The world is safe with moments of danger.

These words ring in the ears of sailors. Sailors drawn to the Bronze Age island of Thera at high summer. Sailors who cull up hard memories. And visitors who tell of theft, senseless plunder, and violence. Travelers who tell of what is to come, of a dark night lasting for days, of fire, crumbling earth, and a wall of water.

Sparks of conflict arise in their hometown of Akrotiri, and for Hebe, Thalia, and Clio, this summer is like no other. As the days unfold, each girl is held accountable for the ways in which she influences the island’s health, and an old prophecy’s outcome.

Hebe is the second eldest, the island’s chief healer, and she is the first to face her fears. In this first book in the THERA series, an old friend comes back to haunt Hebe.

Her experiences nine years ago with Ancaeus, and their violent repercussions, can no longer be ignored. Together, the once lovers account for the time gone by, and renew sentiments Hebe would rather leave behind.

Passion and despair, in equal measure, accent sharp politics.

Members from all sides of the Great Green Sea voice concerns. Concerns echoed by Hebe’s sisters, Thalia and Clio, who sense shifts in the fire and wind. And Hebe feels them, deep within she feels the fabric of their Minoan island tearing. Helpless to stop it, Hebe cannot deny it.

Somethings must be shattered, before they can be fully mended.

~Travel to the prehistoric Greek Bronze Age Cyclades, the ancient island of Santorini and its town of Akrotiri, the Pompeii of the Aegean. Discover the hot refinement of a maritime culture deeply in tune with nature, and celebratory of its beauty. Experience what the final days of that island might have been like. Days preceding the largest volcanic eruption in the last 10,000 years.~

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  And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free romance excerpt:

Chapter One

THREE DAUGHTERS

A thick, spicy breeze crosses the island, lifting Hebe’s hair. She tucks a wild lock behind her ear. Dust rises as she draws her knees into her chest. Next to her bees ride hot air and hover over blooming oregano. One alights on a small white flower, dipping deep into the blossom’s core. The sun is high, and the late afternoon air is humid. The breeze dies. Heat rushes the bees, but as pollen collects on their legs they become heavier, slower. Through lowered eyes Hebe stares at the tiny spirits. One drunken bee stills for a minute on the edge of a petal. It leaps and hovers low before finding another flower. As soon as it lands, Hebe hears Thalia’s hushed voice rush to her from across the island.

“Hebe,” Thalia’s voice is crisp, clear.

Her words are resonant, ringing through empty space. On the next heartbeat Hebe can see her younger sister standing on the eastern edge of the island. Rocky cliffs below her are layered with clumps of lush red lilies. Their smell is sultry and thick, an even match to the heat. Tiny Thalia faces away from the sun, looking out over the shadow of the cliff and an endless stretch of deep green water. Beneath her swallows dart into and out of nests they have built in the rocks between crimson purses.

“I am here,” Hebe replies, and across the island Thalia hears Hebe’s voice right away, as though it were an echo returning to meet her. Immediately she sees Hebe sitting on a dry bluff above her cove. The tide is rising. Water crashes against the walls of a shallow cave down on the black beach. Saltwater mist floats up and cools the air. Hebe turns away from the bees and looks out over the Great Green Sea to Crete, barely visible to the south. She closes her eyes.

United by their focus the two girls wait together, sharing the silence of a finer space. Together they can feel a soft hum permeate the air, hovering like the bees, soaring like the swallows. It resonates in their chests, and gathers their hearts into the same rhythm. The island responds, and when they are entrained they wait, suspended, willing their older sister to find them.

Clio could be anywhere.

Yet she is home, standing in the large open-air courtyard of their palace. She is surrounded by activity. People hurry past her and their feet stir the packed earth. Inland, it is sometime before she feels the relief of a small breeze, just the gentle push of a pair of wings. She wets her lips and tastes salt and dust. She closes her eyes and scans the surface of their crescent shaped island. She looks for the little trails of light and color her sisters leave in their wakes: faint traces of blue and green left behind by Hebe, streaks of red and orange racing behind Thalia. Their light ripples throughout the labyrinthine halls of the palace, and around the grounds, out beyond the edges of ripe fields, over hillsides, and across a shallow harbor.

