"There won't be much left for you," he said. It could not be a legal marriage. "Oh! you did, did you?" said the janizary. Probably the latter, for the thronging ballroom was insufferably hot. Double-crossing wouldn't do any good. That poor child, trying to escape, and not knowing how. The walls were pristine white and unmarked except for two sconces and a rather colorless Monet poster that had been framed in an expensive oak surround. She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. To recreate the era, I deliberately tried to avoid creating a thinly disguised bodice ripper where an “empowered” woman mouthed off to prospective suitors in jerkins and tights, in other words, a typical romance novel.
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