There was nobody there, only a lidded cooler, inside which she discovered half a loaf of bread, a generous pat of butter wrapped in wax paper, a wedge of moist goat cheese, one small bottle of red wine, and a folded note that read: “Real Greeks like to eat. A.”
For the first time in what had been an undeniably peculiar day, a real smile found its way onto Skye’s face.
Three
July 1940
The curls of sawdust fell silently, tickling the tops of Katerina’s bare feet. She gritted her teeth, concentrated hard on the final flourish of the kappa, keen not to make more sound than was necessary. If Baba were to hear and catch her, the scolding would be severe.
“Go carve your name into a tree,” he would cry. “Leave my house out if it.”
Katerina understood why he thought the house belonged to him and him alone, but she would not accept it. This was also her house—her home. The only one she had ever known. Surely, it was hers enough that she should be able to leave her mark upon it. Who cared if it was forbidden? Besides, it was too late now; the deed was done, aKinscribed forKaterina, which would now remain forever.
Scooping up the evidence, she hurried across to the window and tossed the wood shavings out into the dawn, watching as they twisted and whirled, spiraling downward as the birds did in the fields when they snatched up insects that hovered late in the day,their bodies fat with pollen, lazy with heat. Summer had been heavy and relentless; at night she turned over across cotton dampened with her own agitation, seeking a cool spot on the mattress yet not finding one.
She would hear the rumble of Baba’s voice below as he sat with other men from the village, heads bent together as they grumbled about war, about provisions, about that man from another land with the mustache. Katerina had seen a photograph in her father’s newspaper and wondered at the man’s apparent power. He seemed so small, a nondescript face among so many others, of less interest to her than the dirt she scraped out from beneath her fingernails. Yet Baba’s concern was real enough to unsettle her, and unlike her mama, who cooed and cajoled, he never pretended that she should not be worried—that they all shouldn’t be.
The sky outside was pink dipped in yellow, her beloved Aegean alive with the first dapples of light. She fastened her shoes as the bells rang out in the church, heralding the hour of five. Most of the villagers would sleep for another hour, but her goats would not. Katerina needed to milk the nanny or there would be nothing on the table for Mama when she awoke. It was also her job to check the animals for any injuries, maladies, or small rocks caught in hooves. The herd was modest, only six in total, five full-grown and a late-seasonkatsikákithat had been born with a leg missing. She had named her Chrysí on account of the goat’s golden fur. During the weeks when her father traveled across to old Thira—he could not think of it as Santorini, though that was the name most people now used—Katerina would sneak the baby animal into her room overnight, soothed by the gentle bleating of its contented slumber. Her sister, Leni, had clutched her sides when she’d found out, though her merriment had turned to pity when Katerina confessed the truth, that she craved the goat’s comfort because Leni was no longer there. Her sister had left the family home a yearago, when she’d married the baker’s son, Michalis, and although Leni lived close by and Katerina still saw her most days, she felt her elder sibling’s absence as keenly as she might a missing arm or leg.
“You will learn,” Leni assured her whenever Katerina began muttering murderous thoughts about “that thief Michalis.”
“When you fall in love,koúkla, you will understand,” she continued.
Love. Such a stupid thing. She was eighteen, strong, healthy, and free to roam between her chores. A man would not let her behave in such a way—he would want to own her, as Michalis did Leni. Trap her at home in the kitchen, give her his dirty shirts to scrub while he sits with his wine or whiskey. Nothing about that life appealed to Katerina. She did not want to end up pinned in a book like a captured butterfly.
But she should not think of such things, not when the day was so gilded by beauty, the land hers to explore as she saw fit. The herd had strayed farther than usual up the mountainside, and the burn in Katerina’s lungs matched that of the muscles in her thighs as she trudged her way up toward them.
“Geiá sou,” she sang, scratching at the spot between the nanny’s ears, a smile hitching up as the goat pressed its warm head against her. Fingers still working, she counted the rest of the herd, frowning when she came up short. Chrysí was not among them. Katerina began calling her name, softly at first, then with greater insistence, fear making a mess of her insides. She turned helplessly to the nanny goat, who stared dolefully back, her big, kind eyes the color of ripe figs.
“Where is she?” she pleaded. “Pou eínai aftí?”
It was then that she heard the bleat.
Katerina followed the sound, her body tense, chin jutted forward. There was a roughly hewn pathway going farther up themountain, and she broke into a run, pebbles skittering away underfoot as she got her first glimpse of the young goat above. Chrysí was perched on the very edge of a high outcropping and bounced on her three hooves when she saw her mistress come into view.
“Óchi!” Katerina screamed, gripped by terror. The goat was not a strong mountaineer, her balance off on account of her missing limb. If she fell, Katerina would never forgive herself. Taking a deep breath, determined to remain at least outwardly calm, she called up, telling the animal to wait, that hermamawas coming, that everything would be fine.
Climbing was easier barefoot. Katerina kicked off her boots, rolled up the sleeves of her shirt, and tucked the heavy folds of her skirt up into her undergarments. This area of the mountain was notoriously treacherous. In the spring, a boy had fallen while trying to pick wildflowers for his mama. Katerina had heard the woman’s howls of anguish when his small, broken body was carried back to the village, and her agony had hit hard as an arrow.
Glancing up one final time, she saw that the little goat had wisely lowered itself into a kneeling position. Good. That was good. She scoured the rocky terrain, looking for natural holds, places where the turf was deeply embedded. Stepping off the flat ground caused her arms to shake with effort, but with a grunt, she pulled herself farther up, fingers curling between cracks, nails breaking on the hard edges of rocks, skin splitting as she trod hard on jagged stones. Chrysí’s bleats rang out, high and shrill. Katerina cursed as she lost her footing, her toes scraping desperately for purchase, and then she was stable again, moving faster, gaining pace, her confidence growing with every step.
“Éla,” she crooned as she reached the goat, breathless with relief, though it was short-lived. She still had to get back down, and now she had the added weight of Chrysí slung across her shoulders. The goat snuffled at her neck, warm body quivering. Katerinadescended slowly, not once looking anywhere but toward the next foothold. Such was her relief when she made it back to the path that she lowered the goat to the ground and fell to her knees beside it, her whole body shaking as she fought to quell the tears.
“Bravo,” drawled a voice.
Katerina was on her feet in a flash, wheeling around, shock making her yell out. The man who had spoken did not so much as flinch, nor did he seem unduly alarmed by the state of her, with her skirts tucked and dark hair plastered across her cheeks. Yanking out the former, she glared at him, daring him to comment, to repeat his mocking appraisal. She had pushed over boys taller than him before, and she would do so again without thinking twice about it.
“Very impressive,” he said, cocking his head to one side. “That goat owes you its life.”
Katerina narrowed her eyes.
“You saw me?”
He nodded.
“Of course.”
“And, what? You did nothing—did not try to help me?”
