In a few more steps, she came to her father’s workshop. Its door was closed. The glow of an oil lamp shone through its crooked window. Anna heard the familiar brush-brush of the pumice stone used to polish wood. Whatever her father was making, he was close to finishing. For the past month, he had been rising earlier than usual to work on a special project. He had said it was a secret, and would not tell anyone what it was, but the mere mention of it brought a glimmer to his eye.

Curious to know what could be making her father so happy, Anna felt tempted to peek inside his shop. But she knew he would not welcome her visit and did not wish to anger him.

As she went along, the goats kept at her. A few guinea hens soon joined. Anna gripped the tray and kept her eyes on the shifting surface of milk. She did not need to watch where she was going. She could navigate by smell. When the scent of goats and hay gave way to the heavier odor of wood smoke, it meant she was near the farmers’ houses where the women had stoked fires to bake bread. She heard the grunts of men loading their mules with supplies to take into the olive groves. The time of the harvest had come. Anna lowered her face deeper into her shawl and hurried past. Despite the familiarity of the routine, of lifting fabric to face, she hated the act of hiding herself. The tradition felt stifling—as though someone were standing on her chest.

Farther along, a light breeze cleared the scent of wood smoke and ushered in the spicier scent of olive leaves and earth. She had come to the clearing just before her grandfather’s house. If she were to look to the west, she would see the olive groves stitched across the hills like embroidery. Beyond those, stark in its isolation, stood the great old sycamore.

Anna steadied the tray on her knee and knocked.

“Come in!” a voice croaked.

The door gave with a moan. Anna’s sight faltered as it adjusted to the darkness. She smelled her grandfather. His scent was sharp and biting, like old metal.

“Where have you been?” he barked. He was seized by a torrent of wet coughs.

Anna knelt before the leathery man. She kept her gaze downward and arranged the bowls of food on the floor.

“Hurry up,” he wheezed.

She poured milk from the pitcher. She handed him the cup and watched his brown-spotted hand curl around it.

“Is that goat cheese again?” he asked, pointing a knotty finger.

“Yes, Grandfather,” she said, wincing at her mother’s mistake.