She fell abruptly silent as Stefanos touched a finger to her lips.
“Hush,” he said softly. “It will not come to that.”
“You think I am too weak,” she challenged. “That I don’t mean it, that I’m nothing more than a silly girl.”
Stefanos began to laugh softly, shaking his head as he ground out the cigarette. Katerina had picked up one of the stubs once when his attention was elsewhere, put it in a box with other small keepsakes: animal bones and shells she had picked up along the shoreline.
“You are not weak,katsikáki,” he said, “and you are not a fool. That is why, if war ever does come to this place, you must use your head. Not your body but your mind—do you understand?”
“You said it would not come to—”
“Do you understand?” he persisted, any trace of sanguinity gone. Katerina glared at him, and then, having withered under the intensity of his gaze, she nodded. Stefanos returned the gesture, then set about constructing a second cigarette, removing each component from the small leather pouch he kept in his trouser pocket.
“You are angry,” he said, to which she sighed. “I do not say these things to belittle you, Kat. It is because I want you to stay safe. If anything were to happen—” He paused, bringing the rolling paper up to wet it against his tongue. Katerina felt a stab of envy; she was jealous of the cigarette, jealous of the earth he sat on, of the clothes he wore.
“There is a war,” she reminded him bitterly. “People all across the world are being killed—what does it matter so much about me?”
Stefanos took out his matches, struck one on a nearby rock. The flame burned intensely white as it flared, the light flashing inhis eyes. Katerina’s hair had been braided since the morning, and in her agitation, she began to yank out the thin strips of cloth holding each one in place. Her long dark curls fell loose around her shoulders. Leni had taught her to rub olive oil through the ends to make it shine, though Katerina had never been fond of the scent. It reminded her too acutely of Baba and of her mama, the constraint on her life that each represented. When she looked again at Stefanos, he was staring at her, the cigarette burning away between his fingers. Bending toward her, he half closed his eyes, breathing her in.
“Harvest,” he murmured, a smile playing around his lips.
Katerina looked stubbornly toward the horizon, saw the scatter of clouds bloom with light. Nature was waging a war of its own to match that of the planet’s inhabitants and would continue to do so long after the conflict came to an end. Why must these men—for it was always the men—seek to destroy one another in the pursuit of power or because of a difference in opinion? In the end, they would all turn back to ash, and the world would swallow them whole.
“Katsikáki. Kat?”
She turned at the name.
Stefanos reached across and gently stroked a curl from her cheek.
“I want you to stay safe,” he said again. “To stay exactly as you are, for always.”
She scoffed, making his brow crease into a frown.
“Nobody stays the same, Stefanos. We all must change. Life insists upon it.”
In one swift movement, he had taken her hands in his. Katerina gasped as he squeezed her fingers.
“Promise me,” he said, urgency in his voice. “Promise that whatever happens, you will not let that fire inside you go out.”
“It is not up to me,” she said, barely daring to whisper. “You are the one who lit this fire.”
Stefanos drew in a breath, and then, with infinite tenderness, slid his hands up until they were cupping her cheeks. Katerina wanted to close her eyes, but she made herself look at him—really look at him—the thud of her heart loud in her ears. For a moment, she thought that he would laugh, make some joke as he always did, but instead, Stefanos moved closer.
The kiss, when it finally came, was accompanied by the first rumblings of thunder.
Eight
Skye and Andreas traveled the three miles from Ano Meria to Chora in his truck, parking on the boundary of the elevated village before setting off through its labyrinthine streets.
“You cannot spend one more night in this house without some plates and glasses,” he’d said once the two of them had finished their renovation to-do list. “There is a place we can go that sells both.”
She had not been able to argue with that, though Skye required more than crockery—she was also in urgent need of furniture, linens, lamps, cushions, a laundry basket, clothes hangers, and additional towels. She pictured all the items she’d left behind in England, the image of each colored by the frustration she felt. As such, she said little, content to listen as Andreas talked. Chora, he told her, in the precise, measured way he had of speaking English, was one of the oldest medieval towns in the Cyclades, with the fortress at its top dating from the thirteenth century. It did not surprise Skye to discover that of all the villages on Folegandros,this was the one most popular with visiting tourists, and its guests were catered to by a number of cafés, bars, and restaurants, as well as souvenir shops and boutiques.
“How do you like it?” he asked as they sidestepped an old woman shrouded in black.
Skye stared around at the pristine whitewashed houses, at red chrysanthemums in clay pots, at flat slate tiles baked hard by the ever-present sun.
“It is beautiful,” she said, “but I prefer Ano Meria.”
