Athena’s earliest memory was sitting on her grandmother’s knee at some kind of pre-wedding celebration involving only the women. Yiayia Sia encouraged her to fill her plate high with all her favourite Greek sweets. She ate syrupy baklavá, crunchy honey melomakárona, kourambié moons dusted in white powder, hot loukoumádes and her mother’s favourite, katoúmari. Their names were like secret spells. The air was sticky with the scent of warm cinnamon and sugar. All the women, in their best dresses, were sewing whole cloves onto thread. Her grandmother squeezed her hand, then lifted it and their eyes connected with the mátia, one hanging off Athena’s bracelet and the other hanging off her Yiayia Sia’s.
‘It will keep you safe. It keeps the evil eye away. I have one for your daughter too,’ Yiayia Sia whispered. It was such a strange thing to say. How could Yiayia Sia know that Athena would have a daughter? Athena was still a child.
‘A woman in my village gave me four prophecies.’
‘Prophecies?’
‘She read my coffee cup before I left. They have all come true, so far. I have buried treasure too, you know. It’s in Greece. On my island. On Aeaea. One day she will go there,’ said Yiayia Sia.
‘Who will go there?’
‘I kóri sou,’ she said. ‘Your daughter.’
So Athena always knew that she would have a daughter. And when Clara arrived many years later, it was as if she recognised her. She was finally here to share her life with Athena.
To receive her máti.
To start her journey.