“What do you mean?”
“Katerina,” he said. She had never heard him use her full name. It was always Kat orkatsikáki. The brevity of his tone, the way he was staring at her with such intensity, made her chest flutter.
“If your father were here, I would be asking him this question,” Stefanos said. “When he returns, when Greece has won this war, I will beg for his forgiveness.”
Katerina could barely breathe.
“Forgiveness for what?” she asked.
“For marrying his daughter.”
She sat up, pulling him with her, laughing out loud through her shock.
“Kat.” He seized her hands. “Will you become my wife?”
She did not have to think. The answer flew out of her in a rush, repeating over and over until the words became a torrent of pleasure, of joy, of love. Stefanos leaned back, smiling as she fell to the ground in a mock faint.
Her, married? It was absurd!
She had believed love to be nothing more than a trap, though this love,hislove, had set her free. Katerina was sure that if she were to run as fast as she could off the highest cliff on the island, she would soar through the air. All was light, all was glorious color.
“When?” she asked, scrambling back to her knees and crashing into his arms. “Now?”
“Patience,” he chided with affection. “The ceremony will be tomorrow morning before I go.”
It dawned on her then. He had not returned to bring Michalis back to Leni or even to hide the orphaned sister of his fallen comrade—Stefanos was here for her. To abandon the fight when he did was an act of rebellion, though it was one driven by a need to close the circle they had begun to draw together, to attach himself to her in the eyes of God and the law.
“I love you,” she said, and the smile he gave her then was wide enough to swallow the world.
“I love you, too, my beautiful little goat.”
There was no longer a need for words, and as the wind broke ash-colored clouds across the distant mountains, they let their bodies take over.
She was his.
He was hers.
For as long as eternity lasted, they would belong to each other.
Thirty-four
June passed its baton to July, and the new month strode out under a banner of blue.
For the first few days after the article appeared, Skye remained close to the house, preferring the security of doors she could lock and windows that fastened. The weekend came and went, bringing with it no sign of Martyn, though he was not the only man to be notably absent from her life. Andreas had not returned, and his replies to her messages were cool and detached.
When she called to ask if he would collect some cans of paint for her, his response was a sullen “Nai,” and it was Stamatis, not him, who’d turned up at her door with them that morning.
“Where’s the boss?” Skye asked.
Stamatis shrugged.
“Gone to the mainland.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“Perhaps a few days, perhaps longer.”
“Is he there for work, or…?”
