The Lady Rogue

1

November 24, 1937—Istanbul, Turkey

I STOOD IN STOCKINGED FEET WITH my hands up in the air, like Napoléon surrendering after the Battle of Waterloo. Outside the narrow stockroom—the scene of my current humiliation—the bustle of afternoon shoppers in Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar echoed down arched stone corridors perfumed with wisps of fragrant smoke and spices. A crowd was gathering near the jewelry stall. One would think they’d never seen an American girl strip-searched by the merchant’s wife.

Better to be remembered than forgotten, I supposed.

If you’d asked me two weeks ago how I imagined I’d be spending my time in Istanbul, being arrested for shoplifting wouldn’t have been at the top of the list. Yet here I was, accused of stealing a gold ring and close to having a stroke at the tender age of seventeen. A crying shame. I had so much to give this world.

The dark-haired woman kneeling in front of me didn’t care about my impending death in a Turkish prison. She was too busy aggressively patting down every inch of my body, from the neck of my striped top to the hem of my black gored skirt, with the gusto of an angry lover. She’d already looked inside my shoes, emptied my handbag, manhandled my prized Leica camera inside my camera case, and turned out the pockets of my coat.

I think you missed a spot, I joked when she brusquely lifted my calf to inspect the bottom of my foot while I hopped on one leg.

Unsatisfied, the merchant’s wife sighed and stood up, giving me another critical once-over as she wiped her hands on the long folds of her billowing red dress. Her eyes fell on the silver charm that hung around my neck: a nearly fifteen-hundred-year-old coin stamped on one side with a crowned, haloed woman: Byzantine Empress Theodora. Daughter of a bear trainer. Renegade. Prostitute. Spy. Queen. Heretic. Saint. All-around-fascinating female. The coin came from a hoard my parents discovered near the Black Sea on the day my mother found out she was pregnant with me, hence the namesake . . . maybe one I subconsciously tried to live up to. It’s good to have goals.

Not on your life! I said, covering the coin with my hand. I told you already, my late mother gave me this. You’ll have to kill me to get it. And I mean that quite seriously.

The merchant’s wife rolled her eyes at me but lost interest in my coin charm. Hopefully now that she’d found nothing in her humiliating pat-down of my entire body, she also understood that I was not the pickpocket she’d thought I was.

"Bulmaca yüzük? she said for millionth time, which I believed meant harem ring or wedding ring." It was a Turkish novelty ring made of interconnected bands, and the story behind it was that if the wife took it off to have a tryst, she wouldn’t be able to reassemble the bands and would be caught by her husband. A flawed concept, if you asked me. One, it assumed the wife couldn’t reassemble the puzzle rings, and two, she needn’t even take the ring off to bed a lover in the first place. Why does the entire world think the female species possesses brains made of cotton candy?

Insulting is what it was. Much like this farcical strip search . . .

Like I told you a hundred times, I’m not a thief, I said. She muttered something under her breath that I couldn’t interpret and exited the tiny stockroom, slamming the door shut behind her. A loud clicking noise caused my pulse to rocket.

I jiggled the locked handle vigorously and pounded on the door. "Hey! You can’t lock me in here. I’ve never stolen anything in my life. I was only taking a photograph. You do realize what you’re doing to me now is kidnapping, right? Can someone please call my hotel, as I requested? The woman I’m traveling with—my tutor, Madame Leroux—she speaks Turkish. Is anyone listening? Hello . . . ?"

In frustration, I kicked the door and stubbed my big toe, shouting an unladylike expletive, which briefly halted the muffled squabbling on the other side of the door.

Good profanity is never lost in translation.

But, sadly, it wasn’t getting me out of this stockroom. I quickly slipped my black Mary Janes onto my feet and buckled the thin straps, miserably wishing I’d taken the time to learn more Turkish before this trip. If I had, then I wouldn’t have needed stupid Madame Leroux and could have fully understood what was being said outside. Had they summoned the market’s guards? Or were they going straight to the police? I told them the hotel staff would vouch for me. Hopefully? The concierge wasn’t overly fond of me. Neither was my tutor, frankly. The more I thought about it, the more I worried that there was no one in Istanbul who’d stand up for me. . . .

