The Arrival
‘Dear Cyane,come to Thesmophoria on your twenty-fourth year. We await you in Syracuse, Sicily. Your father.’
She’d read it a million times.Don’t. Don’t take it out.Her fingers twitched. The note never changed, no matter how desperate she was for more information.
Cyane pulled her backpack towards her, found the zipper along the side, and tugged it up. She dipped her hand into the opening and rummaged around for her phone.
The midnight darkness of the hostel room fled as the phone screen turned on.
She shut her eyes against the light and resisted the urge to pull the damned note from her pocket and hold it between her fingers.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow she’d make her way to Sicily to attend the ancient celebration of Thesmophoria, a festival honoring the goddesses Demeter and Persephone. Why herfatherwanted her to attend was beyond her, but it was the only lead she had to her parents.
They’d left her as a newborn and then vanished. The note was her only evidence that they even existed. If she went to meet them in Syracuse, and they weren’t there…
Cyane pushed the thoughts away.
She opened her eyes, hid the lit phone under her blanket, and scrolled through her photos. Brussels and her first day of the adventure, Berlin, Prague, Budapest where she’d started her trek southward to Skopje, and then, finally, Greece.
It was the adventure of her life, and she’d finally reached the Port of Piraeus that afternoon, where she’d booked a hostel in southern Athens.
Tomorrow.Her ride would leave the port at six in the morning.
Cyane’s eyes hooded as she stared at her pictures.
The phone dropped from her hand to lie softly next to her cheek as she drifted to sleep.
The next morning,trekking hurriedly through the industrial slums of the city, the cranes and machinery flanking her sides—a testament to how times had changed since she studied this place in history class—she made it to the port right as the sun’s hidden-behind-clouds first light streaked across the sea. Gray wisps and distant haze filled her eyes, blanketing the ships in weak, morning shadows.
Another cloudy day, another cloudy morning.Cyane sighed.
She paused to read the sign, slowly translating the Greek letters, and raced to the passenger terminal, trying to reach the docks before the yacht set sail. The smell of sea brine and ship exhaust filled her nose.
I’ll only be twenty-four once.
Which was incredibly worrisome if she couldn’t make it to Sicily in time.
She tried not to think about it as she turned the corner of the final building. Her jaw dropped. The waters were lit up in a perfect, Midas glow, with ships all around, and in the backdrop, the hills of Athens were haloed in it.
Piraeus was one of the largest ports along the Mediterranean, with a history fueled by Ottoman occupation and naval history. It was once a military harbor for Athens and had housed their incredible fleet. She could almost imagine the hundreds of millions of people who’d walked, worked, sailed, and gaped at the sight right where she was standing. Like ghosts in her head.
Her skin prickled.
A short time later, with a flyer and a map in her hand, she found the yacht group. Luxurious boats and yachts lined the private dock as she strode down it. TheHermes’s Mirthrocked gently toward the end to the wave of other boats passing by.
Made it!Cyane grinned. The tension in her back eased.
She found a spot to rest her backpack nearby and shucked it off, stretching her back and arms. A cool breeze drifted across her bare arms and legs. The heat of summer lingered against the force of fall, and she wore shorts and a simple, loose tank top.
The New York tag large across her chest was more a beacon than even her accent. If she’d worn the same clothes as the locals, she would’ve blended right in. But she didn’t want to fully blend in, she didn’t want people to assume she knew more than she should.
Most had been kind enough, and—in broken English—helped orient her with her map. Some had even warned her of being a lone, female backpacker. Cyane knew her predicament more than anyone else. She kept a small horn and a knuckle keychain in her pocket at all times to startle any attackers; she never took unnecessary risks.
So, as she finally relaxed and returned her attention to the private yacht swaying in the early dawn, she knew something was wrong.
Why was it so quiet?
