“Folegandros doesn’t strike me as a hotbed of criminal activity,” she remarked.
“Ah,” he said as he opened the door, “you are forgetting about the pirates.”
Skye wasn’t sure if she should take off her shoes, though when he kicked off his flip-flops, she followed suit, bending to tug at her laces. Andreas busied himself with opening shutters, and within a few minutes, the wide lounge area was flooded with light. The first thing she saw as she entered the room was a wooden cabinet mounted on the opposite wall. It was ornately carved, the two doors propped open to show a series of paintings framed in gold, the largest of which depicted a bearded gray-haired man in red-and-green robes, one hand raised and the other clutching a scroll. Behind the figure was a tilted cross, and around his head, a halo.
Andreas saw her staring and beckoned.
“That is the holy apostle Andreas,” he said.
Skye tilted her head, amused in spite of herself.
“Did you name him?”
He laughed at that, his eyes alight.
“Éla, no! It is me who is named after him. In Greece, we do not celebrate our birthdays in the same way as other people. Instead, we have a name day, and for Andreas, this is November 30. On that day, we will share some food, perhaps see our friends and family.”
“And these others?” she asked, gesturing to the smaller images inside the cabinet.
“The Holy Family, Christ Pantocrator, and the ever-virgin Mary, bought for me byGiagiáwhen I moved to the island.”
“The samegiagiáwho was born here?” Skye said, remembering.
“Nai,” he agreed softly. “To remind me that God is always close. If you follow the Orthodox religion, it is traditional to have these icons in your home.Giagiáis very traditional.” He scratched the back of his neck. “She tries her hardest to make me the same.”
“Are you trying to tell me you’re a rebel?” Skye asked.
Andreas flashed her a roguish grin.
“The worst.”
“I’d argue that serious rebels are too busy rebelling to keep their houses this tidy,” she said, casting an eye over the immaculate cream sofas, a shiny flat-screen television, and a polished-wood coffee table. A row of books was stacked on a low shelf, and she crossed the room and slid one out, charmed to find that it was an encyclopedia of birds.
Andreas disappeared through a side door. A moment later came the bubble of a kettle, the soft clunk of cups and clinking of a spoon. When he returned, it was with coffee and a slice of cake.
“Honey,” he said, “from the bakery. A rebel does not have time to cook.”
She started to protest, but he pressed the plate toward her.
“Real Greeks eat, remember?”
“Aren’t you going to have any?”
Andreas tugged off his T-shirt, the silver cross he always wore slipping down into the dark forest of chest hair.
“I ate two slices already in the kitchen,” he confessed. “But now I must have a shower.”
“Before you go,” she said, and he turned at the bottom of the stairs, “can I have another look at the letters? Maybe read the one you copied out for me?”
“Éla, of course.” He pointed behind her at the bookshelf. “Pull those out, and you will find the letters hidden behind them.”
“You hid them? Why?”
Andreas met her gaze.
“To keep them safe,” he said.
Skye ate her cake, waiting for the sound of running water before she moved. Carefully, she retrieved the bundle, set her empty plate and coffee cup on the table, then sat down. Her fingers hovered briefly as she stared down at the letters, giving herself a moment in which to shut out the present. The past was right there, in her hands, and she was ready to lose herself in its mystery once more.