Things hadn’t always been this miserable. My first week in Istanbul was delightful: palm trees, the Hagia Sophia, the blue water of the Golden Horn. Minarets for days. Endless kepaps and strong Turkish coffee. I’d been having such a good time, I’d almost forgiven my father for leaving me behind with a hired tutor—for your safety, his standard tired excuse—while he trekked across Turkey hunting treasure. But as often happened on our trips, things rapidly deteriorated. . . .

First of all, Father was supposed to return from Tokat and collect me three days ago; we were to head to Paris together to see a friend of the family. Not only had Father failed to arrive, but he hadn’t telegrammed to say why he was delayed. And while I worried myself to death, waiting to hear from him, I managed to get food poisoning. Then the rains came—apparently there’s a rainy season here. Who knew. And now, when I was only trying to make the best of things, when I dared escape my stick-in-the-mud tutor and the hotel room in which I’d been cooped up for days, I ended up . . . well, in these dire straits.

I glanced around the tiny stockroom. Too tiny. My breaths quickened.

Steel spine, chin high, I whispered to myself, a mantra my mother would repeat to fortify and hearten me when I was upset. If she were here—Elena Vaduva, a woman who’d never been afraid of anything—she wouldn’t be panicking. I lifted the ancient coin around my neck that she’d given me and kissed it for good luck. Then I strapped my brown leather camera case across my body and swept my scattered possessions back into my handbag.

As I slipped into my coat, something changed in the chatter outside. I stilled and listened. After a few moments the lock clicked and the stockroom door flew open. My hired tutor blinked at me in the doorway.

Thank the gods, I said, sagging in relief. The merchants must have telephoned my hotel after all.

Foolish girl! Madame Leroux scolded in French. Elegant hands trembled beneath the cuffs of her traveling coat. Her pin-straight blond hair was in disarray below her hat, as if she’d rushed here after being woken from a nap. What did you do this time?

Nothing! I was only taking a photograph. I swear. The jewelry market is rumored to be haunted just around the corner of this stall, and there are some strange symbols painted on the wall—

Miss Theodora Fox, she said, voice thick with disappointment.

I just wanted to photograph it, you know, so that I could study the symbols, and the next thing I knew, I was being accused of stealing a golden harem ring, which is ridiculous, of course, because I don’t have a harem.

She didn’t find this amusing. "And you broke a lamp?"

Barely a crack, and that was an accident, I argued. I was trying to get a good shot of the wall—that’s where people say they’ve seen jinn. Or ghosts. Either way, it’s supposed to be haunted, and I was only trying to photograph it to see if anything interesting would show up on film.

Madame Leroux squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

Look, I know you don’t believe in magic or anything supernatural, but I do— I began to say, but she cut me off with the sharp flick of a hand that motioned for silence.

They found the ring under one of the display cases, she said coolly.

Relief surged through my limbs. Really?

Apparently, you knocked it to the floor when you were pretending to be a bull in a china shop, so they’ve agreed to let you go if we pay for the broken lamp.

That was it? After being treated like a common criminal?

No matter. I’d been proven innocent.

Come, she commanded. Before you embarrass yourself any further.

Not possible.

Feeling a thousand pounds lighter, I rushed to follow my tutor out of the horrible stockroom, through the cramped jewelry stall, and past the crowd of gawkers who’d gathered in the market corridor with uniformed guards. Madame Leroux said something in halting Turkish to the merchant couple and handed them a signed traveler’s check from the booklet that my father had left in her charge. Satisfied, the merchants accepted the payment and made a shooing gesture in my direction.

Glorious, sweet freedom!

I let out a long breath as the guards dispersed the crowd. Nothing to see here. The humiliation of a teenage girl was now complete; thank you for coming. In mere seconds it was as if nothing had ever happened.

Whew! What a day! I said to my tutor. She didn’t answer or acknowledge me. She merely marched away from the glinting gold of the jewelry section of the market. I trotted to keep up, and we merged into the fringes of pedestrians strolling under vaulted ceilings. On either side of us, merchants bargained with locals and tourists alike, selling stacks of patterned cloth, rugs, food, spices, and copperware—just about anything you could want. Unless you were a girl with a camera, apparently.

