her skin crawled. Instantly, she looked over her shoulder. No one was there, neither behind her nor beyond the library’s backless bookshelves. She stood, stepped out of the aisle, and surveyed the room. A few students sat quietly at round tables, reading intensely and scribbling notes. The librarian glanced up from her desk for only a moment, before returning to her own book.

It might not be anything so sinister, Ece assured herself as she collected the three books from the floor. Perhaps it was a colleague who saw her as competition on a research paper.

If what she sought was not so dangerous, she might have even believed that…

The librarian grimaced as Ece set the trio of books on the checkout desk instead of the return cart before she swiftly departed. Once in the hall, she tucked a strand of hair beneath her vermillion hijab, then crossed her arms over her chest. It was defensive gesture, but Ece couldn’t help herself. Someone was following her scholarly footsteps, but who? A fame-hungry colleague from the university was an inconvenience, but there were other interested parties. Members of esoteric societies, “cults” as outsiders would call them… or perhaps even her own, the Coterie.

The idea sent a shiver down her spine. Would her own group have sent someone to track her? Might they no longer trust her? If so, how long did she have before they decided to trail her physically as well?

She checked over her shoulder again, relaxing only a little when no one was there.

The walk to the Süleymaniye Complex took more than ten minutes. A more direct path through the university campus might have been quicker, but Ece preferred the more densely populated route. Residents hung about, talking with one another, or shouting up to people watching from second story windows. Groups of students flocked around a few street vendors, haggling over prices for pencils and notary.

Despite the noise, Ece took solace in the crowds. It was not just the security, but the sights and sounds of change sweeping through the newfound Republic of Turkey. A country not even a year old, born of the Treaty of Lausanne and rebuilding itself atop the remains of the Ottoman Empire.

Yet President Kemal Atatürk’s progress came to the chagrin of many, visible even on the streets. A man argued with a phone serviceman trying to drill a hole in a wall. A mother publicly scolded her embarrassed daughter for wearing chic European heels with a more form-fitting black çarşaf. An aging Renault putted behind an ox-drawn cart, and the drivers of each soon engaged in a shouting match for right-of-way. Yet perhaps the most promising hint of progress rested on a newspaper a clerk read beside his stall.

“Dr Safiye Ali Hanım receives female and pediatric patients every day and in the afternoon, except Friday and Sunday, at her clinic number 52 on Nuruosmaniye Street in Istanbul,” an advertisement read.

“Another who earned her place,” Ece whispered to herself, walking a little taller. It was the first time she’d heard of a woman becoming a licensed doctor. She smiled faintly, daring to think it would not be the last. After all, Ece herself had recently been appointed a curator to the Museum of Turkish and Islamic Arts. The 1920s were proving to be an age of enlightenment.

Yet even this little progress will not matter if a mere handful of people exploit the signs of the stars.

The grim reminder set her on edge, and she hurried along to her office.

The Süleymaniye Complex was a gorgeous sight. A symmetrical arrangement of arches under many domes. The grandest and highest was that of the mosque in the center, although even that was dwarfed by the four minarets presiding over each corner of the courtyard. The sight of the beautiful building rekindled a spark of faith in Ece. A comfort that the Ever-Merciful still watched over them.

Ece’s office was in one of the extra madrasa buildings, some distance from the medical school. She remained quiet as she slipped through the patio, where students bowed in study over copies of the Quran. She passed through the halls and up the stairs, wondering if she would miss this commute when the time came to relocate to the museum.

Her assistant looked up from his newspaper as she entered, perking a brow as he adjusted his spectacles. “You didn’t get the books, Ms Şahin?”

“No.” She stood in front of the office door, both hands behind her back. “Haluk, do you know where Mehmet Ağaoğlu is right now? Is he still in Istanbul?”

“Ağaoğlu?” Haluk closed his newspaper. “No, he… last I heard, he was at the University of Vienna. I think he’s still there. What’s wrong?”

Ece chewed her lip. Haluk believed they were researching artwork of the post-Byzantine era, an effort the directors hoped would win prestige with Western academics. He didn’t know the whole truth, for it was too much to burden her assistant with. Pieces and facts might be fine, but Ece could only hope it did not lead to him being initiated into the… other side. She drew a sharp breath before speaking, “I think we’re being followed. Academically.”

Haluk stood, his eyes wide in alarm. “How?”

“At the library, I checked a book I once borrowed. Someone had checked it out the same day I had returned it. I looked at two other recent books. Same date pattern. Same handwriting but different names.”

Haluk’s face paled faintly. “Fake names? Someone is trying to poach your work!”

If only it were that simple. Ece walked to her desk with a scowl. “It’s possible.”

“Did you make translations for that book at least?” Haluk snapped his fingers, trying to recall. “The one by the Frenchman? Could it be published, create a paper trail of your efforts?”

“L’art Byzantin, yes.” She frowned. “I only translated the parts that I felt were important. To put forward just those for publication–”

“Would give away our true goal.” He sank into his seat, rubbing his temples as he spoke quietly. “Since when has Mavropoulos drawn so much academic competition?”

Ece’s smile was as gentle as it was sardonic.

“Haluk,” she leaned on her desk, looking her assistant in the eye, “can you go to the university library and check out a few titles I need? They’re watching for me, but I doubt they’ll be on the lookout for you.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Ece drew a slip of paper and a fountain pen from her desk and began drafting a list of titles and authors. “If they limit how many you can take, prioritize the ones on top.”

“Yes, Ms Şahin. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

A tapestry next to the exit swung as Haluk almost slammed the door in his haste to obey. Ece watched the piece settle before sitting down. She drew a heavy breath, held it for a long moment before exhaling slowly. Her eyes fell on her candlestick phone, and she knew she was not going to get a better chance today to make that call.

Ece found herself playing with the cord nervously as the operator picked up. “How may I direct your call?”

“I need to place a collect call to Professor Tuwile Masai in Nairobi. This is the curator for the Museum of Turkish and Islamic Arts.”

“It may take a while to connect,” the operator warned.

“I understand.”

“Hold please.”

The wait proved lengthy indeed. In her boredom, Ece found herself staring at J’ai baisé ta bouche Iokanaan and The Climax, two versions of the same illustration, each side-by-side on her wall. Both were Art Nouveau drawings by Aubrey Beardsley for Oscar Wilde’s play Salome, portraying grotesque scenes of a pleased woman holding the severed head of John the Baptist. Yet it was the background that drew Ece’s eye, with circular shapes suggestive of growths or perhaps even fish eggs. She gazed at them for so long, she swore they became strange, fuzzy tumors.

