At dawn, the firing of Aphrodite’s engines disturbed the peace of the bay. The chains rattled as her anchors were raised, and she executed a slow turn to point her prow to the east, and a rosy horizon.
As she motored towards the first sunlight, a single shot rang out.
As daylight filled the bedroom, Olympia read Philipas’s letter again, though there was no need; the words were few, and memorised. Turning out the lamp which had burned all night, she wondered whether a ring would suit her finger.
There had been little pain, and the sick woman’s face was peaceful, almost smiling. When finally her breathing stopped, Olympia released her hand.
She tucked the letter inside her dress, and slid open the dresser drawer to find the clothes the woman had chosen as her last. Over the body, a fly buzzed.
Olympia went to find the neighbour, to tell her to have them ring the passing bell.
Along the island’s east coast, where the fat man had been swimming, Nondas was hauling up nets he had laid the previous evening. Drawing them in hand over hand, the nets were heavy; he was optimistic of a good catch, hoping to emulate the luck he’d had with the snapper two days before.
Towards the skyline, Aphrodite passed; the figure leaning on the deck-rail waved a hand in farewell, but was unseen.
There was no wriggle in the nets, no struggle, only weight; and as he hauled them in, dripping and stinking of the fishy depths, Nondas saw why.
At first, he cursed, thinking he had landed a boulder, some worthless stone. But as he unwrapped the object from the nets, he saw, despite the corally growths and weeds which covered it, the stone had a form created by human hand; and when freed from the mesh, though long submerged, the object’s beauty was clear to see: an ancient statue of a leaping dolphin, fighting to break free from the sea.