The following morning Edith went out before dawn, still in her nightdress, in the hope that she might stop the time from gathering hours. She walked down to the orchard to where the stream ran and the air smelled of lilac blossom. She sat holding her knees as the world changed colour and the ducks laughed at the light of the new day.

Then she saw him and his little dog in the sunlight and for a moment it seemed that he was on the other side of a great river, not a stream. She stood up and, not minding her bare feet, she ran to him.

‘I’ll be back for the harvest supper,’ he said. He took her hand and kissed her palm. ‘Remember, I will love you always. Nothing – not even death – will change that.’

With unbearable sadness she watched as his flock, their bells jingling, made their way up the mountain to the green pastures.

Chapter Six

Who Has Lost It Ever Grieves

Edith told herself spring would soon pass and summer would tumble into autumn and Demetrius would return. Perhaps, this time next year, they would be expecting a baby, a new voice to echo in the mountains. These thoughts in their simplicity comforted her.

She remembered her grandmother’s stories about a pair of boots that could stride up mountains as if they were molehills, that could stand in lakes and think them puddles. If only she had such a pair of boots, she thought, she would be gone from this place, from her drunken father. She would climb the mountain, she would find Demetrius and stay with him. She felt the longing in every bone and muscle – but she didn’t leave. She and Demetrius would never be accepted as a married couple if it was known she’d run after her lover. She must be patient. In her dreams she nightly found him under a different moon.

The sun became hotter; the grass dried yellow, scattered with poppies. The swallows ruled the sky and the village streets became dusty. Edith’s skin turned brown. Her garden grew, as did her corn. All the days were the same, as if time, made soporific by the sun, had forgotten to move the hands of the clock. In the evening she would sit on the verandah sewing Demetrius’ red shirt, her eyes on the mountain, noting every passing hour. He would have taken his flock high up where the wind was cool and where there were fewer flies to bother the sheep. Amid the green grass, the young lambs would grow strong legs, ready to be sold in the harvest markets. She counted the days until the shepherd’s return. Never once did she doubt him or his love of her.