Their mother has sent them in opposite directions today. At first seeing their paths separate from one another is distracting, but Clio splits her focus like the twigs of a branch, following each to its furthest extension, to its newest bud. Their island is small, but beautiful, easily crossed in one long day, and each sister has many favorite places. The two they chose today reflect areas that are dearest to them, and that has made the pull stronger, the colors brighter. It is no trouble for Clio to know where each sister is, simultaneously.

“I see you. Both of you,” she replies.

And in an instant the three of them see their mother, Charis, alone in a consecrated place. Standing on a little isle at the heart of their island’s sacred lagoon, Charis smiles. After years of preparation, her daughters are ready.

Chapter Two

NOW

Small stones bite into the tough and smooth skin of Charis’ feet. She walks slowly, making little sound. The sun is not yet high enough to rid the white gravel path of shade. She runs her fingers down stalks of silver olive leaves, gliding past the trees. Dust coats her soles and she brings white traces of the orchard with her where she walks. Deliberately, she winds her way north to the lagoon. It is a still morning, and all is quiet. She can hear the soft lap of waves against tall cliff walls.

She stops walking and stands, facing the rising sun. The smells of sage and thyme are strong. The light is soft, orange and lavender. She rubs her hands together and warms them. Soon the day will be unbearably hot, but for now, Charis needs heat. When her palms are warm enough she presses them to her eyes. In the dark she sees a faint glimmer of movement. She smells the tang of olive leaves on her skin. She cups her palms tighter. Her whole system relaxes. She takes a deep breath and lowers her hands, brushes them against her legs. She continues to walk. After some time she is at the edge of the caldera, looking out onto the lagoon below and the isle at its center. Steam rises from that tiny patch of floating land in an exhalation. She mimics the gesture and it calms her further. Charis looks at her feet. They are rimmed with white but the high bones of her toes and the tops of her arches are dark with sun. This stark contrast seems somehow important.

An abrupt flash of light catches her attention and she glances across the lagoon. On the northern rim it flashes again and Charis knows everything is about to begin. To the west she watches as the first ship rounds the southern prong of her island. It is a small trader, an island ship from the north. Its shape and movement are familiar, and this reassures her. Again, flashes of light flicker. She reads the signals, more ships are coming, many more. Turning on her chalked heal, she descends the way she came, down the trail home, to the town of Akrotiri.

Chapter Three

HOPE

It is as sweet as the smell of distant land. Round and full, hope soars in lazy circles high above like a gull on the wind. Hope alights on Ancaeus’ upturned face as though it were sunshine; reaches out before him like the deep sea. He sucks the taste off his lips and smiles–giddy, a delighted boy, a drunken man. The polished and waxed wood of his ship knows his touch, the rub of his feet, and the pull of his hands as he climbs to the prow. He walks along the narrow point of it, out over the water. Ocean spray wets his kilt, washes his feet. Wind and waves blow hair from his face. He holds the ropes and feels the sail swell with speed. Out across the Aegean he scans for the land he longs for, the smallest sliver of an island interrupting the mirror of sea and sky rushing out before him.

Ancaeus closes his eyes and the image of a young woman forms behind the lids. The supple and curvy shape of Hebe turns, lit from behind by the light of the sun. She laughs, sways, and dances before him. He tucks his chin and watches her. Sea spray wets her tunic and dots her smooth face and high cheekbones with prisms. The tangle of her wild hair snakes through the wind in dark curls. Her wide and shameless smile grows; her brilliant peridot eyes fill with longing. She reaches with her small hands for his face, cups his cheeks and pulls him down to her. Their lips meet. The relief of her warm welcome floods his heart. Their reunion washes him with peace. She is his dream, her homecoming kiss the subject of his many imaginings. For months her eidolon has existed for him alone.

