“I agree,” he said. “Chora is a place to visit, to take photographs, not a place to live.”
The wind dropped away as they traversed a row of modest step-fronted houses, each one snugly pressed against the next. Built within the walls of what had once been a castle—orkástro, as Andreas referred to it—she imagined none had been altered much in the intervening years, at least not structurally. Folegandros was a place where tradition mattered, its preservation a point of pride to its people. This much had been made apparent to her in the information bundle she’d received upon securing the house.
Andreas led the way as they continued on, winding through lanes that tapered into ever more slender channels. Twice she paused to allow a cat to prowl past, and both she and Andreas had to stoop through low archways in order to avoid banging their heads. When they emerged onto a wide, walled viewing platform, she gazed out at the sea below, endless, fathomless, a moat between what had been and what was to come.
“Do you see that building there, at the top of the mountain?” Andreas asked.
Skye tore her eyes from the water.
“I can see it from my attic window,” she said, admiring the domed roof and dazzlingly white walls.
“The Church of Panagía,” he said reverently. “There is an oldstory—a myth—that in 1790, a band of Algerian pirates came to Folegandros, and the local people went up to Panagía and asked the icon of the Virgin Mary inside to save them. They believed all was lost, but then a great and powerful wind came across the sea and sank the boats. The pirates drowned, and the people of the island were spared. Many still go there today to thank the Lady for her protection.”
Skye was silent for a few beats.
“That’s quite a story,” she said. “Do you think there’s any truth to it?”
Andreas’s hand went to the silver cross he wore around his neck.
“I do not know for certain, but I do trust that this island is a safe place,” he said. “Nothing bad happens here.”
Skye admired his optimism, but she couldn’t quite believe him—though she wanted to. She wished it could be that simple: a safe haven sought and found.
Chora drew them back into its tangle of marble-paved lanes, through tiny squares where old men sat at tables beneath the plane trees, backgammon boards between them, pipe smoke swirling into the air. Skye found herself bombarded by color—flashes of magenta bougainvillea, the throbbing blue of doors and shutters, a bright red ball kicked from one child to another. She heard the distant bray of a donkey; picked up scents of rosemary, basil, and grilled fish; heard the melodictok-tokof wind chimes, a selection of which were hanging from a display outside a small gift shop.
Andreas came to a stop.
“This place is very nice,” he told her as Skye peered in through the open doorway. “It is called Giant’s Workshop because there is a room at the back where the owner makes furniture, some gifts, things like this.”
“I like these,” she said, fingering a stack of wooden fish piledin a nearby basket, each one hand-painted and stenciled with a pattern. “I could hang some in my bathroom.”
Scooping up four in various shades, she made her way inside, where shelves groaned under the weight of ornaments, trinkets, and Folegandros-themed souvenirs. There were model sailboats, a musical merry-go-round, spinning tops, and pull-along toys. In addition to the woodwork offerings, there was a display of ceramic mugs, plates, and serving bowls, many of which bore the image of an octopus, sardine, or other sea-dwelling creature. Skye chose a set of dinner and side plates, plus one large serving platter with a single pink fish design. Andreas was at the till, talking to a man of around fifty with excessively hairy forearms who smiled across at Skye as she stacked her crockery in her arms.
“I want to buy everything,” she said as she joined them, and the man’s smile grew broader. “Can I leave these here while I keep looking?”
He inclined his head.
“Parakaló.”
“If you decide to buy any furniture secondhand,” Andreas said as the two of them moved toward an arrangement of birdhouses, “the items can be restored here using the traditional methods and tools.”
“It sounds as if he has you on the payroll,” she remarked, to which Andreas laughed.
“Éla, no. It is nice to have a few pieces like this—a chair, perhaps a small table—then the rest, you can order in flat-pack boxes.”
Her dad had once made a similar suggestion, not long after Skye moved into her first flat. There had been limited space inside, and she’d had limited funds with which to furnish it.
“Think about what you use most and go from there,” Cosmo MacKinnon had said. And she had. She’d splurged on a solid oak bed frame and sturdy chest of drawers, but had gone budget-friendlywith IKEA bookcases and plant stands from Home Bargains. The next place she lived had come furnished, much of it built-in or made from glass and metal: cold, characterless pieces that she would never have chosen herself.
Now she would never have to again.
Skye reached up and unhooked a wooden-framed mirror from the wall. She looked past her own reflection and caught sight of Andreas—his hair a stark black against her blond, his sun-warmed skin a contrast to her pale, freckled complexion. For the briefest moment, their eyes met, and in his she glimpsed something—a flicker of concern, perhaps, or just curiosity, as if she were a puzzle he was trying to solve.
She cleared her throat and lowered the mirror, carrying it—and two clay mugs—back to where she’d left her stack of plates. The man at the till packaged each item with meticulous care, sealing bubble wrap with strips of tape and layering tissue paper around her wooden fish. As she tucked away her change, Andreas set one of the birdhouses gently on the counter.
“Do you like this one?” he asked.
The small wooden structure had a roof made from assorted chunks of driftwood, and the front was painted with olive leaves and flowers.
