From here, you couldn’t see any sign of wharfs or boats or the factory that must be somewhere nearby.
It was a smallish, old-looking place, with nothing smart or fashionable about it. It perched on a heavily terraced green promontory cantilevered out into the bay below, white walls gleaming pink in the fading light. Xanthe gave a shudder which might have been agreement.ĭamiskos looked down the hill toward the villa that was his destination. “This is embarrassing for both of us, you know,” Damiskos remarked, reaching up to pat the mare’s neck as they stopped for a break. Instead, as the sun began to set over the water, he was descending the steep track toward the coast on foot, limping badly, and leading Xanthe, who had refused some hours ago to proceed in any other way. If he hadn’t followed that up with a frown and a little up-and-down flick of the eyes, and if he hadn’t said, “You might find it easier, sir,” with the emphasis in just the wrong place-just a little too sympathetic-Damiskos might have listened to him and left his horse behind. The man at the inn that morning had said so. THE LAST LEG of the journey down to the villa would indeed have been easier on a mule. Published July 2019 by Sexton’s Cottage Books.
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