Or perhaps even eyes. Eyes that stared back…

“E-sey?”

She blinked, realizing how painfully dry her cornea had become, yet broke into a chuckle. “It’s pronounced Ed-jey, Professor Tuwile.”

He coughed out of embarrassment. “Apologies, Ece. I’m unfamiliar with Turkish names. However, it’s wonderful to hear your voice for the first time.”

“It certainly beats writing letters and waiting weeks.” She smiled sympathetically. “I know a call is costly but, I may have an urgent matter. Someone’s trailing my checkouts.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Nervous though. I’ve sent my assistant for the next batch, although I may have to purchase books from now on. Less conspicuous, harder to trace.”

“Hm. A prudent decision. Any idea who it may be?”

“I don’t. It might be another scholar looking into Mavropoulos as well. Although…” Ece swallowed and squeezed the phone line in her palm. It took an act of willpower to overcome her reluctance. “Tuwile, I hate to ask… do you think I’ve done anything to earn the Coterie’s ire?”

“Not to my knowledge. I don’t deny that some of us are brutes, but even they know we cannot locate the artifacts with mere sadism.”

She sighed with relief, the knot in her stomach becoming uncorded. “Thank you, Tuwile. I know we’re all on the same side but… it’s difficult to trust them.”

“Ece, you are not wrong to do so. There is conceit in some of them, and cruelty in others. But you and I know that as long as knowledge guides us to wisdom, there is hope yet. Speaking of, your timing is good.”

“Oh?”

“Two things. First, I sent you a parcel of old journals this morning, some primary sources that reference strange sightings and trade deals. I can’t guarantee their value, but they could be worth checking. Arrival could take a week.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for it.”

“And second, as luck would have it, I transcribed something new perhaps half an hour ago. Just a moment.” Ece could hear pages being flipped. “Let’s see… yes, here. Pardon my rusty Arabic.

“‘For reasons unknown to me, my partner had accepted the one-sided deal. I could not allow it to pass and sought the trader. The man of Mavros intended to set sail that night, but when I approached him, I found him deep in prayer. He whispered, rubbing something in his hands, then he blew out his lone candle. When he did, something conjured against the backdrop of the cloudy, black night. A great shadow with massive wings, like the stories my Assyrian grandfather told me of the “djinn”. I was so fearful that I turned and crept away, abandoning my misgivings. The next day, the man of Mavros departed, returning to Constantinople’.”

Ece’s stomach had turned to ice as she struggled to come to terms with the last of that passage.

“Ece?”

“Yes, sorry.” She drew a deep breath and sighed away her discomfort. It was only a story, after all. The writer could have been drunk or drugged and might have misunderstood what he had seen. Not all primary sources were totally reliable. She reached for her notes, biting her lip as she looked over her scribblings. “You said ‘Mavros’, not Mavropoulos?”

“That confused me. Mavros is a tiny islet around Greece, no one lives there.”

“Yet the suffix ‘poulos’ means ‘son of’ in Greek.”

“Interesting.”

“Where did you find this passage?” Ece dipped her pen in the well, prepared to add to her notes.

“A collection of old scrolls I had delivered from Cairo. Now, here’s the intriguing part. Shortly after this, the writer detailed the fall of Sultan al-Mansur Uthman, which happened in March of 1453.”

Ece’s eyes went wide as she jotted this down, the ink splotching in her eager haste. “And Mehmed the Conqueror’s siege of Constantinople began in April that same year.”

“So, if our ‘man of Mavros’ was in your city then, he would have had great difficulty escaping.” Ece heard Tuwile’s seat creak from the other end. “But does that necessarily mean the artifact is still there?”

“No. After the Turks’ victory, Mehmed was forced to let his men loot the city for three days. The artifact, this ‘talisman’, may have very well changed hands in that time. Nevertheless, all I can do is follow the trail and see where it leads me.”

“You are wise not to get your hopes up. I should warn you that I will be busier with my tasks down here, but I’ll still help whenever I can.”

“Thank you, Tuwile. I appreciate it,” Ece replied as her office door opened, and Haluk slipped inside with a few books under his arm. “I should get going. My assistant has returned.”

“Good luck, Ece.”

“You too.” She slipped the phone back on the receiver.

“Who was that?” Haluk asked as he set the titles on her desk.

Ece wished she could explain. Up until that moment, she and Tuwile only knew each other through regular letters. Although they had never met, she had become fond of the professor, and grew to trust him as fellow scholar. Certainly, more than any other member of the Coterie.

“A colleague of mine. I’ll introduce you if he should ever come to Istanbul.” Ece stood and examined the books. Instantly her attention was drawn to the cryptically titled Lamentations of the Muses. “This isn’t one I requested.”

“I know. I found it in the same sections and thought it might interest you.”

She picked up the thin, crimson book and opened it. There was no frontispiece, just a title page with no author, no publisher, and no preface. Ece sighed doubtfully, yet her opinion flipped with the pages, and she quickly understood Haluk’s decision.

Illustrations. Not a mere few either, but dozens. Perhaps a hundred. The most she had ever seen in a single book. Painstakingly constructed diagrams of buildings and architecture as well as drawings of paintings, rendered dark with fastidious hatching. Some of the pieces were of familiar subjects, but several were not. Ece kept turning pages until she discovered a sight that froze both her hand and heart.

In the center was a handsome, calm-looking man holding a bag in his arms. The details of his clothing suggested fine embroidering, opulence in the style of the Eastern Romans. Behind him stood a dark figure, almost black. Briefly Ece thought it was the man’s shadow until she studied the protrusions on both sides, recognizing a pair of magnificent wings. An angelic figure, without the characteristic Byzantine halo.

Her eyes widened, something stirring in her chest. Images of demons, including winged ones, were not unheard of in Byzantine portraits, although usually portrayed in dramatic, biblical fashion. Seldom did artists try to hide or leave them as merely suggestions.

“Is it useful?” Haluk asked hopefully.

His innocent question shook Ece from her catatonic state. His brow rose in surprise when she showed him the drawing.

“This isn’t the work of a historian but an artist,” Ece said, perusing the French text beside the illustration. “‘They were going to cover it up again later that day and left me alone in the meantime. However, a senior official told me to leave around noon and I couldn’t finish this piece’. I think this is a journal someone tried to publish. I’ve never seen this painting before, but something about the style seems familiar… this is quite promising, Haluk.”