I tried a second time to break Madame Leroux’s icy silence.

I’m really, truly sorry you had to come down here, I told her. I know you’re probably pretty peeved at me right now—

She stopped suddenly, swinging around to point a finger in my face. "No. I am furious. And tired of making apologies for you. I was hired to accompany a well-bred, studious lady through Europe. You, Miss Fox, are no lady! You’re a she-demon who attracts anarchy and bedlam."

Everyone has a talent? I said sheepishly with a strained smile.

You ruined a priceless rug in the middle of the hotel lobby—

But I had food poisoning!

—and you have the entire Pera Palace staff smuggling newspapers into the hotel for that insatiable habit of yours.

"Crossword puzzles, Madame Leroux. You’re making me sound like a drug fiend. There’s not a daily crossword in the Cumhuriyet." And if there were, I couldn’t solve it, because the clues would all be in Turkish.

You caused that poor maid to have a breakdown, reading those devilish books of yours.

"It was the Egyptian Book of the Dead—an ancient funerary text. I was practicing writing hieroglyphics." But to be perfectly honest, I’d also been reading a rare translation of Hammer of the Witches, which detailed a selection of medieval magical spells, a subject I found endlessly fascinating. Had I known the housekeeping staff at the hotel was a gaggle of fainting Victorian ladies in need of smelling salts, I would have been more discreet with my personal reading matter.

Madame Leroux, however, had no sympathy. Right now she was shaking her head, eyes squeezed shut, as if somehow in the few short weeks I’d known her, I’d managed to become the biggest disappointment in her life. Well, I had news for her: it takes years for me to properly disappoint someone. Just ask my father . . . whenever he decided to show up.

I promise to stay in the hotel until Father returns, I told Madame Leroux. Cross my heart, fingers, and toes. Does that make you happy?

Do what you want. I cannot stop you. I quit.

What? I glanced around, aware that we were attracting attention.

You heard me, she said, long fingers straightening the brim of her hat. I am done. I quit.

You can’t quit. Father has the return train tickets to Europe.

She tugged down the hem of her jacket. I’ve been invited to travel through the Middle East.

I paused, brow wrinkling. With the hotel’s lounge singer?

They’d been secretly meeting up after I went to bed. He bragged constantly that he was touring regional hotels, making gobs of money crooning sentimental love songs to drunken tourists.

Your father will return soon, she said.

You’re . . . leaving me? In the middle of a foreign city?

She shrugged and waved a hand. You are no little mouse. Have you not traveled the world with your scoundrel of a father?

Hey! I said sharply. No one gets to besmirch my family but me. He’s a distinguished adventurer and historian. He’s been hired around the world by dukes, sultans, and contessas.

"Yes, I know, she said, voice sodden with French sarcasm. You boast of all the places you’ve been with him. Am I not your ‘hundredth’ tutor, useless and interchangeable, as you so often remind me?"

Yikes. I don’t think I’ve ever said that. I had. Yesterday. During our last argument. And of course I need you. You speak the local language, and—

She snorted. Obviously you are comfortable storming through the city alone like a typhoon. And the hotel staff will cater to your every whim, so it’s difficult for me to feel sympathy. Goodbye, Miss Fox. I hope our paths do not cross again. Ever.

She marched away, blending into throngs of pedestrians ambling down the market’s corridor, while I stood rooted to the floor in shock. It took me several panicked heartbeats to realize that she carried the book of traveler’s checks; all I had was a few bills in my handbag, enough for a taxi back to the hotel and little more. I called out to her, snaking my way through the crowd. You have all the money! I shouted.

Consider it my severance fee, she shouted back before her head disappeared in a throng of shoppers, leaving me behind.

Alone.

In a foreign country.

With no money.

And no word from my wayward father as to when he’d return.

What in God’s name was I going to do now?

2

I SPENT AN HOUR WILDLY SEARCHING the market’s labyrinthine corridors for Madame Leroux like some orphaned puppy in disbelief that its owner had truly gone. Then I came to my senses: she was probably back at the hotel. Maybe I could still convince her to stay.

