Excerpt from ISTANBUL DREAMING by Denise Derya Brandt:
Chapter 11
Ayten sat in the middle of her courtyard garden on a wooden chair decorated with red ribbons, the scent of flowers in the air, wondering how it was already her henna night. She still couldn’t believe she was going to marry Salih tomorrow.
Ayten was the main attraction in her traditional red velvet bindallı dress covered in an elaborate design of gold embroidered floral garlands, the same dress Meryem had worn at her own henna night. When Meryem had suggested Ayten wear it, she couldn’t say no. It was beautiful, and Ayten looked like an Ottoman princess in it. The red color symbolized her virginity, a gift to her husband, just like the red satin sash she’d reluctantly wear tomorrow at Meryem’s insistence. “It’s tradition. What would people say if you didn’t wear it?” Meryem had said.
It seemed like every female neighbor, friend, and family member was here, singing and dancing, everyone except Yasemin. Ayten closed her eyes and remembered the day she’d learned her best friend had left her.
She knocked on Yasemin’s front door, mentally rehearsing what she’d say as she nervously picked at the rough patch of skin on the side of her thumb until it bled. At least three times a day, Ayten had considered going to Yasemin to reconcile, but her stubborn pride had prevented her each time. But after seeing Salih, she knew she’d need her best friend’s support to get through the engagement ceremony and wedding, so she swallowed that pride and prepared to apologize.
Yasemin’s housekeeper answered.
“Hi, is Yasemin home?”
“Oh, didn’t you know, dear? Yasemin moved.”
Ayten took a few steps back, dread pooling in her belly. She wouldn’t have! “Wha . . . What? Where?” But Ayten knew where.
The housekeeper disappeared for a minute. She returned with pity on her face and a piece of paper in her hand. Ayten took it and thanked her. She recognized the address.
With a new hollowness in her chest, Ayten left. Yasemin had done it; she’d packed up and left for İstanbul. Yes, they were in a fight, but to leave like that, to leave her behind without a single word, Ayten felt like Yasemin had jumped onto one of those luxury yachts they had read about in Hayat, stranding her alone on an island.
Since then, Ayten had written to Yasemin to invite her to the henna night and the reception but never received a reply. Perhaps she should’ve sent a letter of apology instead. Ayten appreciated everything Meryem had done to make this night special—the dress, the music, the many bowls of grapes and dried apricots and figs, the freshly squeezed pomegranate juice from Ayten’s favorite tree, said to promote fertility, prosperity, and good fortune—but she still wished Yasemin were by her side instead. The bride-to-be’s best friend should be at her henna night.
The playful dance music stopped, replaced by drums and clarions, and Ayten blinked back tears. She’d been teary-eyed all night, which was appropriate; everyone was supposed to cry during the henna night. It was part of the ritual. Yasemin had once told her about a bride-to-be with dry eyes whose cousin pinched her until she wept. Ayten didn’t need to be pinched.
Someone turned off the lights, and the warm glow of candles and the moon illuminated the courtyard, adding to the somber atmosphere.
“It’s time,” Meryem said as she approached Ayten and draped a red veil over her head. Several of the single ladies held candles, the flames casting shadows across their faces, and circled Ayten while the folk song “Mother, Bring the Henna” played. Ayten had heard terrible stories of hair or clothing catching fire during this part of the ritual, and after what had happened recently—she swore she could still smell the scent of smoke—she kept her eye on the open flames and tried not to be too unnerved by the wailing and crying coming from the older guests. Perhaps they remembered leaving their own families or were simply moved by the emotional music.
Another traditional folk song, “To the Highest Hills,” played as Meryem called forth Fatima teyze and positioned a chair for her. The old woman, her deep wrinkles softened when viewed through Ayten’s red veil, approached with a bowl of wet henna paste on a tray and sat in front of Ayten.
“Give me your hand, my daughter,” Fatima teyze said.
To not seem too eager, Ayten pulled her hand away from the woman and kept her fist closed. This, too, was part of the ritual. Salih’s mother then approached and offered Ayten a gold coin to entice her to open her fist. It was small. She contemplated refusing again in expectation of a larger one, but after a moment, opened her hand and received the coin.
The aunt plopped a blob of green henna paste into the center of Ayten’s palm, murmured a prayer, then moved on to the guests, some of whom only dipped a finger into the henna. Ayten raised her open palm to her nose. The paste had a pleasant earthy smell that reminded her of their garden after a spring rain. It felt cool on her skin. She took care to hold her palm open and not smear the paste while she waited for it to dry. When it did, she’d keep it on her skin for hours, until it cracked and peeled off in flakes, leaving only a red stain behind.
Ayten considered the symbolism of the red henna stain. She remembered the fat sheep sold in the streets for sacrifice during the Festival of Sacrifice each year, their white fluffy wool stained with red henna. She thought of the boys, their heads shaved, marked with red henna before they entered the military to either become men or die. She inspected the green henna paste in her palm and wondered if she was being marked for honor or sacrifice. Perhaps it was both.
Excerpted from ISTANBUL DREAMING © 2026 by Denise Derya Brandt. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.
ISTANBUL DREAMING by Denise Derya Brandt
Narrator: Suehyla El-Attar Young
For fans of Alka Joshi and Marjan Kamali, a gripping historical novel set in 1950s Turkey about a young woman who flees an arranged marriage to pursue independence in Istanbul, where she finds forbidden love with an American airman.
In 1950s Turkey, against the backdrop of the social and political unrest that will culminate in Turkey’s 1960 military coup d’état, a dutiful daughter is torn between family expectations and her dream of becoming a modern Turkish woman.
One night, seventeen‑year‑old Ayten sneaks away to Istanbul for a night of dancing with her best friend. When her father discovers her rebellion, he forces her into an arranged religious marriage to a distant relative who bullied her as a child. Initially, Ayten resigns herself to her fate—but after her husband sexually assaults her on their wedding night, she flees him and her family for haven in Istanbul.
Living with friends and working as a seamstress at her friend’s boutique, Ayten tries to rebuild her life. Then she meets Earl, an American airman, and they begin to fall in love—but as their connection deepens, secrets and her past threaten to upend all she’s built. Torn between her family and a future with Earl, Ayten must decide what she’s willing to sacrifice for freedom and forbidden love.
Historical [ She Writes Press, On Sale: September 29, 2026, Paperback / e-Book / audiobook, ISBN: 9798896361541 / eISBN: 9798896361558 ]
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About Denise Derya Brandt
Denise Derya Brandt worked in international development for more than twenty years and led women’s health projects in Afghanistan, Liberia, and Myanmar before becoming a published author. A Book Incubator graduate, 2024 Women’s Fiction Writers Association Rising Star Award finalist, and 2025 Poets & Writers Publicity Incubator Fellow, Denise has degrees from Arizona State and London School of Economics. As a Turkish-American, she claims she can fool tourists but not taxi drivers! Raised in Arizona, Denise now lives in Northern Kentucky with her husband. Find her online on her website, Facebook, and Instagram.
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