“So where was this drawn? And who made it?”

Very good questions. The drawing sported no signature, and without the raw details of the paint and techniques, Ece couldn’t be sure who created the original painting. No way to guarantee it was another by Mavropoulos. She reread the text, then flipped to the prior and former pages. There were no hints in the text. However, there was a diagram of a floorplan, with a hall to the south and two parallel lobbies on the west side of a large center chamber. She tapped it as she showed Haluk. “Does that look familiar to you?”

He squinted through his spectacles as he examined it. “Not really.”

“Cover it up again later that day,” Ece repeated as she peered at the diagram. Thinking about a location from a bird’s eye view was quite a feat, but something about that layout was familiar. “Chora?”

“Chora?” Haluk echoed.

“Kariye Mosque. I believe it was once a church before the Ottomans’ siege.”

“They would have covered up the frescos.” Haluk wagged a finger excitedly. “Ma’am, I think you’re right!”

“Call the imam and see if you can schedule an appointment. Don’t mention anything about uncovering Christian art though. I’d rather request that face-to-face.”

As Haluk picked up the phone, Ece studied the illustration again. She didn’t dare get her hopes up, having suffered red herrings before. Then again, Chora Church was an angle she had never considered. A new approach, bound by red tape thick enough to obstruct her scholarly tail.

With luck, she would find the “djinn” of Istanbul first.

•••

“Ma’am, isn’t it strange to you that the imam could meet us so quickly?” Haluk asked as they walked up the street towards Kariye Mosque. The air was mildly warm that June morning, and the rising sun promised greater temperatures to come.

“Honestly, no.” Ece tucked a strand of hair under her hijab. “After you went home yesterday, I called a connected friend for some useful gossip. It turns out that Imam Gökhan Çoban made the mistake of condemning President Atatürk’s views on Caliph Abdulmejid. Then the Law of Unification of Instruction was passed the very day the caliphate was abolished.”

“A real one-two punch against his career.” Her assistant scratched his scalp. “Will our good imam be replaced soon then?”

“Although the Ministry of National Education is still training replacements, Çoban’s retirement is no doubt forthcoming.”

Haluk stirred uncomfortably, his next question unasked. Ece sympathized. In her satchel was a hefty wad of lira. She prayed such a bribe would not be required, but given the gravity of what they sought, Ece was prepared to get dirty. The need was simply too important.

As they approach the Kariye Mosque, a bearded man in a long tunic and a taqiyah swept the path. He smiled as the pair approached. “Asalamu alaykum.”

“Wa alaykum salaam,” Ece responded. “Do you know where I can find Imam Çoban?”

“You need not look far, child. How may I help you?”

Ece startled. She had imagined a pompous man dressed in finery, leaving such mundane tasks to volunteers while he handled more important issues. Instead, here he was, tending his own mosque and dressed modestly. “My name is Ece Şahin, and this is my assistant, Haluk Duman. We’re here from the Museum of Turkish and Islamic Arts.”

“Ah yes, you called yesterday.” Çoban reached for the door. “Please come in.”

They passed through the outer and inner narthexes, the walls of both plastered to mask the frescoes and mosaics. Rather than guide them into the main chamber, the imam turned left, down the hall before a taking a right. He turned while they walked. “Can I offer you both some coffee?”

“No, thank you,” Ece responded with a smile. “We actually have a delicate matter to discuss.”

“You wish to unveil some of the Christian art?”

She nodded. Given their agency, it was no surprise that Çoban knew. But did that mean he was amenable? Could he want something from them? Or worse, was he thumbing his nose at the new administration before departing? Ece’s heart sank, hoping she wouldn’t be involved in such pettiness.

“I should warn you that earthquakes have taken their toll on the underlying work,” the imam said as he took a left and began to climb the stairs.

“As we cannot permit such images in a mosque,” Haluk quipped, “wouldn’t it be easier to remove them? Cut them out and send them elsewhere?”

The imam laughed as he opened a door at the top, leading to his study. “There are so many, you’d have to build a whole new mosque. And besides the iconoclasts, we have tombs to consider as well.”

“Seems the Christians left quite a mark,” Ece said as she stepped into the small room, taking a seat in front of a desk. Haluk took the one beside her.

The imam said nothing, but his countenance bore troubles at mention of the Christians themselves. Haluk opened his mouth to speak, but Ece put a hand upon his, silencing him. It was not the time for such discussions.

Çoban sighed as he took his seat. “So, do you have an idea of which pieces you want to examine?”

“We’re hoping you could help with that.” Ece drew the crimson journal from her satchel and turned to the image of the shadowy angel. She showed the imam. “The passage suggested this was drawn here. Have you seen a piece like this?”

The imam leaned forward, squinting as he studied the book. “I don’t recognize it. Although I do remember an artist, a Frenchman I believe, who visited perhaps a year ago. We had suffered a tremor the day before and entire chunks of the walls had fallen away, revealing the art. Apparently, the last fellows to work on it had done a poor job, so we had to tear off the plaster and start afresh. The artist politely sought permission to draw while we were on break, so I allowed him an hour.”

Ece closed the journal, scowling at these perplexing details. So, only a year ago, an artist had been in Kariye Mosque and had drawn the hidden images. That didn’t mean these drawings were the work of that very artist, but it was unlikely to have been anyone else. Yet hadn’t Ece scoured over those bookshelves of the university library, trying to find something, anything of value? How could she possibly have missed this small, crimson and title-less book? Unless…

“Do you remember his name, by chance?” Haluk tried. Ece’s eyes went to her assistant, and not just because he was speaking. “Or which particular fresco it was?”

Çoban shook his head.

Ece blinked, letting the thought go, and turned to their host. “May we have permission to unveil some of the artwork?”

The imam rocked back in his chair. “If it were just one piece, I wouldn’t mind. But you don’t know how many it could be, do you?”

It was Ece’s turn to shake her head. “It could take a few days. Perhaps even a week or two.”

“I’m not going to oversee Kariye much longer, and I doubt they’ll be sending me to the Hagia Sophia next.” Çoban smiled sadly. “I would rather not give the Ministry more reason to be cross with me.”

Haluk coughed uncomfortably while Ece sighed. “Imam Çoban, I really doubt you would be arrested or anything, certainly not with the recent court reforms President Atatürk enacted.”