When I found my way outside, the late-afternoon drizzle had turned to a steady rain, and there were no taxicabs in sight. Everything was muddy and ugly, and when a speeding car veered too close to the curb, splashing foul-smelling gutter water across the front of my skirt, I wanted to break down and cry.

Honestly, I blamed my father for all of this. Yesterday I sent a telegram to a hotel across the country in Tokat to ask why he was delayed. No response. This wasn’t entirely unusual. Likely he was still up in the mountains on his treasure-hunting expedition—that is, if he hadn’t fallen off the mountain and his body wasn’t currently being torn apart by buzzards. Either way, I’d bet my last lira that when he found out about Madame Leroux’s betrayal, it would somehow be my fault. Because she was right about one thing: disaster seemed to follow me wherever I went.

But I wasn’t the only one. This was genetic. My father courted disaster as if it were the belle of the ball. Hiring a tutor who deserted me and stole all our money was just one in a long list of things my bullheaded father had botched. To the public, Richard Damn Fox was a decorated war veteran, a medieval historian, a wealthy antiquities collector, and a brash adventurer who never met a risk he wouldn’t take. But what people didn’t know was that he was also unbelievably selfish, would rather die than apologize or admit mistakes, and often was an all-around terrible father.

Mentally cursing his name, I shook out my leg in a feeble attempt to rid my shoe of mud as a car stopped in front me. A taxicab—finally! Breathless, I climbed into the back seat and gave the driver the name of my hotel. My body wilted with relief when he nodded, and the car pulled away from the historic covered market. Away from the scene of my misfortunate afternoon.

I peeled off a black beret—one that I always wore when traveling—and shook fat droplets out of the soft wool. I was soaked from head to foot. This really wasn’t my day. As the old city rushed past my rain-spattered window, my thoughts turned over the incident in the market and everything Madame Leroux had said. On one hand, I wasn’t surprised she’d want to quit. I traveled with my father several times a year, and each time he had to hire a new tutor for me. And to be honest, Madame Leroux and I had started off on a sour note because it wasn’t until he’d hired her, until we’d traveled by train from Paris and arrived in Istanbul, that my father confessed the truth about the job that had brought him here. We’d had a terrible fight about it before he left. Screams. Threats. Tears. Begging.

I hadn’t exactly made a good impression on my new tutor.

But in my defense, my father had blindsided me. Though he almost never allowed me to accompany him on his expeditions, he did allow me to research them. I spent several days before our trip across the Atlantic collecting information on a Byzantine treasure hoard rumored to be hidden in the mountains outside Tokat; however, when we arrived here, he revealed the real reason for his travels.

A client had asked him to find a ring that had once belonged to Vlad Țepeș.

As in Vlad the Impaler. Prince of Romania. House of Drăculești. Fierce warrior and enemy of the Ottoman Empire. Notoriously cruel and bloody. Possible inspiration for the famous fictional vampire Count Dracula.

My mother had told me countless wild stories about both the man and his myth. He’d become an antihero in my mind, someone who dared to rise up against tyranny. Someone who had his own moral compass. A folk hero like Robin Hood, William Tell, or Paul Revere. Just with a lot more blood.

There’s a bit of lore that says when Vlad was killed in Wallachia, his enemies, the Ottomans, took his head back to Turkey, to prove he was dead. My father became convinced that Vlad’s ring may have been buried with his head. And that’s where my father was now. In northern Turkey—a place Vlad was imprisoned as a boy—searching for the Impaler’s grave.

Some might think that the skull of Vlad would be the more important historic find than a ring. But it wasn’t just a random piece of jewelry. Vlad’s ring imbued the wearer with some kind of dark, magical power, if one believed there was any grain of truth in the stories that surrounded it.

Most of what I knew about the ring came from a brief entry in Batterman’s Field Guide to Legendary Objects—my favorite book and an illustrated catalog of artifacts purported to be cursed, lucky, magical, mythical, and mysterious. Excalibur, the Book of Thoth, the Spear of Destiny, the philosopher’s stone. And Vlad the Impaler’s war ring was included there too, alongside a medieval woodcut of Prince Vlad. In it, he was depicted wearing the ring while sitting at a table dining in front of his impaled enemies. There wasn’t a detailed description or firsthand account, only a brief caption: stories circulating in the late 1400s after his death said the ring was rumored to help Vlad in battle, a sort of occult talisman that may have been cursed.

