The sound Skye made was halfway between a laugh and a groan.
“Like I said,” she mused, “a total catch.”
Chora was as busy as Skye had ever seen it, the narrow lanes bottlenecked with visitors. She waited outside the gallery while Joy caught Sander up on her progress, showing him photos of the portrait she’d been working on. It had come as no surprise that Victoria looked divine as a Greek goddess, though Joy confessed she’d had more fun painting Bruno.
“People move around all the bloody time,” she said. “That dog could turn sleeping into an Olympic sport. He’s the dream subject.”
The two of them passed a few hours meandering through the streets, picking through knickknacks and trying on Grecian-style dresses threaded with gold. Joy chose an evil-eye ring for her pinkie, while Skye treated herself to handmade leather sandals to replace the rubber-soled pair that had finally given up.
“You hungry?” Joy asked as they drew level with a French-style patisserie named Le Petit.
Skye eyed the window display, where rows of cakes, chocolates, and marzipan fruits were lined up like jewels.
“I am now,” she said.
“Have the cops been back in touch at all?” Joy said as they reemerged minutes later, each with a dessert cup in hand. Skye had chosen tiramisu, the cocoa-dusted top giving way to layers of mascarpone and soaked biscuit. Joy’s mille-feuille cracked beneath her spoon, spilling cream between its flaky golden sheets.
“Not with me,” Skye said between mouthfuls. “It was Andreas they called last time, and if he’d heard anything, he probably wouldn’t even tell me.”
“But you two are friends,” Joy said.
“I’m not sure we are anymore. Ever since that day when the newspaper article came out, he’s stayed away. He’s angry with me for not telling him the whole story, but it’s complicated. Putting my trust in men—any men—after what happened just feels like too much of a risk.”
“Give it time, chook,” Joy said, scraping her spoon around the cup. “He’ll come around.”
He may well do, thought Skye. But would she?
They pressed on, the wind tugging at their clothes as the town slipped away behind them. The path grew steeper, winding up the mountain toward the church, and Skye felt her breath shorten with each step. A young Greek couple strode past, as unfazed by the incline as the donkeys watching from the other side of a low wall. Among the animals, a man in heavy boots and a cap scattered grain from a bucket, while in the undergrowth, crickets sang. At the final bend of the pathway, Skye paused. Chora lay sprawled below them, a scatter of sugar-cube houses stitched intothe gold-and-green hillside. Amid it all, the old fortress clung to its cliff-edge perch, defiant against the drop.
Joy led the way through a small gate and onto the grounds of the church. They were not the only visitors; a group of tourists was clustered in front of an arched doorway, and more were wandering around, cameras and binoculars raised, sunglasses covering eyes that were dazzled by the bleached walls. They waited until there was space before moving quietly into the church’s cool interior. Skye found her eyes drawn upward, to where the domed ceiling was bathed in soft yellow light; large decorative candelabras swung gently above head height, and the air was fragranced with wood polish.
A short distance away, a group was gathered around a slim dark-haired woman, listening intently. Skye glanced at Joy, and the two of them sidled closer to eavesdrop.
“You see the icon behind us here,” the woman said, gesturing to a silver image on the wall. “The legend is that an Ottoman pirate cut away the face of the Virgin Mary and stole her. That night, and on every night that followed, she visited the man in his dreams and begged him to take her home. The pirate was so tormented that he threw his treasures into the sea, where they were discovered by a captain from Ios. He had heard the story and knew to return her here, to Folegandros.”
The story was greeted by a series of oohs and aahs from the assembled tourists, many of whom raised their phones to take photographs. The woman told them she would wait outside, flashing a quiet smile at Skye and Joy as she passed them.
“What is it about churches that always makes me feel as if I’ve done something naughty?” Joy whispered as a bearded priest in black robes and a kamilavka hat appeared through a side door.
“Because you usually have,” Skye replied, keeping her voice low.
In the end, their giggles became too loud for the muted silence,and they burst back out into the sunny courtyard clutching their sides. It had been weeks, maybe longer, since laughter had taken her by surprise. She felt breathless and weightless, as though something inside her had slipped free from its shackles.
The tour guide who’d told the pirate story was watching them, seemingly bemused. Skye dabbed at her eyes, glancing up as a bird soared into view, its dark silhouette a small rip in the faultless blue.
“Eleonora’s falcon,” the woman said, following its flight with a tilt of her head. “She is hunting.”
“Neat,” Joy said. “What does she eat?”
The woman’s shoulders rose in a small, careless gesture.
“Perhaps mice,” she said, “but she would prefer to find a rabbit, another, smaller bird, or a bat. You do not see them very often here. Most of the time, they remain close to their nesting ground, and most of these kinds of falcons are on Tilos.”
“You sound as if you know a lot about them,” Skye said.
The woman turned to her. Up close, she was striking in a way that caught Skye off guard. Her features were finely drawn—a small upturned nose, full mouth, and serious eyes framed by lashes so dark they looked inked on. She wore a pale gray trouser suit despite the heat, while a delicate silver cross glinted at her throat.
“Not me,” she said. “My ex-husband. He is a…how do you call it in English?”
