Now he isn’t.

  He would want me to live, though, right?

  And isn’t this part of being alive?

  I know what the world says, that I should wear the black and never allow love in my life again, but I know what my heart says, too, and which should we listen to: the world, or our heart?

  I’ve made my choice.

  So has he.

  When it’s finished, our bodies still wet from the rain, we lay there together, me leaning back against his chest and his chin on top of my head, his arms wrapped tightly around me. He still wears the ring on his left hand, after switching it when we left my village. I reach out and touch it. I feel it. I trace my fingers along the lines of the crest that’s there, and he’s silent, his chest rising and falling. I can feel his heart pressed against me, and I don’t think he’s going to say anything. But then he does.

  “It was my mother’s,” he finally tells me.

  “She gave it to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sound sad.”

  “I am.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s gone.”

  I turn and look at him.

  He stares out at the rain, watching as it slows, but still falls and pools on the ancient stone not far from where we lay.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.”

  “What about your father?”

  “My mother was everything that was good, and pure, and beautiful. My father is the exact opposite of all those things.”

  I’m silent.

  I still feel him, his heart.

  “Fathers can be that way sometimes.”

  “Before she died, I was engaged. There was a girl in my own village I grew up with and loved very deeply, and I proposed to her and she said yes.”

  “But you’re not married.”

  “No.”

  “What happened?”

  “My mother supported it, of course. My father forbade it. He was from an old and distinguished family that had fallen on hard times after the war. He had land and estates, but couldn’t pay the upkeep on it all. So he found me someone else, a girl from London who was born common, but whose father aspired to be more than that. They had money. My father had titles. They arranged the match then told us about it afterward, and the place it would happen, and when.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We fought, at first, my father and I. Then mother got sick, so we didn’t anymore, for her. Eventually the date got closer and closer, but before it happened, mother died. When she was on her deathbed, she called for me, pulled me down close to her and whispered in my ear. Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed, she said. You will never be more beautiful than you are now, and we will never be this way again.”

  “Homer,” I say, recognizing the passage.

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps we’re not so different, your people and mine.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “So you married the girl from the village, the one you’d loved your entire life?”

  “When she’d seen my engagement in the paper, she wasted no time in finding someone else. He was nearly the same as I was in every way: the same age, from a family of the same sort, he even looked similar. I realized then it wasn’t me that she loved, but what she would be if she married me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I was, too.”

  “And that’s how you left things?”

  “The day after I found out about her engagement, I booked a ticket to London, walked into a recruiter’s office, and joined the war.”

  “I thought everyone your age had to join?”

  “Many do. But not if your father knows the right people.”

  “I’m sure that went over well.”

  “I don’t know how it went over.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I haven’t spoken to him since.”

  I’m silent.

  I move closer to him.

  My hand is still in his and now my fingers trace and retrace the lines of the crest on his ring once more, as it rests there on his finger, and in my palm.

  “So this… reminds you of her.”

  He finally looks down at me.

  I can feel him and his sea-blue eyes that search for mine.

  “It reminds me of my heart,” he eventually says. “Which I suppose is another way of saying the same thing, and reminds me to follow it.”

  I think of his story, and what he’s just told me.

  “You’re a Lord.”

  “My father is.”

  “So you will be when he dies.”

  He almost laughs.

  “Not if he disinherits me.”

  “I’m sure he won’t.”

  “I hope he does.”

  “Why?”

  “Because life is so much simpler when it’s just your heart, then everything else.”

  “Like it has been since you’ve left?”

  “Yes. Exactly like that.”

  We sit there another moment, together, me in his arms, leaning back against his chest, then he begins to slowly unwrap his arms from around me, and he stands.

  “What are you doing?”

  “It’s going to be cold without a fire, and we’ll be hungry with no way to cook our friends over there,” he nods to the rabbits we’ve caught.

  “All the wood’s drenched.”

  “I’m sure there’s some that’s not,” he says, then picks up his shirt.

  He doesn’t put it on, though.

  Instead, he bends down and softly kisses me, then walks out into the rain, completely naked and without bothering to dress.

  I watch him.

  I watch as he walks through ancient ruins, and then on, beyond them and towards the countryside.

  I think of everything he just told me.

  I think of his mother, and her last words: the ancient ones from the most famous of Greek poets.

  Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed.

  Has a single sentence more accurately summed up an island, or people, or time?

  I reach towards my own trousers and belt and pull my husband’s dagger from where it’s sheathed. I take the rabbits from where William set them when we first came to the palace, when the rain started, and I begin to skin them. I start at the legs and cut around them, then pull the skin back and away, and as I do, I look at the dagger that I work with, and I think of him again.

  I think of Demetrios.

  What would he feel, if he could see me?

  What would he say, if he could speak?

  I don’t know.

  I’ve only ever been in his arms before in my life, and had always intended that to be the case and my future, but now I’ve been with another, and one that I’m not married to, also.

  The world changes, doesn’t it?

