“I will heed your warning.” Aaron did not budge.
“Then God be with you. Nikolaos Argyros lives with his family in a house near the sea. Go past the harbour and follow the path along the coast. You cannot miss it. It is the house with the pink flowers, closest to the beach.”
And he stared at Aaron for a long time before the Englishman disappeared round the corner.
“Who was that man?” called out his wife.
“He said he was an English teacher sent from Athens, but I’ve seen his eyes. He is a mad man.”
“Where is he going?”
“To see Nikolaos. He wishes to meet his daughter.”
“Which one?”
“Which one do you think? Only bad luck will come from this.” He shook his head.
It had been a long journey, but Aaron felt no ache or tiredness as he walked past the Byzantine fortress and towards the beach. Like the donkey which had journeyed for hours, trudging an uneven path from Corfu Town to Kassiopi under scorching heat, he seemed enlivened by an unexplainable willpower. His senses were fully awakened, the moment he stepped into the tiled Argyros courtyard.
Several chickens pecked at seeds scattered on the ground while a rooster crowed, flapping its wings. Perched on the white chalk wall which bordered the courtyard, he saw a small goat, chewing with solemn nonchalance. Beside it, two cats lazed on the hot stone while a dog slumbered at the foot of the wall.
There was a stirring at the house’s blue door and the goat raised its head. It dashed off the wall, and into the centre of the courtyard, where it began to leap for joy.
The house door opened and out stepped a young woman with jet black hair. She reached forth to caress the goat before looking up to meet Aaron’s gaze. The goat settled instantly by her side, facing Aaron, as though protective of its mistress.
Any man on the island would have fallen under her spell. For this young girl, barely twenty, was as fresh and delicate as a nymph. Like her village counterparts, she too wore opaque stockings and a full black skirt upon which was tied an apron of brighter colours with a fringed band sewn at the hem.
Beneath her embroidered vest, a white blouse fell softly on her curves and this was made all the more fetching by the black and gold belt fastened at her tiny waist.
Coral and blue bead necklaces hung above her tanned neck, and even from afar, Aaron inhaled the scent of olive oil she had rubbed on her skin.
All this, he thought, carried the breath of youth, and a life under the sun spent near the Ionian Sea. But Aaron dismissed it all. He had had his share of whores, courtesans, mistresses, even a countess. He had lied and cheated to bed them all. This was different.
He cared nothing of what she resembled. Still, he noticed her eyes straight away. All of the villagers had sported brown or black eyes, whereas in her gaze, stirred the wild currents of the Mediterranean mingled with the black that so resembled the dark mountain towering over Kassiopi.
Those bewitching eyes would have lured thousands of men from even Helen of Troy herself, and while he saw their uniqueness, they had little effect in seducing Aaron Nightingale, nor did they leave their imprint in his mind, because in the moment in which he understood who she was, Aaron only had eyes for the way in which all the animals in the courtyard had magically gathered at the young woman’s feet, leaving him wondering whether some invisible string bound them all to her, or if perhaps deep within, she bore a tremendous force that defied nature’s laws and governed their every move.
Chapter 7
Thursday
IN disbelief, Maurice ran his hand across the sheets. The fabric felt moist. He rose, horrified.
Still half-asleep, a frightening vision returned to haunt him. It was the memory of his mother, her face twisted in anger.
“You filth!” she spat.
He was four. He tried in vain to hide the mess he’d caused while she came at him. Malice flashed in her eyes.
“What did I tell you, Maurice? What happens when you wet your bed?”
A dread crept through him as he remembered what she would do. Maurice’s heart raced until he looked at his surroundings and realised he was in a guestroom in Alexandra Hall. He breathed a sigh of relief but it was soon overshadowed by another fear. Maurice ran his hands on top of the covers. The quilt felt damp too. So did the sides of his pillow and parts of his hair. All exposed parts of his bed had moistened overnight.
“Are there leaks in this house, Mrs. Cleary?” he asked at breakfast. He had decided to take breakfast in the commons dining room, the chill of winter not permitting meals on the veranda.
“Absolutely not,” replied Mrs. Cleary who seemed to be miraculously composed. She looked nothing like she had the night before. Sleep and perhaps more medication had restored her. “The roof and gable are John Nightingale’s pride and joy. I can’t imagine there being any leaks.”
“Oh.”
“What do you ask me this question?”
Maurice did not wish to alarm the housekeeper. It would be senseless to renew her fears after the efforts it took to calm her down last night. He let the matter drop. But Mrs. Cleary observed him with a keen eye.
“I warned you about this. You should have locked your door,” she remarked.
“Well I suppose I shall have no other choice but to sleep with an eye open and to see for myself.”
Mrs. Cleary stared at him with a look of terror in her eyes, but she kept silent.
