The letter from Mrs. Pentaris’s nephew had said that Amy might not like what she found, that she might not be well received in Crete. But Amy had written back saying that she was not responsible for the sins of her father, if indeed he had committed any. She knew that he had been captured on the island, and she said that she was willing to hear anything about her father, no matter how unpalatable. Very well, the nephew had replied, if she wanted to dig up history, then she had only herself to blame. If she wanted to visit, then fine.

The nephew had picked her up from Heraklion airport, and the drive to the small mountain village took a couple of slow hot hours. Amy found the countryside ruggedly beautiful, and could see how it would be impossible for anybody to fully conquer an island of so many hills and mountains, gorges, woods and small villages, each with their own secrets.

When they entered Mrs. Pentaris’s village, Amy felt wary, wary of the eyes that she knew would be looking at her from the deep black openings in the plain white houses. Everybody would know who she was. They would have been waiting for her for weeks.

“My aunt,” said the nephew, “lives with us. There is nowhere else for her. I must tell you that she is very old, and the conversation will not be easy.”

“That’s all right,” said Amy. “And you will be happy translating?”

“No problem.”

The coolness inside the nephew’s house was extremely welcome. It was around two in the afternoon, and the sun was scorchingly hot.

“Something to drink?”

“Some water, please.”

The nephew went off, and reappeared a few minutes later with a glass of water. It was warm, but refreshing all the same.

“Your wife—children—are they here?” Amy asked.

The nephew shook his head.

“No, they are away today.”

Amy nodded. Was it because she was here?

“But your aunt—she’s here, yes?”

“Yes. Would you like to see her now?”

“Yes please.”

“Follow me.”

Amy walked immediately behind the nephew as they made their way to a small terrace at the back of the house. Shaded by two orange trees, it had the most spectacular view of the valley up which they had driven. The air was still and vibrated with the sound of crickets, which somehow conspired to make it feel even hotter.

“Quite a view,” said Amy.

“Yes,” said the nephew. “My aunt, she is over here.”

He pointed to a dark corner, tucked well into the shade. Sitting on a large canvas chair, next to a small table, was the object of Amy’s journey. Dressed in black, her lined face deep brown and leathery, she had the countenance of one who had suffered much. The nephew walked over to her and shouted in Greek in her ear:

“The woman from England is here!”