Then his ship crests and dips low on a wave. His stomach flips and dives, waking him from his reverie with renewed and anxious expectation. His fellow sailors are singing. Shouting, they hail their home with hope in their eyes and yearning in their voices. Ancaeus looks down into the water and along the hull of his ship to see like eyes painted there. In low relief the eyes are stark, wide-open, large whites rimmed thick with black. They are shallow sculptures placed there to protect him, to keep his destiny in sight. In and out of the water they never tire, never blink. Bolder now he looks up and sees a pod of seven dolphins coursing through the water, faster than his boat. A willing escort, they slide through the rolling waves between his ship and another. He lifts his hand to his brow, shielding it from the high sun and looks north. His is a salutation well received. Across the water on another ship his friend, Phoebus, points to the west: to land, his island. Thera. Ancaeus looks, and his destiny shines on the water like a mirage.

*****

“The world is safe with moments of danger,” Ancaeus looks out, his father’s words come to him on the waves.

Ancaeus listens for more and heeds the call to focus on the task at hand. He reads the water trying to identify other ships sailing for Thera. His father’s spirit reminds him the world is not something to fear. It is not dangerous with moments of safety, but safe with moments of danger. And though he may have doubts and much is yet uncertain, at this time the smartest thing to do is to permit truth to secure his safety, to heighten his senses, to strengthen the role he is to play in what is yet to come. Yes. Standing here on the narrow prow of his ship, racing across the deepest water, he is safe. But moments of danger are near.

Up ahead there are two traders about the same size as his, and he gauges the distance of three others just as far away but behind him. The two boats in front look to be mainlanders, Mycenaeans. The gap between his ship and theirs is gradually drawing to a close. His friend Phoebus stays close, his large ship riding the starboard bow. Ancaeus retreats from the prow and walks a dozen long paces to stand mid-ship and drop a weighted wedge of wood between his hull and Phoebus’. Two other men help him; one with a heavy and crude sand glass in hand, and the other ready to count the knots in their rope. Ancaeus calls a command in a low voice and the measurement is made: six knots. He motions to Phoebus standing on the deck opposite and smiles. It is a fair pace they sail despite their cargo.

As the island of Thera nears Ancaeus scans its shores on the southern side. He sees islanders already gathering in the shallow harbor. Just inland up the valley is his hometown of Akrotiri. Ancaeus feels a rush of anticipation and focuses once more on maneuvering his ship. He calls his men to trim the single sail and set the oars for rowing through the lagoon. Amidst the cries of command and a chorus of song, there is a rush of activity on deck. Twenty-four men square the sheet and harness the last of the wind. Together they guide Ancaeus’ modest but heavy trader to sail lightly across the remaining stretch of sea. They aim for the southwestern cape of Thera and jockey for position among the other ships.

Together seven boats sail for the narrow break between horns. Separated by only a small gap, the steep prongs of stacked land form a dramatic gateway to the safe harbor within. Once their ship passes through these towers the wind dies and some of Ancaeus’ men stow the sail while others set to rowing. In the relative stillness of the lagoon the voices of his men quiet. Thera is a small island, an enchanted circular caldera, with steep walls on the inside sloping out to gradual beaches on its eastern shore. Though Thera is not known for its expanse of land, it is known for its fiery heart and protective circle.

As they approach the east wall Ancaeus counts at least forty ships already floating in the lagoon and lining the harbor. Most of them look to be island ships, of course, and there are a few from the Mainland to the West, and a handful from The Island of Copper and Cypress to the east. As his ship approaches, Ancaeus feels a swell of pride, an embrace, some salient sense of belonging, a stamp, a seal of approval, cinnabar red like that streak of soil through the cliffs: this is his island, his homeland. And as they draw up alongside another trader, Ancaeus cannot help but look over and nod his welcome.

But this time, the look that greets him from the other ship’s deck is not one of warmth. By the boar’s tusk helmets hanging from any available place, Ancaeus can see this is indeed a Mycenaean trader. The sailor standing opposite is stout and swarthy. He has a dense beard and a low brow; his thick lips are almost lost in matted hair but he licks them and smoothens the hair around them with the point of his tongue. Beneath dark eyebrows Ancaeus sees a pair of tiny eyes, shifting, and then focused, calculated. Ancaeus watches as men on the foreigner’s deck huff and steal glances at the cliffs. They steal glances, he notices, because they look in strategic places. Any native islander knows where to look to see the volley of communication passing across the caldera on a flash of obsidian mirrors. It is the fastest way of alerting Akrotiri to the number of incoming ships and men, and their positions at sea and in the harbor. But this pattern of surveillance is not common knowledge.

