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She’d known when she’d stolen back into the palace late last night that she would have to face him soon, but she’d hoped for a few more days’ grace. Why did he have to appear today, of all days? The one time she’d overslept and looked awful.
Unfortunately the only chair available was directly opposite him. It made a particularly loud scraping sound over the wooden floor as she pulled it back and sat down, clasping her hands tightly on her lap so as not to betray their tremors. Greta, one of the other curators and Amy’s best friend on the island, had the seat next to her. She placed a comforting hand over hers and squeezed gently. Greta knew everything.
In the centre of the table was the tray of bougatsas Amy had hoped for. Three remained, but she found her appetite gone and her heart thundering so hard that the ripples spread to her belly and made her nauseous.
Greta poured her a cup of coffee. Amy clutched it gratefully.
‘We were discussing the artefacts we’re still waiting on for my grandfather’s exhibition,’ Helios said, looking directly at her.
The Agon Palace Museum was world-famous, and as such attracted curators from across the world, resulting in a medley of first languages amongst the staff. To simplify matters, English was the official language spoken when on duty.
Amy cleared her throat and searched her scrambled brain for coherence. ‘The marble statues are on their way from Italy as we speak and should arrive in port early tomorrow morning.’
‘Do we have staff ready to welcome them?’
‘Bruno will message me when they reach Agon waters,’ she said, referring to one of the Italian curators accompanying the statues back to their homeland. ‘As soon as I hear from him we’ll be ready to go. The drivers are on call. Everything is in hand.’
‘And what about the artefacts from the Greek museum?’
‘They will arrive here on Friday.’
Helios knew all this. The exhibition was his pet project and they’d worked closely together on it.
She’d first come to Agon in November, as part of a team from the British Museum delivering artefacts on loan to the Agon Palace Museum. During those few days on the island she’d struck up a friendship with Pedro, the Head of Museum. Unbeknownst to her at the time, he’d been impressed with her knowledge of Agon, and doubly impressed with her PhD thesis on Minoan Heritage and its Influences on Agon Culture. Pedro had been the one to suggest her for the role of curator for the Jubilee Exhibition.
The offer had been a dream come true, and a huge honour for someone with so little experience. Only twenty-seven, what Amy lacked in experience she made up for with enthusiasm.
Amy had learned at the age of ten that the happy, perfect family she’d taken for granted was not as she’d been led to believe. She wasn’t what she’d been led to believe. Her dad was indeed her biological father, but her brothers were only half-brothers. Her mum wasn’t her biological mother. The woman who’d actually given birth to her had been from the Mediterranean island of Agon.
Half of Amy’s DNA was Agonite.
Since that bombshell discovery, everything about Agon had fascinated her. She’d devoured books on its Minoan history and its evolution into democracy. She’d thrilled at stories of the wars, the passion and ferocity of its people. She’d studied maps and photographs, staring so intently at the island’s high green mountains, sandy beaches and clear blue seas that its geography had become as familiar as her own home town.
Agon had been an obsession.
Somewhere in its history was her history, and the key to understanding who she truly was. To have the opportunity to live there on a nine-month secondment had been beyond anything she could have hoped. It had been as if fate was giving her the push she needed to find her birth mother. Somewhere in this land of half a million people was the woman who had borne her.
For seventeen years Amy had thought about her, wondering what she looked like—did she look like her?—what her voice sounded like, what regrets she might have. Was she ashamed of what she’d done? Surely she was? How could anyone live through what Neysa Soukis had done and not feel shame?
She’d been easy to locate, but how to approach her...? That had always been the biggest question. Amy couldn’t just turn up at her door; it would likely be slammed in her face and then she would never have her answers. She’d considered writing a letter but had failed to think of what she could say other than: Hi, do you remember me? You carried me for nine months and then dumped me. Any chance you could tell me why?
Greek social media, which Greta had been helping her with, had proved fruitful. Neysa didn’t use it, but through it Amy had discovered a half-brother. Tentative communications had started between them. She had to hope he would act as a conduit between them.