And I know a thing or two about cursed objects.

One killed my mother.

Now my father was hunting down another. . . . To hell with my mother, and to hell with me. Maybe he wouldn’t come back this time. Maybe our last conversation would be the nasty fight we’d had over Vlad’s ring when he’d left me here, and I’d be orphaned in Istanbul for the rest of my life. In a way, that felt decidedly apropos, but I wasn’t sure if it was better to feel sorry for myself or mad at my father. I supposed either was preferable to worry.

By the time the taxi finally reached my stop, I’d managed to drag myself out of those swampy emotions and instead focused my thoughts on catching up with Madame Leroux. She had to be here, and I had to convince her to stay in Istanbul for a little while longer. That’s all there was to it. Clutching my handbag and the tattered remnants of my pride, I sprinted from the curb to the hotel’s entrance under the doorman’s offered umbrella. Then I stepped into my current home-away-from-home.

The Pera Palace Hotel.

Lauded as the grandest hotel in Turkey, its arabesque mosaics and Murano chandeliers were an impressive mix of Orient and Occident. The marble floors were Carrara; the service was white glove. A five-star experience, truly. Earlier today I couldn’t bear to spend another moment inside these walls, but now it felt like what I needed most: a safe and familiar haven.

As I hurried past an enormous arrangement of hothouse flowers that smelled deceptively of springtime, the hotel’s bearded concierge glanced up, spotted me, and waved me toward his desk. Embarrassed about my muddy dress, I attempted to ignore him, but he caught up with me halfway through the lobby, in front of the main salon.

Miss Fox! he shouted.

No ignoring him now. I slid my eyes in his direction and pasted on a weak smile. Behind me, scents of roasted pistachios and rose water drifted from the hotel’s salon along with lively notes from a grand piano. After my lousy afternoon, I could use a cup of tea and something sweet. Might as well go out in a blaze of baklava.

Good news! Everything is arranged, the concierge told me. When your luggage is ready, please telephone me at the desk. Your departure tickets are being exchanged and will be held at the railway station. You’ll be boarding a night train that leaves at ten o’clock tonight.

Mr. Osman, I said, confused. It was hard to concentrate on what he was saying, because my eyes went to the bald notch that had been clipped out of the top of his hair; he told me yesterday that his wife was angry at him when she trimmed his hair. Emotions and hair clippers make terrible bedfellows. I have no earthly idea what you’re talking about.

Your tickets.

What tickets?

The train tickets to Europe?

I was trying to make sense of what he was saying and was sure he had me confused with another guest. Yes, we’d booked train tickets to go home, but that was for next week, after my father returned. What do you mean, you’ve exchanged them?

For tonight’s train, as requested.

Requested? By whom? Was it Madame Leroux? Maybe she’d changed her mind. Is she here?

Mr. Osman’s nose twitched. His gaze dropped to the muddy stain on my dress. Miss, he said, scratching his beard. Are you . . . ? Has there been . . . ?

Yes, there has, I said without explanation. Can you please send someone up to my room to fetch my clothes for cleaning?

Right away.

Is that where Madame Leroux is? I asked.

Madame Leroux left a half hour ago.

With the lounge singer?

And her luggage.

I quickly surveyed the lobby, still unable to fully process that she was actually gone. I didn’t see her blond head anywhere, but I did, however, notice a dark one: Behind me, a middle-aged man in a long black coat bent to pick something off the marble floor. When he stood back up, dark eyes stared at me from a pale, bearded face that was thin and angular, handsome in a dark-and-brooding Heathcliff of Wuthering Heights sort of way. Pardon me, miss, he said in an Eastern European accent. You dropped this.

He held out a folded Turkish banknote between his index and middle fingers. I accepted it automatically before I looked closer and realized it was an old bill. Very old. Not the same size as modern paper currency in circulation.

Oh, this isn’t mine, sir. I tried to hand it back, but he only shook his hand.