“I know, I know.” He opened his hands earnestly. “Although I don’t agree with Atatürk’s vision for our people, I made rash statements publicly that I shouldn’t have about his decisions. I am trying to show respect for our new and fragile republic and have no wish to do anything that could be misconstrued as spiteful. We’ve been through so much as it is.”

Ece realized he was testing them.

Haluk’s brows dropped, and he leaned forward, preparing to debate.

Ece put a hand on her assistant’s shoulder and drew him back into his seat. Haluk’s features rose in surprise, as she turned her attention to their host.

“We are all Turks in a new country, Imam Çoban, doing our best to serve our people. Despite your circumstances, you still show respect for the Ministry of National Education. Just as we respect our directors at the museum, and those who appointed them as well. Having met you in person, I understand your prudence in the face of uncertain times. And no matter what, we don’t doubt your patriotism.”

The imam settled back again, pursing his lips in thought, and slowly began to nod in acquiescence. “I have two requests. The first is that you replaster the artwork as you go. Only unveil one at a time.”

“Simple enough,” Ece said. “And the second?”

Çoban paused. His hesitation caused a sharp pang in Ece’s chest, and she struggled to calm the dozens of untoward things he could possibly request.

“Is your museum hiring?”

“I…” Flabbergasted, Ece struggled for words. “We do not have any positions, but we regularly seek consultations with religious scholars.”

“But you have your state-sanctioned imams, do you not?”

“We do,” Haluk intruded. Ece almost rounded on him, but her assistant continued. “However, their studies focus on more current teachings. They often lack the historic wisdom that more experienced scholars would provide.”

“Exactly,” Ece said, regaining control of the conversation. “If you find yourself with time, we would appreciate and compensate your services.”

Çoban sighed in relief, his body visibly relaxing. “It’s good to know that even an old man like me can have a place in this new world. You can use our tools and plaster, but you may need to get more later.”

Ece nodded and stood as the imam did the same. As he guided them downstairs, her face flushed warmly from embarrassment. She felt like a fool, having expected Gökhan Çoban to be egotistical or perhaps even corrupt. Instead, she recognized an elderly man seeking purpose for his faith, just as an artist sought meaning for their talents. Different mediums that were no less spiritual, and somehow Ece had failed to fathom such a simple human need.

When had she become so distrustful?

Her cheeks cooled by the time they reached what was once the church’s parekklesion. Çoban wagged a finger at a few canisters and tools in the corner. “I forgot there was one piece that needed replastering. Why not start there?”

“We’ll happily cover it for you,” Haluk said, his tone sincere.

“I would appreciate that. Oh, and please, work quietly. We have prayer within the hour.”

As Çoban sauntered away, Haluk knelt to pick up a claw hammer from the set of tools. “We can do this more quickly if we keep our holes small. But we’d need light to see what’s inside.”

Ece stared at him, her lips drawn into a flat line and her jaw flexed. So far, she had kept her temper in check. Yet Haluk had crossed a line, injecting himself like that into the conversation with the imam. He was her assistant and would do well to remember that.

Whatever face she wore caused Haluk to lean back, hands raised defensively. “Umm, Ms Şahin?”

“We’ll discuss it later. Not in a mosque,” Ece said with a controlled tone and drew a flashlight from her satchel. Her anger could wait. Haluk nodded and took the hammer’s curved edge into the cracked wall nearby. Wedging off a few pieces, a hole was left large enough for her to shine through. Inside was the image of a saintly man in robes standing in front of a dark blue background. His head was encircled by a holy nimbus. Twisting the beam of light, Ece looked around, only to discover more figures wearing different colored robes.

“Any luck?”

Ece sighed. “No. It’s a shame they can’t reveal these. The artwork is much more interesting than drab stucco.”

Haluk groaned and picked up the plaster tin, taking the hammer claw to the lid. “One down, dozens to go…”

•••

The work stretched into the afternoon. Their labor was quick when Haluk could keep the cracks small, covering their fresh holes with just a dab of plaster. Sometimes, however, he took too large a chunk. It cost them time to set sticks in the opening, forming wooden frames to hold the putty.

Ece’s doubts vexed her when they were halfway finished with the hall. The uncovered works had been pieces of piety, beautiful and devout. Nothing like the image within the crimson journal. Every unveiled piece of art left her wondering if they had been led astray.

“We’ll need a ladder to check the ceiling,” Haluk insisted.

Ece shook her head. “No… I think we’re doing this wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re looking for a dark image, not exactly in keeping with Christian… well, anyone’s holy traditions. If it’s here, it wouldn’t be somewhere immediately visible, would it?”

Haluk scratched his chin, leaving a smear of beige putty on his countenance. “You make it sound like graffiti.”

Graffiti… Ece pondered that, surveying not the walls or ceiling, but the floors. The sun came through the parekklesion’s eastern window, creating a shadow in a corner. It was an alcove doorway that led to one of the two small domed chambers. Sooner or later, a priest would have noticed any work on the walls, but there were places where it might not have been seen for a while. At least not immediately…

“Haluk, give me the hammer.” He offered it without question, and Ece walked toward the door and knelt. She resisted the urge to peel back the covered walls, taking only a sliver out and using the flashlight.

Darkness, and not from the shadows.

She removed a larger chunk, her eyes widening. Setting the hammer down, she began to pull entire pieces away with her bare hands. Haluk approached, eyes wide. “Is that? No, but–”

“But close enough,” Ece finished, turning the flashlight’s beam on their discovery.

It was the image of a man, dressed in finery, with his face turned to the right and head bowed in piety. Behind him a woman wept, her head raised to him though he did not notice. As though pleading, trying to pull him away from something. Looming over the man was a dark patch, a blot without definition. Ece stepped back, and realized it was a massive figure, with a pair of magnificent, leathery wings extending from its frame.

Not merely two, but three eyes were embedded in the angel’s forehead.

It was wrong. Ece’s mind flashed through every piece of Byzantine craftmanship she could think of no matter how esoteric and strange. Every demon, every monster and yet she had never seen anything like this. She bit her lip to suppress a mad giggle, almost daring to believe this painting was fake. It wouldn’t be the first time the museum had dealt with forgeries.

“What,” Haluk asked incredulously, “in the Protector’s name is that? Why would a painting like that be in a mosque or… or a church?”

Ece coughed to clear her morbid mirth and stepped closer, shining the light on the edges. The line work was like the other pieces. The strokes and techniques were crafted in haste, but there was no denying their familiarity. Sure enough, she found the large M that started the signature, and her heart sank, her amusement fading. There had never been a work like it, yet there was no denying the authenticity. “That’s to be Mavropoulos’ mark.”

