The House of Hidden Letters (beautiful and escapist)

Chapter One

One

It was only a key.

Slim. Grooved. Silver.

But pressed into Skye’s palm, it felt like something more. A beginning.

A paper tag dangled from it, a number inked in thick black strokes that matched the one on the plaque by the door. Her door, she reminded herself. Her house.

She slid her thumb along the shaft, rotating the key until it caught the light, a white-hot flash that made her pupils contract.

The fierce heat that had greeted her at the port was dogged in its pursuit, and Skye shifted beneath the weight of it, senses alert as she breathed in the scent of dust, heard the distant buzz of a tinny engine, looked down to see lilac petals strewn in artful heaps along the stone pathway, a beauty so raw as to be insolent.

“Change Your Life for €1,” the headline had read, and Skye had clicked on the link—of course she had clicked on the link.

Following similarly successful schemes that had been launched in France and Italy, the municipality of a remote Greek island was offering six individuals the chance to buy a house for one euro.

There were stipulations, naturally. The new owners must commit to spending a minimum of two years on Folegandros and must renovate their properties—all six of which had been abandoned since the end of the Second World War—in a manner that was in keeping with the traditional village setting.

Demand was expected to be high, and in order to give every person an equal chance of winning, there would be a lottery.

The button to place a one-euro bid had been at the bottom of the article, the deadline for entries just hours away. It had felt like fate.

Skye had the key in the lock when she heard the crunch of approaching feet and turned in time to see a man coming toward her. When she recoiled, he stopped, raising both hands in the universal gesture of surrender.

“English?” he asked in a voice that was heavily accented.

Skye agreed with a murmur that she was.

“You are one of the lottery winners,” he said.

There was no upward inflection to the statement, and Skye did not immediately reply.

Instead, she allowed herself a few beats in which to study him, take in the heavy brows above shrewd dark eyes, pale short-sleeve shirt tucked into belted jeans, workmen’s boots knotted tight.

He was taller than her, but not so tall that it was notable, and seemed harmless enough. Though didn’t they always?

Skye folded her arms.

“You heard about that, then?” she said, to which he nodded briskly.

“Of course. We are all”—he paused, chewed over his next word, searching, perhaps, for the correct one to use—“eager to see who is coming.”

“Am I the first?” she asked, though the question was rhetorical.

The woman who’d presented her with the key had told her as much.

Skye had registered a slight reticence on her part, as if by turning up one day prior to the agreed moving date of June 3, she’d upset the proverbial cart.

It was unclear whether the locals had been consulted about the scheme, though she had to assume some form of permission had been granted.

If the village of Ano Meria’s existing inhabitants were hostile toward their new neighbors, it would very quickly become impossible for them to live side by side, let alone harmoniously.

The man rubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw, smoothing out the beginnings of a smile.

“In Greece, we have a saying for those who like to be early,” he said. “It goes something like ‘The children of the wise cook before they go hungry.’ ”

Skye considered this.

“Where I’m from, we say it’s the early bird that catches the worm,” she replied, and was rewarded with a gravelly laugh.

“Where do you live in England?” he asked.

Skye motioned to the house, then more widely into the space around them.

“This is where I live now,” she said. “What came before no longer matters.”

“Entáxei,” he said. “So, you want to become a Greek?”

“I don’t think that’s possible.” Skye unfolded and refolded her arms.

“If you say you are a Greek, then I promise not to argue with you.”

“Thank you.”

“But you must understand that we do not have many Greeks here with hair like yours.”

Skye patted her blond locks self-consciously.

“And you will have to work on your accent.”

She narrowed her eyes, and he smiled, extending a hand.

“I am Andreas. Andreas Vithoulkas.”

“Skye.”

Their fingers slid together briefly, and he repeated her name several times.

“It’s Skye with an e,” she explained. “I was named after an island, which feels ironic.”

Andreas cocked his head to one side.

“Are you going to have a look at your house?” he asked, gesturing at the still-locked door.

“In a minute I will.”

When he failed to take the hint, Skye drew in a long breath and exhaled it sharply.

“Ah, sorry.” Andreas pressed a hand to his forehead. “I have not explained myself. I am a contractor,” he said. “A builder. I am the one who will be helping you finish the house.”

“Oh, you will, will you?” Skye replied. “And do I get a say in this, or…?”

He shifted from one foot to the other.

“Of course, you are free to hire another person, someone from Santorini or the mainland, but that will take a lot of time. I am the only person doing this job who lives here, on the island.”

His presumption stung, however well meant it might have been, and the sigh that escaped Skye’s lips was laced with mild frustration.

How best to communicate politely that what she wanted was to look around her new home for the first time alone, without some stranger in tow?

He was friendly, yet he was still a man—and as far as she was concerned, that meant he was also an unknown entity.

An awkward silence bloomed, during which she did little more than stare at the ground.

Andreas cleared his throat.

“I am intruding,” he said. “Sorry. I will come back tomorrow if that is OK with you?”

Skye drew herself up, faintly ashamed of having so clearly communicated her displeasure.

“Of course,” she said, though before she had time to say more, Andreas had nodded and turned away, quickly disappearing from view through the boundary between her modest property and the larger one beyond.

She waited, rooted to the spot, unsure whether he would return.

Why had she left it to him to figure out what was playing on her mind?

When it came to corralling a classroom full of children, she never used to have any such qualms. But then, that had been before; she had changed over the past few months in ways she didn’t want to admit, was not yet ready to accept.

“Get a grip, MacKinnon,” she muttered, fumbling to get the key into the lock.

The door was stiff, and she had to shoulder it to get it open, flakes of blue paint falling over the threshold.

It was dim inside, faint light streaming in from around the shuttered windows.

She located a switch on the wall, blinking as a lone yellow bulb flickered to life from a cord in the middle of a cracked wood-paneled ceiling.

The open-plan living space was empty save for several piles of timber and a scattering of bricks, while the thick shaft of a defunct fireplace banked up from one corner.

Stairs leading to the second story hugged the wall closest to the door, though there was no banister.

Someone had left a stack of newspapers on the bottom step.

Skye made her way toward an open archway at the far side of the room, through which she discovered a kitchen, or the approximation of one.

The plug sockets appeared new enough, as did the crude strip lighting, but the uneven stone tiles were scarred by another time.

There was a second door in the kitchen, which led outside, a brass key on the sill that opened it.

Skye went into what she supposed was her garden—a rectangular waste ground hemmed in by tumbledown stone wall.

It would need to be repaired, the weeds pulled up and the numerous heaps of what looked concerningly like animal droppings cleared away.

She could not fault the view, however, and stood for a few moments to admire the sweep of mountain set against its cobalt backdrop, the confetti-like smatter of pale rooftops, and the faraway ribbon of sea beyond.

A church was perched high on a distant cliff, pure white and softly edged, reminiscent of a fallen cloud.

The enormity of her decision astounded her afresh, though Skye knew that regardless of how much work was required, being on Folegandros was preferable to the alternative. She could never return to the place she had left behind.

A light breeze shifted the leaves of an overhanging tree, and the sun broke through with dazzling clarity.

Turning back toward the house, Skye bent to retrieve one of the fallen rocks from the ground and held it in her hands, feeling its warmth, the uncompromising strength of it.

As the sound of bells began to ring out across the hillside, she took the stone and slid it back into the wall.

All that was broken, she would rebuild. One small piece after another.