@meleksvltan */ 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓.
Albeit it was Mihrimah Sultan who drew ample comparisons to the Valide, it was Melek who most closely resembled their grandmother in astuteness. Or, at least, this is the belief Dilşah had privately nursed in observing those nearest to Iskender. One would be hard pressed to find the sharpness and acuity of their minds elsewhere, much less among the women of the harem –– as materialistic and vindictive as the Sultan’s inner circle proved to be. From the corner of her eye, Dilşah observed the Sultana musing, sitting quietly beside her in the lively sewing circle, seldom sharing in the gossip that was pervasive amongst their guests. Melek, like herself, was not shy; but neither was she particularly forthcoming. In her own reverie, Dilşah lost track of the needle weaving through scarlet cloth and with a stifled gasp, glanced down at the tiny pool of blood bubbling where the metallic tool had perforated her skin. She drew her fingertip into her mouth, suckling away the pearl of blood, and called to an attendant.
“Ayşe, fetch a bandage for me, and another dish of tea for the Sultana.” As her requested lifted from the bourne of her mouth, Dilşah’s gaze strayed to Melek once more. “I have known you far too long to turn a blind eye to your homesickness. What is it about Lisbon that troubles you so?” As she peered at the Sultana, catching a glimpse of the ghastly scar marring the side of her face, her heart nearly gave way to pity; though pity she knew to be a futile sentiment. “We are commanded to keep our enemies closer than our friends, are we not?”