Ancaeus has a moment of doubt, his first ever, about his island home. All islanders rely on the security of this fortress at the center of their watery empire to keep their wealth safe for one month of big transactions and negotiations. The Cycladic Islands have an extensive fleet of ships, and for a price they will ferry goods or men any distance. By the summer solstice in one week’s time, most of Thera’s ships will be back in port and bringing with them exotics of immense wealth.The most capable ships sailing the Great Green will be docked here, loaded with valued luxury goods and select people of knowledge from the entire known world. They come to be part of a regular meeting, one that happens every fourth and ninth year to determine trade agreements. For the duration of the meeting, the crescent island of Thera serves as a secure and protected haven, acting like a stronghold around a safe. The two hundred foot cliffs ascend from the water like a wall around the lagoon, open only in one place. That and the hairpin trail from the port up the cliff side to the rim are the only two access points. This leaves little opportunity for pirating and marauders from without. No: shifty eyes that note the security of this haven like a native can mean only one thing: sabotage from within.

“The world is safe with moments of danger,” again he hears his father’s words and knows their truth.

*****

Ancaeus and Phoebus guide their ships into the deep harbor. By the time they finish anchoring them, there is a network of rope securing them to one another and the dock. Ancaeus lowers a smaller boat and rows over to Phoebus’ trader. His new friend of only a few months hops lightly over the side of his ship. Arms stretched high overhead and wide, he descends easily into Ancaeus’ boat. Without a word Phoebus takes the oars and rows them north around Talos, the little island at the center of Thera’s lagoon. It is a small and wooded mound, at the apex is a column of steam rising from the mouth of an active volcano. Warm lagoon water laps against the sides of their skiff.

The sun is still high in the sky and there is no contrast: everything is bare to the heat and bleach of hot light. Ancaeus lets Phoebus continue to row and keeps his eyes on the water and the cliffs. The two men do not talk. They look. They watch infrequent flashes of light pass back and forth across the tall pointed prongs. Then those flashes are repeated again by a figure at the top of the cliffs on the north side of the island. There is a large boulder that blocks this signal from the harbor and makes it possible to send complete messages only to someone at the top of the donkey trail. This all has to happen quickly, because the narrow and steep path zigzagging up the cliff will soon be full of visitors eager to reach the hospitality of Akrotiri. Still, many sailors will dock their large ships and board smaller ones to sail back around the cape and into the shallower harbor right below town. It takes a bit longer, but this way it is easier to bring some of their goods ashore than climbing, and ultimately it is a shorter walk. By now most of the townspeople will have come down to the shallow harbor to greet their guests.

“There are already some forty ships present,” Phoebus punctures the thin silence.

“Yes, that is my count and the obsidian count too,” Ancaeus leans back a bit and scrubs his chin in thought. He is very cleanly shaven and the gesture makes no sound, there is no rasp of stubble: his thought is silent. He tilts his head, eyes closed to the sun. Through thin eyelids he sees nothing but a boiling red ball of fire, rolling and expanding. That ball of fire could so easily morph into an explosion of dramatic change, of radical reformation. Ancaeus drops his head and opens his eyes, colors dance before him, obscuring his vision. They are beautiful. He reaches over the side of their boat and cups the lagoon’s sacred water in both of his hands. He pours it over his face and runs dripping hands through his hair. He is here: Thera. He will see Hebe soon. His friend Phoebus has not stopped rowing and counting the last of the light volleys.

Ancaeus takes a deep breath and wills the muscles of his jaw to relax. Over the last few years at sea, and increasingly so in the last three months, Ancaeus has heard stories about the coming seasons, about an eruption and a shadow falling over the water between the summer solstice and the autumnal equinox. These stories are uttered in short sentences of harsh words. They are clipped accounts at odds with the slow beauty of heavenly movements that portended them. Yet for months, Ancaeus the sailor has listened to them, and he has listened as much to what was said as to how it was said. He has pieced together images of a great explosion, of lightening and fire, a roaring wall of water, rains carving ragged trenches, winds ripping land apart, a flood, an angry sea, then blackness, and famine.