  The world changes in so many ways, and perhaps it should, too, and it’s us that are going to change it.

  It’s always us.

  Those of us that are still young, and feel, and dream of ways this can all be different, and better.

  Will I ever lose that?

  I don’t know.

  I don’t want to, but I don’t know, because so many do, don’t they.

  I look up and see William coming back; his beautiful, slender, naked figure walking through the rain with his slight limp and clear blue eyes that are sunken into his now-tanned skin, from his time in the Mediterranean, on our island and in our sun.

  His eyes are the color of the rain, the sea.

  The sea that brought him to me.

  The sea that will eventually take him away again.

  He carries sticks of all sizes wrapped in his shirt to keep them dry, and when I ask how he was able to find them, he said he gathered a few from places under stones, trees, and bushes, where there wasn’t much water. He drops them in a pile then takes the flint from his pants and strikes it again. It takes a bit longer this time, but eventually there’s a spark, then flames that spread and burn. I skewer the rabbits on another stick and we hold them over the flames until they’re cooked then eat together in silence, and when we’re done, my eyes look and find his again, and he comes to me.

  We lay there, next to the flames.

  I lay there in his arms.

  It’s different with him than it was with Demetrios, and after a moment, I realize why; with Demetrios, we were both young, and exploring, full of passion, optimism, and hope, and all that was reflected in our love and in each other. With William, we no longer have any of those things. Well, none except passion. We’re two people that have been broken and we’re the same because that’s the language we speak, and share: the too-often experienced language of shattered and broken hearts. I can feel him begin to drift to sleep, his chest rising and falling in equal intervals, his head to the side and between my neck and shoulder.

  I feel him, the warmth from his body, the heat.

  I look at the fire in front of us as it continues to burn, lower, the wood he found being consumed and the light it brings dancing across everything; our skin, the stones of the mosaic on which we sleep, the walls that surround this place and protect us and give us shelter from what we know we’ll soon have to face again when we leave.

  The world.

  The world, and what it does.

  But not now.

  Not tonight, and not yet.

  So instead I lay there, I just lay there with him next to me, and I feel my lips begin to twist and move, and for the first time since my husband and family were killed, I realize, for the first time since then, and through all the darkness that’s come, I finally smile once more.

  24 MAY 21, 1943

  We stay amongst the ruins of Phaistos for another two days, and the only person we see is a shepherd, who comes down from the hills. He just nods when he sees us, at the way we’re dressed, and who we are, then continues farther east and across the plains to where the mountains begin again. We hunt and fish and cook, and we take our clothes off and swim in the sea together before coming back to lay and dry in the sun, on the sand and amongst the rocks.

  It’s beauty, and it’s peace.

  We both know it can’t last, though.

  On the third day, after we’ve eaten and slept in the palace one final time, and gone to the sea, we return to the ruins. We dress in our Cretan clothes. Once we’re dressed, we turn and leave. It takes us a whole day again to walk from the sea back to the mountains above Chania, and we check the traps we left on our way. We return with a few more rabbits to be cooked and eaten, and when the others see, they take the food from us and start to prepare it. Once we’re all together again, they tell us they received the visit we’ve been waiting for from the SOE. They don’t ask where we’ve been or why we’ve been gone so long. Instead, they just bring duffels and open them and show us the ammunition, rifles, pistols, alcohol, and letters from home. And there are even grenades this time, too, some that were left over from the fighting south of us and across the Mediterranean in North Africa.

  So that means only one thing.

  It’s time.

  After we’re done eating, I stand and rinse my plate, then turn and go back to my tent, and William does the same thing.

  He doesn’t go to his tent, though.

  He comes to mine.

  The others see, of course.

  Once again, they don’t say anything.

  When he walks in after me, I nod towards the cot that’s pushed against the far side of the space.

  “It’s small,” I tell him.

  “That’s alright,” he answers.

  Then begins to take his clothes off.

  After a moment, I do, too.

  Is this how quickly lives begin again?

  I suppose it must be.

  He climbs onto the cot, so do I, then he wraps his arms around me and we’re tired because of how much we’ve walked and how far we’ve travelled, so we’re both asleep in no time and when I rise the next day, before the sun, as I always do, I unwrap his arms from around me, stand, and begin to dress. He opens his eyes when I get up and he watches me. When I’m done, he stands from the cot, too, and gets dressed, then we’re ready.

  We’re about to go outside, but he stops me.

  His eyes meet my eyes.

  “What is it?” I ask him.

  “Kalimera,” he finally says.

  I nod.

  It’s strange, this moment, and sharing it with him.

  It’s strange, but is it right?

  “Kalimera,” I tell him in return.

  Then he pushes the flap open and we walk out, together.

  The others are there, already dressed, and ready, too.

  We walk towards them.

  I stand in front of them, with William next to me, and I try to meet as many of their eyes as I can.

  “Are you sure?” I ask, one more time.

  They know what I’m asking, of course.

