Mihrimah throws her head back with complete and utter joy, beneath the façade of safety and comfort, she does not wear her veil, and instead sways to share tales, jokes and romantic stories with her friends (girls, cariyes who escorted her to Paris from the Ottoman Empire). She had lost herself when one decided to spin a tale of a lover long gone, of an unfortunate incident involving a cat and the intimate moment between two naked souls. Mihrimah, drowning in hilarity, rolled amongst the satin cushion covers - and the netting that kept the girls from the outside world, safe and hidden between the French Palais’ walls. It was only when the noise from her ladies’ lips finally stopped did Mihrimah turn to face the opened doorway. Separated by the sheer material, Mihrimah gasped, and covered her mouth - meeting the eye of a man she did not recognise. For a moment, all of time stands still, but then her girls jump into action - springing between her gaze and his, to separate the man from looking upon Mihrimah’s uncovered, chaste beauty. Without word, the girls stood - defiant and strong, leaving Mihrimah to clear her mouth - manoeuvring herself to look upon the man through the gaps of her girls, spying on him, as if she were doing something simply more scandalous; as if she was peeking on him undressing, or already without garment. “You cannot come in, you must go!” One shouts in Ottoman-Turkish, speaking for the Sultana, who shields herself behind various legs and drapings of silk. “This room belongs to the Sultana!”