The garden lay bathed in moonlight, as though it had been prepared for a celebration that should have taken place fifty years ago.
Between the low walls stood small lemon trees in terracotta pots. Their leaves rustled in the wind that blew in from the water, carrying with it the scent of salt, thyme and the distant hum of warm boat engines. On the terrace, Bianca had arranged small bowls: olives, almonds with cinnamon, pickled artichokes, honeyed figs, and thin slices of candied orange. Next to them stood carafes of water, white wine in misted bottles, and two carafes of red wine, which looked almost black in the candlelight.
Vittorio Contini-Verchese stood by the long table, adjusting a glass. The light evening breeze caught in his black gown. He’d had the arrangements made for six people, then for nine, and finally for twelve. He hadn’t explained it to Bianca; she’d already had extra cutlery laid out beforehand anyway.
“The kitchen’s asking if they should serve the starters on the terrace,” she said.
“As long as the wind doesn’t blow our bread away, it’s certainly more pleasant outside. We’ll leave the doors open inside as well; the balmy April air does us good.”
“I can bring out some fresh bread if that happens.”
Vittorio glanced briefly at her. Bianca said things like that without any obvious pleasure in doing so. That made her more useful than most people who thought themselves witty.
“The ladies are tired,” he said. “And they’re not here for pleasure.”
“Then they need something to eat all the more.”
“Not just yet.”
Bianca picked up a bowl of almonds, examined it, then set it down again. She was a tall woman with grey hair pulled back strictly, wearing a dark dress and a white apron. There was nothing about her that sought to hold the eye. Perhaps that was precisely why she could move through the house without ever disturbing anyone.
From below, the sound of a boat mooring could be heard.
Vittorio turned towards the garden path. The steps leading up from the jetty were lit only in a few places; in between, the steps vanished into shadow. Mary Carson appeared first.
She walked slowly, but not cautiously. Her floor-length black dress was too heavy for the island and too opulent for the occasion. Around her neck she wore an emerald that glinted green in the light of the lanterns. She did not look back. A woman like Mary did not need to admire her surroundings to take immediate possession of them.
Behind her walked Fiona Cleary. She held her head slightly bowed, not out of humility, but out of habit, to see the path ahead. Her skirt, with its old-fashioned two petticoats, fluttered against her legs in the wind. Beside her came Meghan Cleary-O’Neil, dressed more lightly, with a knitted black waistcoat over her grey blouse, as if she had braced herself at the last minute against the island’s April chill.
Meghan paused before stepping fully onto the terrace. Her gaze drifted up to the chapel, perched on the cliff above the villa. White stone, a dark silhouette, a single light by the door.
‘It’s closer than I thought,’ she said.
Vittorio stepped forward to meet the women.
‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you’ve come.’
Mary held out her hand to him and, at the same time, bowed her head towards his ring. The gesture was proper, but not gentle. Vittorio let it happen and then kissed her on both cheeks.
“Mary.”
“Your Eminence.”
“Vittorio will do tonight. The island is too small for too many titles.”
“Small islands are often the best place for grand titles.”
Mary’s mouth twisted slightly. Fiona stepped forward and kissed the ring with terse politeness. Vittorio held Meghan’s hand a little longer.
“Meggie,” he said more softly.
She nodded, as if she first had to decide whether the name suited her that night.
Bianca appeared with a tray. Mary took some wine, as did Fiona. Meghan reached for the water glass even before Bianca could offer it to her.
“Thank you,” said Meghan.
“You’re welcome, Signora.”
Mary looked up. “You know our names?”
“I’ve prepared the rooms.”
“That’s very thoughtful.”
“Thank you, Signora,” said Bianca, before disappearing into the house with her tray.
Mary followed her with her eyes for a moment, then turned her attention back to the garden.
Vittorio led the women to the balustrade. From there, they could see the sea and, beyond it, Hydra, silhouetted black against the sky, with a few lights on the slopes. Below them, the water lapped against the rocks. Not loudly, but regularly enough that it continued to speak in every silence.
‘Dane liked Greece,’ said Meghan.
Fiona looked at her. Mary did not.
‘He liked a lot of things,’ said Mary. ‘Especially things that were more dangerous than they looked.’
‘Mary,’ said Fiona calmly.
‘It’s true.’
Meghan held her glass with both hands. ‘He wanted to help.’
Mary didn’t reply straight away. The wind ruffled a strand of hair at her temple; she didn’t brush it back.