I saw you drop it, he insisted, and made a motion that indicated it fell from my coat pocket. Something about the man was strange and off-putting. When I was trying to decide why exactly, the concierge interrupted.

Regarding your brother, the concierge said.

One moment please, I mumbled, holding up a finger to Mr. Osman, but when I turned back around, the man in the black coat was already exiting the hotel. I frowned at this for a moment, dazedly pocketing the old banknote, as Mr. Osman’s words quite suddenly sank into my thick brain, making me forget all about the Eastern European man.

Pardon? I said to the concierge. "Did you just say . . . my brother?"

He nodded emphatically. Indeed. Your brother said he’d prefer to wait in your room. He insisted.

I was an only child. I had no brother.

Suspicious and mildly alarmed, I stared at Mr. Osman. He stared at me. An awkward smile slowly lifted his cheeks. Was it possible my father had returned from Tokat while I was busy getting strip-searched in the market?

Do you mean Richard Fox? I asked. My father? Is he the one who asked you to exchange the tickets? He was the one who had them, after all. It had to be him.

Before hope could lift its head, Mr. Osman crushed it back down.

No, miss, he said almost pityingly. Then he looked at me strangely, mouth twitching, as if something was not being said. But before I could question him further, his manager beckoned, and he jogged back across the lobby, harried and apologetic. Just like that I was completely forgotten.

What in God’s name was happening?

The only logical explanation was that Mr. Osman had confused me with another guest. It had happened once before—he’d brought me a message intended for the unmarried daughter of some British noble who was staying on the floor above mine. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced: this was a mix-up, plain and simple. I’d just go upstairs and check to be sure.

Equal parts apprehensive and curious, I stepped into the hotel’s ornate black birdcage lift, and the operator took me to the fourth floor, where I made my way down a long hallway. Hand-woven Oushak carpeting muffled the heels of my muddy Mary Janes until I came to my room.

I paused outside with my ear to the door. Silence.

The handle wouldn’t budge. Locked, as it should be.

Cautious, I unlocked the door and peered inside to find . . . nothing. Empty. Just to be sure, I entered the room with my head, craning my neck, and when I spotted no initial danger, my feet followed.

Housekeeping had been here while I was out: the bed was made up. All my imported newspapers were stacked in two tidy piles, one with all the single crossword pages I’d removed. Across the room, the door leading to the balcony was standing wide open to the ancient city, the dark blue water of the Bosporus Strait snaking past stone buildings with clay roofs. A cool breeze carried drizzle into my room.

Hold on. That wasn’t right. The maids never left the balcony door open.

Pulse picking up speed, I peered outside, scanning for an intruder, but stopped short when a muffled noise floated from the room’s en suite bathroom.

Uh-oh.

My thoughts flipped back to the strange man in the lobby. But he hadn’t had time to get up here, had he? I supposed it was possible. Whoever it was, they were in my bathroom, and that couldn’t be good. Dipping into my handbag, I retrieved the only weapon in reach: a small, clothbound travel guide—Istanbul (Not Constantinople): Gateway to the Orient. I wielded it in front of me, arm extended stiffly, then threw open the bathroom door.

I wished I hadn’t.

A few feet away, near a claw-foot bathtub, stood a boy about my age, his handsome face marred by an old white scar that stretched over one cheekbone. Dark hair, a shade lighter than my own raven-black, was clipped short at the sides and neck; the top was a mass of overlong mazy curls.

Every inch of his rangy build was covered in lean muscle, quite a bit of which was brazenly on display: he wore nothing but a towel, slung low around his hips. Water puddled beneath his feet on the tiled floor.

Eighteen-year-old Huxley Gallagher, better known simply as Huck.

My former best friend.

My former more-than-a-friend.

My former more-than-a-friend, who left last year without a single goodbye.

Something tremored deep inside my chest. It quickly grew into an earthquake that shook my entire body. I just stared at him, tongue-tied and dumb as a box of rocks, forgetting everything that had happened that afternoon—the Grand Bazaar, Madame Leroux, the dark-and-brooding man who’d given me the old banknote in the lobby. All of it vanished from my thoughts.

Hello, banshee, Huck said, using