As a navigator, Ancaeus understands that there is a natural rhythm to the world, an ebb and flow to the phases of the moon, the tide, the pass of seasons and the spin of their world. He has learned to appreciate subtle shifts in the movement of his ancestors the stars and in the path of his ship. But it seems as though the language of these new stories resembles more a reprimand, an extreme punishment for some very wicked and unanticipated deed. A twinge of responsibility passes through Ancaeus and he shudders.

As their little boat rounds the southern cape, Ancaeus recognizes a small ship full of neighbors headed for the southern harbor. Phoebus hails them and soon his fellow islanders from Crete pick them up and tow their boat to shore. They climb aboard and begin toasting and drinking long pulls of watered wine. Some men drink from a round jug, others from a few conical clay cups. They laugh and sing a sailor’s song of homecoming. Their voices are all off key, but they sound pleased with themselves and continue for round after round.

Of all the people Ancaeus knows, islanders are by far the happiest. Their mood lightens his, and for a moment, he is optimistic without reservation. He is one among many people of the sea, living a simple life of adventure and enterprise. They are gifted with what comes to them naturally. Ancaeus turns his drinking cup in his hands. The simple shape is even and smooth, it fits his grip well, and sitting on its fine lip is a drop of his watered wine. He brushes his thumb across it, wiping it clean. Island people surround themselves with delicate things, harmonious relationships, and graceful women. Ancaeus glances up and studies the Cretan ship with its carved and painted stern in the shape of a griffin, part bird, part lion, stretched out over the back of the boat, guarding the path they have taken. It is an animal beautifully shaped and painted to look alert and capable. Yes, drinking cup or ship it does not matter; both are carefully made with an eye toward elegance.

And though his people possess great wealth, he looks around and sees little of it adorning his friends’ simple dress: minimal attire relative to the lavish costumes of some. His friends are sailors, in kilts and shirtless, with bare feet, dark skin, and wild long black hair. And yes, they are all handsome and charming in his eyes. Minoans are a generous people, set to share and share alike, and that is what brings everyone together every fourth and ninth year. For at these meetings all islanders are free to barter and to trade, to see that their craftsmanship reaches exotic lands to the east and west. They are also free to learn new things, to purchase riches from far off places, and trade secrets with fellow men of the sea, men bearing wealth in their hands and in the holds of their ships. Other foreigners buy passage as teachers and as bearers of knowledge. Whether they accumulate goods here and hire a boat to take them home, or just come to be a part of the intelligent exchange of ideas and news, it does not matter. Everyone who attends is rich and exciting.

But Ancaeus knows that this is not meant to last. That like the lush westward rivers of silver, copper, and gold, there is a limit to this sort of wealth, a natural limit of extension to the world as it is now, and the natural way of things will see a moment that might bring it all to collapse. As their song winds down and fewer men continue to sing, he feels a degree of disintegration, an outcome of overextension. He reads it as a sign of some greater dissolution on the horizon. Ancaeus finishes the last of his wine on a harsh swallow. The stories he has heard have strengthened his suspicions, and the recent sack of Babylon has confirmed them. He cannot conceive of a true portent that has evil at its core, but great powers rise and fall like waves, and knowledge is slippery like an octopus. It can be confined. It is sensitive and agile. It is delicious and nurturing. But in a sliver of a moment it can escape. It can change color. It can be stolen.

Ancaeus scans the beach as they pull into the shallow harbor, looking for familiar faces. For many happy generations the people of the Great Green have lived in peace and plenty, the water is their domain, its edges their fingertips touching wonders far away. Command of this fluid empire is a source of great envy, and there are inlanders to the west and east who want it for their own. They want the knowledge, the information, and tools islanders use for reading the sun, the stars, the weather, and the sea. They want a way to determine exactly where they are when they sail past the final pillar of heaven in the west. Ancaeus knows everything is at risk for their sea-girt islands, if the bronze of domination and the blindfold of xenophobia are left to bruise and break the people of the Great Green. His ship for one, he would rather have drink the sea than be used for violence or ignoble gain.

