After our baby comes, I will begin spying for the brothers again. He or she will be the perfect decoy. It is an amusing thought, a child of yours being a soldier before they can even think for themselves. I can picture your smile, my love. Hear your laughter in the dark.
Skye stretched, checked the time. It was three a.m. She was wide awake, perhaps more so than she had ever been. Had freedom done this to her, or was it discovery?
Only three more letters remained.
She sat for a moment, head tipped back, gazing at the stars. The last time she’d done so, Andreas had been beside her. Later that same night, he’d read the first letter aloud. It was in those moments that something had taken root between them, a bond shaped not just by feeling but by story. Their story, folded into that of two others long since gone.
Whatever had become of Katerina and Stefanos, she and Andreas belonged to it now—they all did, every one of them on the hillside—theirs a new chapter in a tale buried for decades, hidden inside a house that had saved Skye in more ways than one.
The same instinct that had led her to Folegandros stirred again.
It urged her to keep reading. To go deeper. To reach the end.
But as Skye was about to learn, Katerina’s final letters weren’t the end at all.
They were only the beginning.
Fifty-six
The house looked much the same as it had on her last visit. Pots of herbs on the steps up to the door, terra-cotta tiles, a mosaic patio table with matching chairs.
Skye bent and lifted the edge of the doormat. Andreas hadn’t been joking about leaving the key under there, though its presence likely meant he was not at home. She knocked regardless, several times, pressing an ear to the wood and listening for any sign of movement. There was nothing, the house quiet, white walls turned tangerine by the rising sun.
She had borrowed Victoria and Adam’s shiny truck, parked it by the port, and walked the rest of the way. The earthquake that had shaken the isle had wrought devastation in Karavostasis.
Areas where rocks had fallen were roped off, while a section of the narrow beach had been piled with splintered planks, broken pots, and damaged furniture. A few houses bore livid cracks, though all had remained standing. Save for one.
Skye had paused when she’d reached it, peered through into the mangled mess of masonry, shattered glass, and twists of wire.Steel rods poked up at odd angles, and scalloped roof tiles sat dormant, still as a shoal of piranhas. Her foot slipped on something half-buried beneath the remains of an interior wall. A dog food bowl, flakes of dried-on meat stuck to its sides.
It looked as if a bomb had hit it.
She didn’t cry. There were no more tears. Skye had wept through the final letters until her skin had felt tight, her eyes raw. Now only numbness remained, a hollow space inside her, as if something had been emptied out.
The patio chair groaned as she sat.
Where was he?
Getting up again, Skye went down the steps and checked the beach for any sign of Andreas. There was no one around, though strains of music drifted out from a nearby window. She took out her phone and recorded a brief voice note for Sal, bringing her friend up to date, recalling with relish the expression on Martyn’s face when he realized the game was up. Another six or seven weeks and Sal would be here. She could not wait to show her the island, take her out in a boat and point out the caves, climb the winding pathway to the Church of Panagía, watch the birds swoop, and regale her with tales of Ottoman pirates, mythical treasures, and spiritual miracles.
Five more minutes, then she would try to call him.
Skye returned to her chair on the patio. From her bag, she retrieved the last letter. It was dated December 22, 1941, and the final few lines crushed her each time she read them.
History is erased by time, though the memory of what I did, what I had to do, will remain with me always. You told me I was strong, Stefanos. Why did you lie to me? I hate you. I need you. I love you. Kat.
When Skye looked up again, the first thing she saw was Andreas. There was a fishing rod in his hand, a tackle box dangling by its handle. At his ankle, a small, scraggly gray dog.
“You are here,” he said.
“I am here,” she agreed.
Andreas looked worn thin. His shoulders sagging, his clothes rumpled, fatigue pressed into every line of his face. Even his movements were slower, heavier. Though as he climbed the steps, he managed a faint, faltering smile.
“Is that Filiá?” Skye asked, crouching to stroke the dog.
“I collected her from the vet clinic late last night,” he confirmed. “No injuries, though she was traumatized after—” He fell quiet, gaze skittering away.
“I’m so sorry,” Skye said. “You both look as if you could use some sleep.”
