SemperIntrepida

Mykonos was a prosperous island when I left it five years ago, but judging by all the empty berths at the docks and the number of laborers standing around aimlessly, the tides of good fortune appear to have gone out. The few merchants selling wares in the agora are guarded

The stories were right about Thera: its waters are infested with pirates, their black sails prowling the seas like packs of wolves. But Captain Gelon's ship is a nimble little pentekonter, and when I ask if she's worried about being attacked, she says, "Fuck no!

Sefthas helps me bring you home, on a felucca borrowed from one of the villagers. I never made you feel welcome here, but it was your home too, in the end. I don't think you'd want to begin your journey to the Underworld among strangers.

After the incident at the bathing pool, your hands stay clean of blood—visible or otherwise. But you retreat within yourself, your shoulders hunching under an unseen burden of your own making, and outside the hut you're careful to keep your distance. You hardly speak and I don&

I don't forget the dead, but there's a shift in the currents between us. We graze the goats on the mountain, we make cheese and sell it at market, and when we're together, we banter, almost like friends.

On the morning of the longest day of summer, I take the tally stick I use to track the moon and the passing time, unwrap its thread, and wind it around the next notch in line. "It's the day of longest light," I say.

Market day. We've been up since dawn, packing bundles of cheese into damp clay pots to keep the heat out. Our satchels bulge and sag with the weight. The morning milk-pots have been overflowing with milk from dams who've spent all spring feasting on rain-kissed greens.

Spring drips along in strings of soggy days. The incessant rain leaves the goats restless and grumpy in their stalls, and the sun only appears as a tease. I should be grumpy too, hobbling around with a bad ankle, forced to rely on your help. But we've reached

The sound of an axe bangs through the yard on a cool, grey morning. Above me, the clouds are a carpet of dappled wool, and I frown as I study them, tasting rain and salt. I check my satchel—an old barley sack tied to a leather strap—and sling

I've learned to enjoy the silence and stillness of solitude in the years I've worked this farmstead on my own. But now I must share my sanctuary with someone I despise. I must figure out what to do with you.