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several daughters. Murad had no children. His women were, by his choice, incapable of childbearing. Theyoungest son of Orkhan knew that his father’s choice for successor was Suleiman.
    Though Murad loved his older brother, he intended to fight him for the empire when their father died. But there was always the chance that he might lose—and that would mean not only his own death but the deaths of all his family. So Murad chose not to have children until he was sultan and his sons could be born into relative safety.
    Mere chance had brought him past the Convent of St. Catherine that afternoon. He had been visiting a charming and delightful widow who lived in a nearby neighborhood. He had passed the convent just in time to catch Adora. He chuckled. What a minx! She had wanted peaches, and she had gone after what she wanted. What a worthy wife she would be for some man. He stopped, a smile lighting his face. Muslim law decreed that a man might take any of his dead father‘s wives for his own, provided there was no incest committed. How much longer could Orkhan live?
    The girl was safe—and unlikely to be called upon to serve her royal lord. Theadora Cantacuzene had been forgotten. And it was better that way, thought Murad grimly, for rumors had been circulating in the last few years about the sexual depravities practiced by his father in efforts to retain his potency.
    Murad wondered if she would come the following night. She had scolded him for kissing her that first time. But she had yielded the second time, and he had felt the turmoil that swept over her before she fled.
    The next day seemed to drag for Theadora. As it was midsummer the convent’s school was closed, and the daughters of Bursa’s wealthy Christians had repaired to their seaside villas with their families. No one thought to invite the emperor’s daughter to spend her holidays with them. Those sympathetic to her hesitated because of her position. The others considered her déclassé because of her marriage, though they would never have dared to voice such thoughts publicly. SoTheodora was forced by circumstances to be alone at the very time in her young life when she needed a friend.
    Sharp of mind, she read and studied everything she could. Still Theadora grew restless with a longing she could neither name, nor understand. There was no one in whom she might confide. She was alone, as she had always been. Her classmates were polite, but she was never with them long enough to be able to form any real friendships. Her servants were palace slaves, and they were changed thrice yearly since serving the sultan’s child wife in her convent was considered dull duty. Consequently the sultan’s wife was more innocent of the world and of men than any other girl her age. She was eager for adventure.
    As the hot afternoon drew to a close, Theadora attended vespers in the convent church. Returning to her house she ate sparingly of capon, a salad of new lettuces from the convent’s kitchen garden, and the last of her stolen peaches. She drank of a delicate white wine from Cyprus.
    Aided by her slaves she bathed in lightly scented warm water, which eased the heat. Then a short, white silk shift was slipped over her dark hair, which was unbound and brushed.
    She waited for those few moments between sunset and dusk when she might slip unobserved into the peach orchard. She now possessed a key, having boldly asked the reverend mother for one and, to her surprised delight, received it.
    “I am restless with the heat,” she told the nun. “If the orchards are open to me, I will have more space to roam in. May I eat the peaches?”
    “Of course, child! What is ours is also Your Royal Highness’s.”
    The convent was now quiet. The residential neighborhood about it was quiet too. Only the little twilight creatures, cheeping and chirping, broke the purple stillness. Theadora rose and drew a dark-colored, lightweight cloak about her nightshift. She left her ground floor