“I don’t understand.” Haluk shook his head, huddling close. “Every other piece by him seemed so divine, so gracious. A worldly man, traveler, trader, and artist… now here he is, desecrating a church too?”

Ece stared into the dark corner, but her mind was elsewhere, dwelling on Haluk’s words. Little by little, a new idea formed, and her eyes widened even as they became so dry. “That’s been our standing theory, yes? We assumed that Mavropoulos was a polymath like da Vinci, ibn Khaldun or Baha al-Din al-Amili, because the name was prolific.”

“We got it wrong?” her assistant asked, as she blinked, her stinging eyes appeased by fresh moisture.

“Sometimes the truth isn’t so complicated.” The melancholy wore heavily on Ece as she studied the details. She shined the light on the man. “Look at him. Beautiful, isn’t he? So detailed, so… painstakingly made. The robes, the facial expressions. This was crafted by the hands of someone who loved their subject.”

“You mean…”

“Yes.” Ece turned the circle of light to the woman. “Look at her. The lack of details, just an idea of who she is. The man is practiced, a subject well known to the artist. But her? No. It’s not bad, but it’s a simple abstract. Incomplete, not fleshed out. Mavropoulos invested in every piece of work, except this one. Because I don’t think she ever did a self-portrait.”

“She?” Haluk’s voice rose a few octaves.

“As you said, he was a merchant, traveling often. When would he have had time and calm to develop these skills? On a horse drawn cart? On the seas? No, he couldn’t have, but his dutiful and homebound wife would. So committed to her husband, she’d even sign with their shared surname.”

Haluk was stunned into silence. Ece leaned towards the image of the woman, noting the ruinous streaks in the paint. Could the artist’s very tears have found their way into her work?

“Then-then why would the church let her do this?” Haluk stammered. “Was Chora a pagan church or something?”

“A good question,” she admitted, looking around for more details. The light fell on what could have been letters, and she tore away a little more plaster, finding shaky Greek writing that somehow survived the ages. “Look, here. I believe these read… ‘The invaders come. Our city has fallen. There is no time left. My sin was in letting my love be taken by the black angel. Lost in a dark faith I could not share. May God forgive us.’”

Haluk took a deep breath and released a shuddering sigh. “A last-minute confession.”

“Trying to save the soul of her husband.”

“But why is this black angel so significant?”

Because it wasn’t an angel. Ece swallowed and put a hand against the doorjamb to keep from swaying. Her skin chilled and her stomach threatened her with nausea. Everything until now had been a mere guess based on recorded rantings and inconclusive, psychological analysis of ancient mosaics. This was new. More damning than anything since the Coterie let her imbue her hijab with the vermillion gift.

“Are you all right?” Haluk asked.

“Yes,” she snapped a little too quickly and stood up, forcing the fear back. She couldn’t let on, not now. Every step of their investigation brought her assistant closer to being initiated with the truth, a truth he could not be ready for. “We can’t dally. We need to take pictures of this and cover it quickly. If Çoban sees this, he may decide to have it removed.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dutifully her assistant drew a No 1A Auto­graphic Kodak Junior from his bag and began snapping photos. Ece helped by holding up her light, then illuminating from the side rather than directly. “I don’t have much roll left.”

“Use the rest. I’d rather not need to return.”

A few snaps later and the camera was spent. After folding the lens bellow back inside the film container, Haluk reached for the putty and tsked. “We’re out.”

“Get some more. I’ll take a few quick notes, then ready the plaster frame.”

“I’ll be back soon,” Haluk said, almost running out.

Alone, Ece pulled a notebook from her satchel and a pencil. She had to pinch the flashlight between her cheek and neck as she jotted down the words exactly as they were written. Her Greek was decent, but it wouldn’t hurt to have another set of eyes transla–

“Poor selfless wretch.”

Ece spun, the flashlight clattering against the floor. Quickly she looked both ways, trying to find the source of the speaker. She saw no one. “Who’s there? Who is speaking? Please…”

“All that talent, wasted…” It was a man’s voice, his accent English. Ece couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to come from the walls. “Trapped in a prison of love. Do you worry, Ms Şahin, that it could someday be the same for you?”

“Who are you?” Somehow, she kept from trembling, and narrowed her eyes as she studied the alcove across from her, one of the tombs.

“Oh, I’m not that interesting…” he feigned meekness. “Just a man who lives in interesting times. Interesting if a little repetitive.”

“Repetitive?” Ece asked. She focused on a dark hole in the wall that she hadn’t noticed before.

“Of course, as history is wont to be. Take a good look at her.”

Ece remained still.

“Go on. I won’t bite.” He chuckled. “Not today.”

She gave in, facing the painting. At the kneeling Mavropoulos, at her tears.

“The women of the Byzantine had little power over their lives. They married, birthed, and raised children. Spun, cooked, washed clothes. Masters of home and hospitality but little else. Do you know what Mavropoulos was truly guilty of? Just what her sin was?”

Ece glanced back to the tomb’s hole. Straining her eyes, she thought she spotted a light inside. The man in the wall continued.

“She was free, woman. Unlike thousands of others, she was free to be an artist. A creator. Still, she spent her last days begging God to spare her husband’s soul. Wasting all that time she could have spent seeking prestige to call her own. Tell me, where was her Magnum Opus, Şahin? Where was the great work that would have made her a truly celebrated name in your field?”

“What are you getting at?” Ece snarled, anger dawning over her fear. She knew the speaker’s words were designed to inflame, to incite her. A skilled orator, this one, especially given how much of what he said was historically true.

“Do you really think tomorrow will be brighter, child?” The voice dripped with acid, and the light in the hole grew closer. “Do you really think the master of this country will share meaningful power with his subjects? Let them just… do as they will? He waged a war to drive the Greeks out. He took away your sultanate and banished the caliph. Then he threw out the courts and judges, the cornerstone of the law. Now he preaches for a modern republic but, well, who are we kidding?”

A glowing glyph appeared in the black hole. Ece squinted, realizing it was a painted eye, turned vertical.

“Do you really think Atatürk intends to share power with everyone? And after all this time, all these traditions, why would he grant it freely to women? At this very moment, he and his lackeys dally on choosing a new civil code. I suspect he’d rather the law not constrict his power too badly…”

The voice was closer than ever, almost echoing in the parekklesion. The cold sensation spread over Ece’s skin again. Yet she found the strength to reach for the flashlight, holding it like a club.