It cannot come to that.

Solemn now, Ancaeus looks to Phoebus. He looks to the sun once more and wonders, how can it be thought that, in a single day and night of misfortune, this might all be lost?

Chapter Four

HOMECOMING

From atop the tallest buildings in the small town of Akrotiri, it is possible to look down a wide valley, south to the shallow harbor. Beyond it is the sea, and on a clear day it is possible to see the highest mountain on Crete. Today there are rowboats and small traders bobbing near the shore and everywhere men dot the beach. The din of greetings and laughter, shouts and merriment, grows louder as mariners collect.

Hebe stands at the broad sill of an upper story balcony with her two sisters. They wait in a row with their backs to their mother’s bedroom. Hebe is the middle sister and to her left and taller is Clio, the eldest; to her right and shorter is Thalia, the youngest. Silent now, they look down across the valley, watching the water. Hebe reaches for their damp palms. Thalia twitches and squeezes Hebe’s hand. Clio rubs her knuckles and lifts their entwined fingers to blow her palm dry. From the bottom of the largest light well their mother calls to them in a quiet voice, asking them to join her in walking down to the beach to greet their guests. Clio and Hebe descend the stairs first, arm in arm, elbows interlocked and squeezed tight. Thalia startles them as, impatient, she leaps before them down a single flight, lands, and tosses herself over the wall and across the light well into the stairs on the next flight down. From there, she bursts out into the sunlight and gets caught in the sway of the crowd as it chatters excitedly out of the palace and south to the harbor.

Once outside the sun rings high in the sky and light dances on the water, blurring the horizon. The girls walk quickly. Hebe looks out over the sea and heat from intense reflected light colors her skin. She lowers her eyes and lets Clio guide her. The path is smooth and runs down the valley floor. Where cypress trees cast their shadows it is cooler. Soon the girls reach the beach, and Hebe opens her eyes to see it has been transformed into a marina, crowded and rowdy. The girls walk on, entering the fray. Further in the stench and grime associated with men at sea for months is difficult to avoid. In a narrow escape, Hebe slides from Clio to avoid one sailor, only to find her nose buried in the chest of another. But the hair is warm and soft, not greasy and sticky, and it smells sweet like the wind, not briny and sour. She murmurs an apology.

“It is quite all right,” the sailor’s voice is too familiar, too close. Hebe steps back, she stumbles. The sailor catches her upper arm to steady her. At his touch the world around her slows. The din on the beach quiets. A seabird cries. Hebe blinks and looks down. She stares at his hand, long fingers wrapping around to the inside of her arm, the tips white. Finally, she looks up. The sailor’s water blue gaze holds hers, as gently as the pressure on her arm. Hebe is fixed frozen, held captive. Then she hears a thunderous roaring in her ears. She smells cloves and frankincense, brine, and swollen wood. She sees red, only red: the lure of metal, the dream of bronze. Beneath her feet she feels the earth quake.

Ancaeus is back from the edge of the world.

It is Clio who breaks the long unbearable silence, “Ancaeus, how nice to see you again.” She looks around and continues, “Did you sail in with Phoebus…”

Clio’s words seem to emanate from a dark well, no competition for thunderous roaring. The edges of Hebe’s red vision break down into bright specks. At the center grows a dark tunnel. Then Ancaeus smoothly releases her arm, excuses himself, and turns on his heel. When he finally lets her arm go, she sways slightly and feels a flood of sensation wash over her: pain, shock, joy, fury, all very intense but mercifully brief. Immediately, Clio and Thalia round on her but by then she has nothing to say, no emotion to betray, no thoughts to mask. For Ancaeus had pulled the roar from her with the drop of his hand.

*****

Many palms across the sky later, Hebe stands weary. Barely upright on her tired feet, she hugs their last guest. She follows her mother and two sisters back inside. As attendants clear the welcoming party’s remains, and she wanders away from their activity. In spite of the late hour, the spirit of the occasion has filled the others with gossip and chatter. Talk of who has arrived and who has yet to be seen closes in on Hebe, so she leaves them to finish clearing without her. She needs open space.

