The House of Hidden Letters

"Entáxei," he said. "So, you want to become a Greek?"

"I don't think that's possible." Skye unfolded and refolded her arms.

"If you say you are a Greek, then I promise not to argue with you."

"Thank you."

"But you must understand that we do not have many Greeks here with hair like yours."

Skye patted her blond locks self-consciously.

"And you will have to work on your accent."

She narrowed her eyes, and he smiled, extending a hand.

"I am Andreas. Andreas Vithoulkas."

"Skye."

Their fingers slid together briefly, and he repeated her name several times.

"It's Skye with an e," she explained. "I was named after an island, which feels ironic."

Andreas cocked his head to one side.

"Are you going to have a look at your house?" he asked, gesturing at the still-locked door.

"In a minute I will."

When he failed to take the hint, Skye drew in a long breath and exhaled it sharply.

"Ah, sorry." Andreas pressed a hand to his forehead. "I have not explained myself. I am a contractor," he said. "A builder. I am the one who will be helping you finish the house."

"Oh, you will, will you?" Skye replied. "And do I get a say in this, or...?"

He shifted from one foot to the other.

"Of course, you are free to hire another person, someone from Santorini or the mainland, but that will take a lot of time. I am the only person doing this job who lives here, on the island."

His presumption stung, however well meant it might have been, and the sigh that escaped Skye's lips was laced with mild frustration. How best to communicate politely that what she wanted was to look around her new home for the first time alone, without some stranger in tow? He was friendly, yet he was still a man—and as far as she was concerned, that meant he was also an unknown entity. An awkward silence bloomed, during which she did little more than stare at the ground.

Andreas cleared his throat.

"I am intruding," he said. "Sorry. I will come back tomorrow if that is OK with you?"

Skye drew herself up, faintly ashamed of having so clearly communicated her displeasure.

"Of course," she said, though before she had time to say more, Andreas had nodded and turned away, quickly disappearing from view through the boundary between her modest property and the larger one beyond. She waited, rooted to the spot, unsure whether he would return. Why had she left it to him to figure out what was playing on her mind? When it came to corralling a classroom full of children, she never used to have any such qualms. But then, that had been before; she had changed over the past few months in ways she didn't want to admit, was not yet ready to accept.

"Get a grip, MacKinnon," she muttered, fumbling to get the key into the lock. The door was stiff, and she had to shoulder it to get it open, flakes of blue paint falling over the threshold. It was dim inside, faint light streaming in from around the shuttered windows. She located a switch on the wall, blinking as a lone yellow bulb flickered to life from a cord in the middle of a cracked wood-paneled ceiling. The open-plan living space was empty save for several piles of timber and a scattering of bricks, while the thick shaft of a defunct fireplace banked up from one corner. Stairs leading to the second story hugged the wall closest to the door, though there was no banister. Someone had left a stack of newspapers on the bottom step. Skye made her way toward an open archway at the far side of the room, through which she discovered a kitchen, or the approximation of one. The plug sockets appeared new enough, as did the crude strip lighting, but the uneven stone tiles were scarred by another time.