“There is only one sin, Ece Şahin,” his voice eased into a welcoming tone. “And it is in not using the power and gifts we possess to seek greatness in our chosen mediums. To aspire to more.”

“That’s not true…” Ece said, barely louder than her breathing. “Men who think that way are wolves who prey on others.”

“You too are sinning. Even now, you squander the boon you wear upon your head.”

Her eyes shot wide. She defensively grabbed her hijab. How could he know?

“Oh, I know you, Şahin. I know of the other circles you travel, your brutal and untrusted ‘colleagues’ of the Coterie. They know these lessons well, and I applaud them for applying themselves as they do. Meanwhile, you prove a slow learner despite your scholarly disposition, obstinately standing apart from their vision. From a very simple truth. History will repeat itself, but only if you let it.”

The light of the glyph began to fade into the shadows. “Use it. Use your power while you can. Seize what you can. Claim what is yours. Because if you do not, then tomorrow you will walk the path of another powerful man’s shattered promises… the oldest pavers on history’s road.”

The hole was black with darkness again. Ece waited, unsure if she was alone, but his voice did not return. Scared as she was, she couldn’t keep his words out of her psyche, deeply buried splinters that needled at hope. Her fingers curled into fists, her nails biting into her palm. What upset her most was how right the voice was. She had made a career of studying art and history, the former a haven for the creative and new. Yet the latter was an old wheel that turned, leaving the same tracks in the dust. How long would it be before Atatürk bent to the conservative views of the day? How long until the Coterie’s cruelest members grew tired of their agency’s shadow games?

“Ma’am? Are you all right?”

She spun, eyes wide. It was Haluk, freshly returned with a can of plaster.

“Ece?” he tried again.

“Yes,” she managed, blinking. “Yes, I’m sorry. I got caught up… taking notes. Let’s patch this up and go home.”

•••

Ece fidgeted as she walked back with Haluk, studying every passerby for any hint of suspicious behavior. Was that man in the shop gazing at her a little too long? Had that sweeping woman averted her eyes to avoid Ece’s? They even passed a blue-clad policeman, nonchalant about those around him. His complacency angered Ece, until she wondered if the lawman was too comfortable. Could the speaker’s people have infiltrated the police as well?

“Ece? Are you listening?”

“What?” she snapped irritably. What was he babbling on about now?

“I asked if we should unseal other frescos. You seemed awfully quick to call it a day.”

“We know who we should be researching now,” Ece said, glancing over her shoulder again. No one followed them down the city streets, yet she held the back of her arm, protecting her chest. “We can always return later.”

“But who knows how long Çoban will be in charge. I admit he’s more reasonable than I thought, but President Atatürk is right to replace him.”

Atatürk, Atatürk, Atatürk. Ece scowled bitterly. Why was the president all people prattled on about lately? A man reading a newspaper caught her attention, the frontpage reading “Commission Still Considering Civil Code Options”, followed by the subtitle, “Scholars Unsure How Long Process Could Take”.

Of course. Why would those above freely grant anyone power? How long would it be before Atatürk broke his word and settled, just to keep the new country unified and himself in power? She was a student of history, so how could she have let herself be fooled by him?

“Do you always pin your hopes on others?” Ece demanded of her assistant. “The president? The Grand National Assembly? Me?”

“What?” Haluk’s brow rose.

“You’re always waiting for someone else to elicit change or improve the world, fawning over those in power. It’s exhausting.” Honesty flowed from her lips like water from a jug, frustrations Ece did not realize were bottled up until then. She was tired of weak people yearning for heroes instead of saving themselves.

“How could you say that?” her assistant scoffed. “There are brilliant men at work, men daring enough to try new things for us and for the Islamic world! We are moving swiftly and improving even now.”

Ece cursed, wondering how she could have been so blind. Whether it was the Grand National Assembly or the Coterie, the story was always the same. History’s ceaseless pattern of the champions du jour becoming corrupt, accepting responsibility before twisting it for their own ends.

“Do you really think Atatürk intends to share power with everyone?”

Ece froze. For a moment, she almost looked about for the voice again. Except the familiar words had come from her own mouth.

“I do,” Haluk asserted defiantly, stopping to look her in the eye. “Turkey is an early draft of the work to come. As art historians, it’s difficult for us to judge until the labor is finished, until it is in the past. How often are we asked to wait for something new?”

Ece’s jugular throbbed, her vision turning red. Haluk’s intrusive statements during the meeting at the mosque flashed before her eyes, enlivening embers that might have otherwise gone out. “Oh really? So you know better than me now?”

Haluk began to shrink before her fury. “Ms Şahin, I didn’t mean to–”

“Didn’t mean to what? Didn’t mean to interrupt my discussion with Imam Çoban? Didn’t mean to suggest I don’t know current events? Didn’t mean to think you knew better than me?”

Haluk’s eyes were huge, his lips twitching worthlessly.

“Enough, child!” Ece reached into her satchel and peeled a few bills from the wad of lira. She held them out, arm trembling from her fury. “Go to the Grand Bazaar. Browse the used bookstores and see if you can find something about Mavropoulos. Antique trade journals, charts, maps, I don’t care. Make yourself useful and bring back words by people who knew what they were talking about.”

His quivering fingers took the lira and he turned to leave with his head bowed low. Ece’s anger silenced her instinct to apologize. Instead, she stormed off, without wondering why pedestrians were gawking at her.

•••

Her choler endured, even after a few hours of research in her office. It only ended when she accidentally ripped a page and felt a pang of remorse for the damage. Both the physical and emotional kind. Yes, Haluk could be a know-it-all. He didn’t act that way around her often, but with others he sometimes transformed into an academic giving a lecture. Still he was knowledgeable and helpful and respectful. A good student and good assistant.

Ece shut her eyes to pull back a remorseful tear as she settled into her chair. She had let the voice of the “aspiring” one get to her. She had even repeated his very question at Haluk. Word for word.

It was not the first time Ece had encountered a cult. A rival society, calling themselves the “Readers of the Elder Word”, had once tried to recruit her. Charmed, Ece had considered switching allegiances until they proved overly persistent. Eventually, she spoke of their attempts to the Claret Knight, the Coterie’s representative. He told her the matter would be dealt with.

And Ece learned how brutal the Coterie could truly be.

