The House of Hidden Letters

"Your fridge and oven will arrive tomorrow?" He had posed it as a question, though clearly he did not need her to confirm it. If anything, he appeared to know more about the moving-in schedule than Skye herself. 

"The sooner the better," she said. "It does feel a bit sparse in there."

A frown passed over his features, and Skye glanced down, her attention momentarily snagged by the eagle-head buckle of his belt. She recalled the row of motorcycles she'd seen down at the port, a battalion of polished chrome and sun-cracked leather.

"Do you like the house?" Andreas asked.

"Well..." Skye considered. "It still needs work, as you know, but yes, I like it. I wouldn't have bought it if I didn't."

"For one euro," he intoned.

A scruffy ginger cat had stalked up the path from the village while they'd been talking and now sat himself down in the shade of her boundary wall. Andreas clicked his tongue, and the animal stretched toward him, yawning as he stooped to pet it.

"'Geiá sou', Tigri," he murmured. 

Skye bent to pick up the bags.

"I should put all this away," she said. "It really was kind of you to bring it here."

Andreas straightened.

"Slowly, slowly, the unripe grape becomes honey," he said almost as if to himself, then smiled at her. "If you change your mind about eating at the taverna, you are welcome to join me, although of course I understand if you would prefer to be alone on your first evening."

"I think I would," she agreed, "but thank you."

Skye remained where she was, watching as he strode back the way he'd come, exuding a nonchalance she could not help but envy. The cat, Tigri, fixed his pale eyes on her, yowling as she closed the door on him. There was no point inviting him inside, not when she had nothing to offer save for affection, and even that would have taken considerable effort to muster. It had been a long day, a journey that had begun not hours but months ago, and all she wanted now was to sleep.

The donated items, she took through into the kitchen, dumping each bag on the floor before going back upstairs. The air bed was in the larger of the two bedrooms, though rather than returning to the task of pumping it up, she took the ladder up to the attic room, a space she'd run a cursory eye over earlier and deemed too hot, dark, and cramped to use for anything other than storage. There was only one window, a slim dormer that offered an unblemished view of the sea. Skye pushed hard against the wooden frame until it swung open, breathing in the scents of salt and warm air.

Dust motes swarmed and long-abandoned spiderwebs hung in corners. Ducking to avoid the beams, she stepped cautiously over floorboards, which creaked in protest, pausing when she encountered an indentation in one of the supporting struts. It was the letter K neatly carved. Whoever had engraved it must have stood exactly where she was standing, their brow furrowed in concentration, thinking not of any future inhabitants who would stare upon the mark they made but only of what it meant to them in that moment. Skye knew that the house had been empty for more than eighty years—had 'K' been its final occupant, or were they someone from long before that? It felt suddenly important to know.

"Who were you?" she whispered, trailing her finger across the wood.

No answer came. There was no sound at all save for the faint thrum of crickets drifting up from the garden, and then, so abruptly that she gasped, another loud knock at the front door. Swearing under her breath and rubbing her head where she'd banged it against one of the low beams, Skye went once again to answer it.

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.

CHAPTER 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 of 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, a K inscribed for Katerina, which would now remain forever.