Stopping at the edge of the central court, she leans against a column. She waits there until everyone has gone to bed, until it is quiet and dark. She passes the time searching for traces of footprints walked in patterns across the packed earth floor. The courtyard is almost twice as long as it is wide, and in the dark, she can see many clear trails in the dust. Worn thickest is the path leading from meeting rooms on the north side to multiple corridors of magazines for storage on the west. A few feet have also worn shallow furrows from workshops and meandering halls on the east to more living quarters in the south. At the heart of the palace, of the town, is this huge earthen floor. And it beats with activity. From high above, anyone looking in can watch and see the inner workings of her people, and the rhythm of their island.

Hebe hears a woman’s voice, the sound soft and low, carrying through the night. She scans across open balconies ascending on all sides of her, three stories above her. Up on the third floor, there are two extinguished torches, and it is from there that Hebe hears the voice again. Shy, she looks away. Hushed whispers continue. Hebe counts columns in the running colonnades of round wooden beams, inverted so the heavier, thicker end is up. Hundreds support the multiple stories and balconies above. In the flat light of night, with the torches shining, the effect is one of buoyed strength and elegance. It is echoed by what she knows is also there. Moans of love. Elegant ashlar walkways. Endless stairs around wells of air. And in the morning, the palace glows with light, saturated by love.

Yet, standing in the midst of grace, Hebe, “the beautiful one,” feels clumsy and her body weak.

She stops counting columns and breathes the night air in deeply. She smells warm sand, fragrant herbs, and salty water. A breeze stirs the soft dirt before her. She looks up and tucks her hair behind her ears, tugging it to tip her head further back.

High overhead, a rectangle of the night sky hangs like a studded curtain over a dusty bed. At the edges of her vision she can barely see the uppermost stories of the palace. There are no more sounds from the balcony. The torches there are still dark. Hebe pushes away from the column and walks the sixty, or so, long strides it takes to cross the length of the court. She pauses on the north end, turns and walks back down a long corridor to the main meeting room, the largest in their sprawling building.

The room is quiet now, open and dark. Stepping up to a pair of square piers, Hebe slides the door between them closed. Slowly she walks around the room; closing all the free space, breaking it apart. Soon the big space is shattered into hallways, and a maze of channels, chasing each other. During dinner tonight, every door was open. The intentionally unimpeded view made it more than possible to see everyone eat, drink, and dance. There was no place of refuge, no corner nor door to guard her. Throughout the whole of it, she had held mortification’s heavy hand. And that agent had played her, persuaded her to drink too much wine, to masquerade as if she did not care.

Hebe shuts the last door, turns her back to it, and waits.

She lifts her heavy hair away from her neck, piling it high, trying to cool herself. But she cannot breathe; there is no fresh air. In a panic she turns and starts sliding doors open. The space opens slowly, fully. Yet it is not enough. Hebe needs air. The moment she has completely opened the room, she stills, standing between the last pair of piers. Breathing hard, she runs her toes along the fresh groove left by the door, clearing it of dust. The gesture sweeps wet images free to race across her mind. Memory makes her shiver, and the shimmer of another summer night distracts her. Then, and all at once, the details of the day flood her and she straightens.

Hebe leaves the room. She takes a circuitous route through the labyrinthine halls of the palace to clear her head and find her bed. The way is quiet, everyone in their quarters. As she walks into her room, Clio greets her with open arms and a small smile. Deceiving her sister is impossible, so instead of lying, Hebe aspires to divert and circumvent.

“Oh Hebe,” Clio mutters, “sit with me a minute. I know it is late, but have not had time to talk since this afternoon.” Hebe’s sister sits on the edge of Hebe’s bed and pulls her down to sit beside her. Clio looks drawn, pale, tired.

Hebe considers the numerous things Clio was responsible for today and says, in all frankness, “Clio, please don’t worry about me when you are the focus of attention for all those here this month, including the man you are to marry.”