The last she saw of the Readers was when one of their members came to her office. Mercifully, Haluk had not been there, for the sight of the bandaged and bruised man would have been impossible to explain. The Reader had apologized profusely, swearing that he and his colleagues would never disturb her again.

Departing, he had donned his hat with a hand of only three fingers, where last there had been five.

Ece shuddered at the memory yet reflected on how the Readers had almost wooed her. Many cults used such manipulative orators, and no one was completely immune. Even intelligent, rational people such as attorneys, scientists or scholars were fallible. All it took was gentle nibbling at fears, anxieties, and doubts until their victims started asking questions. Questions that guided brilliant minds down the roads of knowledge. Solving puzzles that opened doors that should have remained shut. Mistaking “truth” for knowledge, and “knowledge” for truth.

Just as Beardsley must have. Ece gazed at the artist’s work again. This time she relaxed her sight, and the “eyes” in the background of The Climax began to dance. The follicles and lines of J’ai baisé ta bouche Iokanaan began to quiver and shake with excitement.

Ece shut her eyes until the stinging went away, and sighed. It was late. Haluk would show up in the morning and she would apologize then. As she reached to turn off her lamp, the phone suddenly rang.

Reluctantly, she answered. “Hello?”

“Ece?” The voice was high, laced with panic. “It’s me! I need help!”

“Haluk, what’s wrong?” she stood, her skin cold.

“Some men are stalking me. I bought some books like you asked and they followed me from the store. I ran into a coffee shop to see if they’d go away. But they’re still out there and the shop is closing soon!”

“Which coffee house? Did you call the police?” Ece fetched her notepad.

“Twice! At first, they laughed and said it wasn’t their job to escort me home. Then they insisted they were too busy.”

“Where are you?”

“Old Pasha’s Café. The one that we–”

“I know it. Stay put, Haluk, I’m coming.” She hung up. Swallowing, she reached for the bottom drawer and opened it. There, a sheathed khanjar knife rested atop some books. It was nothing elegant, just a simple weapon with few details. Ece picked it up and slipped it into her satchel, then killed the lamp before running out the door.

•••

Ece clutched the dagger inside her satchel as she neared the café. She did not rush inside, taking a moment to survey the surroundings. There were only a few lingering shoppers. Most of the hallway’s stalls and stores were closed or closing. No one noticed or cared about the aging coffee shop.

Still, her pulse was up, and the hairs of her arms raised on end. She could feel eyes on her, and the sensation kept her vigilant.

After some hesitation, she opened the door to a small room with a handful of tables. An exasperated huff came from the host. “Ma’am, I am sorry, but we are closing.”

“Ece!” Haluk stood from his seat, rushing over.

“This is the person you were waiting on?” the host asked.

“Y-yes.” Haluk blushed and offered the man some lira. “Thank you for letting me stay here.”

The host kindly waved away the payment. When he spoke, his voice was softer. “Be safe out there, you two.”

To the café host’s credit, he watched as Ece and Haluk slipped out. The pair headed down the arched hallways of the Grand Bazaar and looked back before their next turn. The host waved them luck, and only then shut the door.

“That was kind of him,” Ece said as they walked with haste.

“And brave. One of my stalkers tried to enter, and he sent them away. A good man but I couldn’t ask him to fight my battles for me,” Haluk bemoaned. “Why is this happening, Ms Şahin? What do these people want?”

“Because…” she drew a sharp breath. There was no more room for lies, but the entire truth was also too much. “Haluk, this is happening because I accidentally pulled you into my battles.”

“What?”

They paused before the next turn to peek around the corner. The hallways were filled with cloaked carts. The colorful mosaics and tiles gradually turned grayscale as a boy turned off lanterns one by one to save fuel.

How should she explain this? Ece chewed her lip ragged, until she noticed the art store where she had procured her copies of Aubrey Beardsley’s work. She realized she had to start small, with what he could understand, and work up to the truth.

“Haluk, do you remember when I got those Art Nouveau pieces?”

“The Climax? That was uncharacteristic of you, yes.” He shook his head, scowling. “What does tha–”

“It reminds me of the awful things I’m fighting,” she turned to him, her voice a heated whisper. “Do you know how Beardsley died?”

“No…”

After checking behind them, she took her assistant’s arm and led him down the hall. “He was only twenty-five. Tuberculous, they say. A skilled artist who started a new movement. Yet in his last days he converted to Catholicism, and begged his publisher to destroy his art.”

“Why?” Haluk asked with a countenance of worry. “Because of the debauchery in his work?”

“The debauchery in his art and his life was an effect, Haluk. He didn’t understand until the end, but he was subconsciously drawing the cause as well. It’s there in his art, in the details that aren’t human.”

“I don’t understand,” her assistant said. The two grew quiet as they walked by another corner. A man walked towards them, though elderly and bearing a cane. He paid them no mind as they carried on.

“Art is the gateway to truth. And the truth is that not all history was written by human hands.”

“As taught by the Quran, yes…” Haluk said before they stopped. The rest of the hall before them was unusually black. A cold sensation ran up Ece’s spine, and she turned away, towards another path that still had some distant lights.

“Then you understand the impact of the All Compassionate, and His angels loyal or fallen. The djinn, peri and divs. All of this is maktub, it is written.” Ece swallowed. This moment was the crucible upon which everything depended. “But there are also the unwritten ones.”

Haluk’s sudden stop jerked Ece around. Releasing his arm, Ece instinctively corrected her hijab as her assistant stammered. “W-what do you mean ‘unwritten ones?’”

“I can show you more later, Haluk. What matters right now is that there are those that believe in them. Believe enough to pursue you and I, to trail my wor–”

Sturdy footsteps echoed from the halls behind them.

Ece snapped around. Two figures approached, figures wearing long black cloaks, with faces masked by the shadows of their hoods. Their billowing, oversized sleeves ended with the tips of daggers.

“Ece?” Haluk’s voice was high with fear.

“Run!”

They bolted. Behind, Ece heard the rustle of thick garments and the thump of boots upon tiled floors. She snatched the khanjar from her satchel as she moved, but prayed they could elude their pursuers. She doubted these were the only two.

She turned left, Haluk staying with her. Neither of them was in peak form, but terror gave the pair enough steam to keep sprinting. To her surprise, Haluk veered to the right and grabbed a cart, ripping it towards him. The tarp gave way as beautiful, colorful dishes crashed, unleashing sonorous thunder throughout the marketplace.

