“Ah,” she said. There had been much celebration the previous Wednesday when their hillside homes were finally connected to the internet. Theo and Adam no longer had to trek down to the taverna to work, and Victoria was already planning online yoga sessions just as soon as their garden had been suitably landscaped. For Skye, it made little difference, though she had bought a new SIM card for her phone and was using it to check in regularly with Sal. Her friend repeatedly urged her to find someone on the island she could open up to, but she wasn’t ready. Not yet.
“I thought we’d stay here today,” she told George. “Andreas says it’s going to rain soon.”
The boy fiddled with his headphones, his “All right” in reply coursing out on a sigh. Skye followed him inside. The layout mirrored Joy’s next door, though with an extra bedroom for George and a tiny office Theo had created in an alcove behind the old fireplace. The walls and ceilings still needed plaster and paint, and aside from several overstuffed bookcases, the furnishings were minimal. One low table displayed George’s creations—air-dry clay animals, mosaic tiles, and painted shells he and Skye had collected from Livadaki Beach. The boy was like many nine-year-olds—rambunctious, physical, easily distracted—but also capable of sitting quietly with a task. She had learned that if she hit upon a subject that interested him, he would respond with studied enthusiasm.
“I brought something exciting to show you today,” she said, mouthing a silent greeting to Theo as he leaned out from his alcove. George slumped down on the shabby sofa and began to pick at a scab on his knee.
Drawing a sheaf of papers from her bag, Skye spread them across the seat. It was the first letter from the bundle, not Andreas’s translated version but the original, age-stained and blotted with ink. George leaned over, scanning the words through his thick, smeared glasses.
“It’s in Greek,” he said, looking up. “Who wrote it?”
“I don’t know for sure,” she admitted. “Though it was probably a man, and his name began with anS.”
George thought for a moment.
“Stamatis’s name starts with anS,” he said. “Maybe it was him.”
“He might well have been called Stamatis,” she said, “but whoever wrote this did so in 1940.”
George tilted his head, curiosity catching hold.
“Where did you get it?” he asked.
“Well, now,” Skye began, “that’s where the story gets really interesting because—”
“Sorry, sorry.” Theo’s chair had fallen to the floor, and he was hurrying toward them. “I heard what you said, and— Is this the letter Joy told me about? Can I see?”
Skye passed him the pages, which he read silently.
“This is quite a find,” he said. “I like the way he writes, this man.”
George began to tap the arm of the sofa.
“Will you read it out loud, Dad?”
Theo drew in a short breath.
“Please!”
“OK,” he said, sitting cross-legged on the threadbare rug. Heread almost all of it, leaving out the parts that Skye agreed might be a little hot for younger ears to handle.
“There are lots more,” she told him. “I found a whole bundle hidden inside my chimney.”
“Whoa!” George exclaimed. “Like that sword thing Dusty showed me?”
“That was in her garden, but both are buried treasure if you ask me.”
Theo reached across and stilled his son’s still-tapping fingers.
“If you bring the other letters here, I can translate them for you,” he offered.
“That’s kind of you, but I think Andreas wants to do it.”
“Isn’t he very busy?”
George swung a leg, narrowly missing his dad’s kneecap.
“You’re always busy, too,” he said mutinously. “I heard you on your laptop last night, crashing on the keyboard. It was going on for ages, I couldn’t even sleep.”