Hebe watches Clio adjust her headscarf so it covers all of her wavy dark hair. She coils and tries to tuck a stray tail away. Her light blue eyes are enhanced by the pallor of her skin. Her fingers tremble a little from fatigue. Clio is the eldest daughter of the island’s chief priestess to their most prominent goddess. As she raises both arms again to secure the errant lock she replies, “Hebe it makes no difference if my betrothed is here. This marriage has little to do with any love between us and more,” she folds her hands, “to do with divine love. If the two vessels of such a worldly manifestation enjoy one another, then all the better to expedite their true objective. But I cannot see how it makes a difference.”

Oh yes, Hebe knows Clio endures Phoebus’ visits well enough, but it is because Clio has her own practical opinion. “Passionate fire is not a prerequisite on the path to fulfilling my duties,” Clio continues. “And, really, so what if this duty of marriage is unprecedented? So what if no other chief priestess has ever had to marry?”

And so it is Clio who silently pities Hebe for feeling there is something more to it than that. It still bothers Clio that years ago she did not understand the complexity of the connection Hebe and Ancaeus shared before it was broken. Then it was only the extent of despair she felt in Hebe when it was over that gave her perspective on the intensity of their love. So tonight Clio looks very closely at her sister, looking for signs. Clio does not want to see that kind of hurt cross Hebe ever again. She does not mention anything about Ancaeus, at first, but the concern in her eyes says as much.

“I am fine.” Hebe replies, “I simply need some quiet and not to think about it too much.” She stands and moves to straighten a series of small Egyptian glass bottles lining her windowsills. Each blue vessel holds a single stalk of lavender that twitches and swings as she adjusts them. “Chances are he will be gone before I know it anyway.” She picks up a thin cotton towel, snaps and folds it, lays it on the washbasin by the door. “Thankfully, he will most likely be engaged in meetings for most of his stay.” She slips off two necklaces over her head, and drapes the strands of beads, one carnelian, and one lapis, on pegs so they hang, evenly spaced, over her chest of clothes. The chest sits against the wall facing the door. Three square shaped windows with shutters line the wall between. “Hopefully that leaves him with little free time,” she spins her blue lapis ring as she turns back to face Clio. The beads behind her sway back and forth.

So Clio agrees but not without reservation, “Yes, the less time the better.”

Hebe absently nods once, “Tell me what you learned at dinner.” Then she listens as she washes and dresses for bed. Clio picks up Hebe’s ivory comb, large and softened with use. Two flying fish, carved in low relief, meet at the lips over a row of wide tines. As she combs her sister’s hair, Clio tells Hebe what she knows.

Apparently, Phoebus first met Ancaeus while trading faience and ingots on The Island of Copper and Cypress. They soon made fast friends, and realizing they shared their next destination, sailed their ships in tandem back to the center of Aegean. Ancaeus is said to have spent the last nine years in trade, sailing across the water, back and forth, near and far, finally drawn back to Thera like a line to rest plumb. Clio does not say when his ship is scheduled to depart again, but she does fail to mention to Hebe that Ancaeus’ men say they are happy to be home for some time. She knows it will be better if Hebe believes he will be gone by the end of the month. It is better if Hebe believes that weighted line to still be swinging, to just be passing through. But Clio believes Ancaeus has stopped here, and she is sure it will take a mountain to move him again without Hebe.

Having soothed Hebe, Clio puts down the carved comb and kisses her goodnight. Then she draws the door to Hebe’s room and wanders across the hall to her own. Before she reaches the threshold she feels cold fingers sweep across the back of her neck. She shifts immediately, turning to identify who stands there. But the hallway is empty and she can feel a strange, foreign chill, a vacuum. Suddenly, she feels a wave of shock, emptiness, an anxiety born of absence. It is too far a distance between heartbeats, the space lacking all sweetness. This stillness tastes oddly bitter, coppery, like old blood. Reaching further for the source she dispels it in the process. Everything about her returns to normal: warm, close, intimate, nothing strange or foreign. Clio is curious but unafraid. She has never felt fear in her home. No, this is not fear, it is a hint of something amiss, of something not quite right, and she has been made aware.

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