“Help!” Haluk screamed desperately as he took off running again. “Police! Help!”

“Help! Anyone!” Ece joined in as they fled. She looked over her shoulder, watching worriedly as the cultists vaulted over the crashed cart. Still in pursuit, despite the alarm the pair gave.

They pushed harder. Into the darkened and deserted halls. Where was everyone? Surely there must have been a few shopkeepers still amid their closings. Or a custodian to sweep the floors. Then Ece spotted a man, his face frozen with terror, watching from a door.

She moved to speak, to plead for aid.

He slammed the door shut, the thunk of the bolt punctuating his answer.

There was no time to dwell on it. With the cultists hot on their heels, they pressed on through the hall. Turned left. Then right. Ece grabbed Haluk’s arm to keep them together. Where were the police? Security? There! Ahead lay the exit. Surely someone outside would help.

Haluk dashed ahead, reaching his arms out. Stiffly he slammed the door open, leading them into the safety of the night.

He stopped bodily. Hunched over. A shape was before him.

“Haluk!” Ece screamed, almost dropping her khanjar. She got there in time to catch her assistant falling backward, his weight bowling her over. A pool of crimson expanded from his white shirt. Panicking, Ece crawled away from the door, pulling him towards a wall with one arm.

The shape stepped inside the Bazaar. It was another cloaked figure, blood dripping from a held blade. The other two pursuers paused some distance away, content to allow their accomplice to finish the job.

“If only you had listened to me,” the familiar, English voice of the Aspirant came from the hood of Haluk’s murderer. “He might have even seen another dawn.”

“Haluk,” Ece tried, her throat painfully constricting. She held a hand on his chest, trying futilely to stem the flow. She wanted to use two hands, but didn’t dare relinquish the khanjar.

“If you had just used your gift, you could have avoided this. You knew we would come for you eventually.”

Ece snarled at him, holding her blade up. Before the Aspirant could advance, the sound of whistles and running could be heard outside. The police at last.

The Aspirant’s brow began to glow. The glyph of the vertical eye appeared, pulsing with its terrible light, growing brighter and brighter. It cast everything around Ece into the pitch.

“The Haunter watches you, Ece Şahin. Its next lesson will not be so merciful…”

The light of the glyph faded, and the world appeared from the black again. The Aspirant was gone. Ece looked to her left. The other cultists had disappeared as well. She was alone with only Haluk. The khanjar clattered on the floor as Ece put both hands against her assistant’s wound, his chest growing cold.

“Ms Şahin,” Haluk whispered, his eyes fluttering closed. “I’m sorry… about what I sa…”

He was gone.

•••

The police had questions and doubts. After all, her hands were still covered in Haluk’s blood, making her arrest almost a certainty. Then the café host was found and spoke on their behalf, as did the shopkeeper who had shut the door in her face. Hat in hand, he apologized to her for not doing more, for being cowardly.

“You call yourself a man?” The police chastised him. “A woman comes to you, terrified and in need of help, and you slam the door in her face?”

Ece bit her tongue at first, until it was too much. “Haluk called you.”

“Pardon?” The policeman turned, alarmed.

“My assistant. He called the station. Twice. Asking for help. But you called him a coward yourselves or were too busy.”

She shook from anger but said nothing more. The policeman coughed and looked to his superior officer, who bowed his head. “Ma’am, I will speak to our operators personally and ensure that such behavior never happens again. Rest assured, we will see these muggers brought to justice.”

Muggers. The lie was bitter, but it was the best she could come up with. Against the nature of the evil she fought, justice could not be served by the law.

“Sir?” A policeman approached. “We found boot prints.”

The officer pointed to Ece’s feet. “Like hers? Or the victims?”

The policeman took one glance at Ece’s flats and the shoes protruding from the white sheet over the body, before shaking his head.

“Coming,” the officer said, before looking back at her. “One of my men will escort you home.”

She knew they could not truly protect her, but Ece did not object. It would not serve to utter such thoughts aloud.

•••

Weeks passed. The police had little evidence, no names, and no leads. With the headlines occupied by politics, there was little pressure on them to pursue the murderer of one Haluk Duman. Ece hated it, but it was for the best. Otherwise, they would poke and prod. They might even ask about Mavropoulos and the black angel.

They would ponder motives best left in the dark, answers that came with the cost of blood, and worse…

Ece went through the motions. She kept her distance during Haluk’s funeral, and mercifully his parents left her be. The rest of the time was spent in a cycle of going to her office, pretending to work, eating little, and sleeping when she could. Even the arrival of Tuwile’s parcel, and the return of the camera and books the police had confiscated from Haluk’s body, did not shake her from this shadow of a life.

It was all her fault. He’d be alive if she’d either kept him out of this, or perhaps told him sooner. At least then he could have prepared better.

She had taken that lesson to heart. The police never returned her khanjar, so she bought another, and always kept it at her side. Ece told herself it was for protection, but there were days she stared at it just a little too long… pondering for whom she truly intended the blade.

Until that day in August 1924. She was walking to the office when her eyes fell upon a few agitated people, gathered about a newspaper cart. A boy was holding the paper up, shouting to the gathered men, “Read it here! Ministry of Education gives girls permission to enroll in boy’s high school in Tekirdağ! Says coeducation in primary schools to be new norm!”

Eyes wide, Ece pushed her way past a few of the men. “I’ll take a copy, please!”

She dug into her satchel and handed him a bill worth more than twice the price, not even waiting for her change before wandering away. Ece leaned against a street wall, her eyes poring over the articles from beginning to end. Her heart skipped a beat as she read points made by the Republican People’s Party that this “was another step in the many changes to come”.

“Maybe you were right, Haluk.” A tear caught in Ece’s eye, and she wiped it away. In all the studies Ece had read, coeducation was touted as a small but important step towards gender equality. It was by no means a guarantee of equality. But maybe, just maybe, it was the start of something after all…

“And maybe even people in power can be trusted,” Ece dared to muse aloud.

What good would that do when tomorrow it will all be wiped out? She heard the thought in the voice of the Aspirant. History itself is just a blink of the stars…

Yet the voice failed. Ece’s despair was gone. All that was left was more important, a steely resolve that straightened her back and squared her shoulders. She folded the newspaper neatly.

“I’ll never again involve those who haven’t dealt with the dark before,” she swore to herself as she started walking towards her office. Still, she knew she couldn’t fight the cultists by herself, nor could she trust the Coterie.

Perhaps the time had come to ask for outside help…