“Yes,” she said at last. “That’s what he wanted. But instead of the two girls, it’s now the stupid tourists and our Dane who are dead, our priest.”
Vittorio gave them a moment. He knew enough about grief to realise that any word spoken too soon would diminish them. On the terrace, a glass clinked softly as Bianca walked past the table again and straightened another napkin.
“I’ve written to Ralph to tell him you’re here,” said Vittorio. “He sends his apologies for not being able to be here himself.”
Meghan lowered her gaze.
“Rome,” said Mary. “Rome always has urgent business to attend to just when Australia becomes inconvenient.”
Vittorio sounded more conciliatory: “He’ll join you as soon as he can.”
“I do believe that,” said Mary
Fiona took a small sip of wine. “The journey here was uneventful. The boat trip from Sydney to Athens, the Suez Canal with its precision.”
“But what was the boat trip from Hydra to here like? Many people feel seasick during the three-hour journey, as it often gets a bit rougher, especially at the change of tide.”
“Calmer than I’d expected,” replied Fiona.
“The sea likes to show strangers its polite side at first,” said Vittorio.
Mary looked over the balustrade. “The sea in Greece is different from that in Australia, Canada or England – bluer, saltier.”
A warm scent wafted from the kitchen: fresh bread, lemon, something sweet with honey. Meghan closed her eyes briefly. For a moment, it was no longer the island she was aware of, but another courtyard – hot stone, spiced tea, the voices of girls poring over exercise books. Lahore, not as the memory she’d been searching for, but as a scent that slipped in between things. Education, propriety, that keen sense of being watched. A world that promised to elevate girls and boys, provided they didn’t make themselves too conspicuous in the process.
She opened her eyes again.
“Are you all right?” asked Fiona.
“Yes. It’s just the smell. Something with cardamom reminded me of a faraway place.”
Bianca, who was just placing a bowl on the table, replied, “There isn’t any in the pastries for later. But there’s a bit of cinnamon and masticha in the almonds.”
“Masticha,” said Meghan. “Of course.”
“The resin from Chios,” explained Vittorio. “In Greece, it turns up wherever people believe something must taste healing.”
Mary took an almond from the bowl. “Then it’s certainly perfect for this evening.”
Fiona looked at the laid table. “You’ve had a lot prepared.”
“I didn’t know exactly how many friends Justine would be bringing.”
Meghan tensed almost imperceptibly at the name. “She’s coming on the second boat. She wanted to stay with her friends.”
“Friends from the theatre?” asked Mary.
“Among others,” said Meghan.
Mary ate the almond before saying, “Justine has a knack for bringing people along whom she herself finds interesting, and then thinking others are narrow-minded if they don’t share that interest.”
“Perhaps they’re pleasant,” said Fiona.
Vittorio topped up Mary’s glass. “She wrote that acting friends from Canada were coming with her. Plus three friends from Europe who only wanted to stay for an aperitif.”
“Just for an aperitif,” Mary repeated.
“That’s how it was announced. That’s why the second boat will wait,” said Vittorio. “Even so, the table’s set for twelve; no one should have to leave. And there are plenty of guest rooms too. My family is very generous and hospitable.”
“What’s for dinner?” asked Mary.
Bianca listed the dishes, without pride and without false modesty. “Cold starters out here. Then, in the dining room, a little avgolemono, lamb with rosemary, stuffed vine leaves, vegetables, cheese. To finish, a bombé surprisè.”
Meghan looked up in surprise. “That sounds wonderful.”
“It’s a bit of a faff,” said Fiona. “But it keeps well if it’s taken out of the freezer in good time.”
“And if the evening runs late?” asked Mary.
“Then the Bombé will become a cream with a fruit rim.”
Vittorio laughed softly. “Bianca is stricter in the kitchen than most religious orders are in their novitiates.”
Mary watched her go. “A practical woman.”
Vittorio didn’t reply. Down by the water, a motor could be heard again. This time, the voices were drawing nearer, sounding livelier. A bright laugh came up the slope and was carried away by the wind.
Meghan sat up straight. “That must be Justine.”
Fiona set down her glass. “She’s just in time. Although I don’t quite understand why she’s bringing strangers to this memorial service.”
Vittorio took a few steps towards the start of the garden steps. Behind him, the three women stood on the terrace: Mary with the emerald around her neck, Fiona quiet and alert, Meghan gazing down the dark path. Above them, the small light at the chapel was burning. The boat bumped against the jetty below, followed by the sound of footsteps on stone.
“Well then,” said Vittorio, without turning round, “let’s welcome the next wave.”
