Put-out wasn’t quite what she was feeling, but it was damn-near close enough.
“I’m not sure you can.” Cyane slid her phone back into her pocket. “The job was supposed to be my fee for transport to Port Messina in Sicily. I need to get there for a festival.”
The man scratched his chin. “Thesmophoria?”
“Yes! How’d you know?”
“The women’s festival is celebrated here as well. Why not celebrate in Athens?”
She’d thought that herself many times. Why Sicily? Cyane shrugged. “Truthfully? I don’t want to stay in Greece that long.” She laughed. “Don’t get me wrong, I love it here, I feel at home here, but there’s something about Syracuse that has always intrigued me. I don’t know why, exactly, but I’m hoping that I’ll figure it out when I’m there.” She wasn’t going to mention the note. She never had before, finding it far too personal to share with anyone.
It was like a gateway to the past, and every time she thought to bring it up, something stopped her. It wasn’t meant for anyone but her.
The man smiled and nodded. “I think I understand. Well, come this way.” He turned his back on her and walked to the end of the dock, heading towards a sailboat.
Her brow furrowed. The pack on her back grew heavy, and an unusually chilly breeze blew across her skin. Her mind fumbled. Did he want her to follow him so they could continue talking? Or was he trying to help her?
What if—a burst of hope, of wariness, seized her—he was offering her transit?
Cyane pushed back the strands of hair that blew across her face and glanced around one final time at the others on the dock, the ships, the quietHermes’s Mirthswaying, and finally to the water itself. It reflected the gray of the clouds again now that the sun had gone to hide behind the clouds, uninterested in the people who sought eagerly to enjoy it.
“Well? We don’t have all day!” he called over his shoulder.
He waved at her with one hand while he threw the rope anchoring his boat with his other. She approached him, reminding herself that she could walk away at any time.
By the time she reached his side, the boat was drifting away from the dock. He held the final tie in his hand.
“I’m confused. What are we doing?” she asked.
“Sailing to Port Messina, what else? Unless you’ve decided to stay?”
Cyane sized up the sailboat and the old man. The boat was in good, clean condition, and the man was lean but nearly-gaunt despite the defined muscles that his skin clung to. If she went with him, there would only be the two of them, which wasn’t ideal.
But his eyes flashed something bright, blue, and intelligent. There were no weapons, so signs of entrapment, and as she hesitated to consider his gracious offer, he pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to her.
Haros C.
Private sailboat captain.
Charter boat.
Sail the Mediterranean in style.
She flipped the card over to find the other side blank. “You sail all the way to Sicily?” she asked.
“Water is the same as it is around the islands, as it is in the rivers, lakes, and even oceans. Sailed them all at one time or another. Once you know the ways of the wind and the water it’s all the same.”
Cyane handed him back the card. “Is it safe?”
The wrinkles lining his face seemed to deepen as she waited for his answer. “Yes.”
She mentally checked the small horn resting in her pocket, even though instinct told her she wouldn’t need to protect herself against this Haros.
He continued as she mulled over the decision. “Make up your mind! It takes time to sail across the Ionian Sea, and I’m an impatient man.”
“How much does it cost?”
“Do you have some of those American coins on you?”