  “No,” Evelyn speaks for all of them. “But what in war is?”

  I look back at him, at all of them.

  Then I nod, so does he, and we all start to walk.

  I lead them east through the mountains and back towards Arkadi, but we won’t go there this time. Theos joins us now, too, keeping pace next to Tane. Instead of taking the southern route that would bring us to Arkadi, I opt to take the route farther north and lower in the mountains so we can find a place nearer the city to make camp, and this is where I take them: it’s the remnants of another village that was destroyed by the Germans for harboring resistors, or something similar, and it’s still in the mountains, though not as high as our camp. It’s situated at the end of a long gorge with a river running through it and thick forests on each side which will be a perfect position for us; we’ll be able to tell if Germans are coming because there’s only one way into the gorge from the north, and we can flee to the south if we hear them, or see them.

  The others walk together, in front of us.

  Behind them, William walks next to me.

  He looks down at my hand next to his as we walk, and I think he’s going to reach out and take it.

  Also, I feel myself wanting him to.

  But he doesn’t.

  We start to come farther down from the mountains and have to loop around to enter the gorge from the north end, which we do, then hike back up it and farther south. We get to the point where vehicles can no longer travel on the road—not kubelwagens, or motorcycles, or anything—then we go just a little bit farther. After we’ve walked what Peter deems to be an appropriate distance, we leave the road and head into the forest.

  This is the place from where we’ll stake out Rethymno, in search of Friedrich-Wilhelm Muller.

  Once our camp is set, we leave the gorge, and go to the hills above the city.

  We remain in the hills where we can’t be seen, but we can see them, coming and going, and make note of the military vehicles we see, and their movements. After a few days of observing habits, behaviors, and timing of patrols, we guess as to what patrol Muller might be part of and the best way to intercept him and make him pay for what he did.

  We have to be sure, though.

  So we move closer to the village.

  The patrol leaves and we watch it from behind trees and rocks in the hills, though when it passes below us, we can’t tell if he’s in any of the kubelwagens or not, so I start to take the rifles from my back—first one, then the other—and put them on the ground next to William. Then I take the pistol from my belt and put it there, too.

  He looks at my weapons, in the grass, then back up at me.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going down there.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to find him.”

  “Don’t be mad,” Peter turns when he hears this.

  “I’m not,” I tell him. “I’m a woman. They have no reason to suspect I’m anything but that.”

  “And you’re, what… just going to ask someone?”

  “Maybe.”

  I’ve removed all my firearms and now I reach down and take the two daggers that hang from my belt and flip them so they hang inside my trousers, and can’t be seen.

  “Maria,” William begins.

  But I just start to walk.

  He tries to reach for me but I dodge his hand and move away from the cover to where I can now be seen by anyone watching, which the men can’t do, and I start to walk down the hill.

  I can hear them talking behind me, whispering urgently.

  Then someone else breaks from cover, and I turn to see it’s Theos.

  “You’re too old now,” I tell him. “We can’t take the chance they’ll think so, too.”

  He reaches down.

  He takes the cuffs of his pants and begins to roll them so they become shorts, reaches to his waist and tucks his shirt in, before he turns to look at me again.

  “There,” he says. “Just a schoolboy, out for a walk with his older sister.”

  I look at him as we keep walking, then just shake my head.

  It’ll be risky, but he does look younger and I can tell he has no intention of turning back, so I suppose there’s no use arguing further.

  I smile and run my hand through his hair to mess it up.

  He smiles, too, and we walk in silence until we get closer to the city and enter from the western side. We go all the way to the sea, then take the road that winds between the water and kastro that they still call Fortezza, having kept its Venetian name through the years, even amongst the locals. It’s the most impressive defensive structure in all of Crete, and I see the Germans have discovered that, too, as a whole line of kubelwagens drive through the narrow gate and up towards the top.

  We don’t go to the Fortezza, though.

  We keep walking.

  The path leads us around the side of the acropolis and into their Old Town where the streets are very narrow, the same as ours, too, then we go to the limani, their harbor. It’s not quite as large as ours and we see their lighthouse at the end that’s not quite as impressive as our lighthouse. We keep walking and go past the Rimondi Fountain, where women fill jugs with fresh water that comes from the holes between the carved Italian columns of marble, and there are a lot of people here; there are women coming and going with their daughters, and the kafeneios are filled with German soldiers of all ages who watch the women as they sip coffees and talk amongst themselves. Besides the Germans and the women, there are only children and the elderly, anywhere we look, as the men are of course either in the hills, or already dead. We hurry past the kafeneios and towards their agora, where vendors on either side shout and sell their wares, then in front of us, at the end of the road, there’s the megali porta, which some of the locals still call by its other name, the Guora Gate, named for one of the Venetian rectors that ruled the city a long time ago when it was still walled and fortified. The gate itself is the only piece left of the old walls of the city, and it’s also the only way into and out of Old Town by vehicle. So we know this is where the caravan of Germans we saw leave this morning will return.