It stunned London that she truly walked the streets and visited the temples of Theseus, of Pericles. She had read so much about the ancient world, its heroes and tragedies, and to be here now, no longer reading but to stand and breathe the air, dusty as it was, seemed a splendid gift she was determined not to squander. After visiting the site of the Ancient Agora, London wanted to see its modern incarnation, and so she and Sally found themselves in the colorful cacophony of Monastiraki, which was, sadly, thronged with British and German tourists in their white linen suits. At the least, London could purchase a few souvenirs for friends back home, and perhaps something for herself, as well. Once she and Father left Athens tomorrow, he assured her they would be far from anyplace that might sell mementos to travelers. London tamped down her disappointment. They had only arrived in Athens the day before, and too soon they would have to leave.
Yet, she would not complain. It was rather miraculous that she was even in Greece at all, had it not been for circumstance. And her own disobedience.
“Just a little bit longer, Sally,” London said. “I promise. And then we’ll go straight back to the hotel.”
“Your father wouldn’t want you out by yourself for too long.”
“But I’m not by myself. I have you.”
Sally lapsed into another round of muttering, which London decided to disregard. As she wandered between the rows of booths, tempted by bushels of currants and finely woven silk shawls, vendors hailed her.
“Lovely necklace for a lovely lady!” someone shouted in German.
“Wonderful grapes as sweet as your beauty!” another yelled in English.
Everything intrigued her. She didn’t know where to begin, her head a whirl from the visual and aural bounty around her. Until something caught her eye. London approached a booth where a vendor, dressed traditionally in a white kilt and short jacket, presided over his wares. Rows of black and red urns, amphorae, kraters, and plates were lined up on tables, all of the pottery depicting classical scenes from mythology.
“Wonderful, ancient vases for you, sir,” the vendor said in English to a French tourist. He pushed back his fez. “Each one, priceless relic.”
“Priceless, you say?” asked the Frenchman, intrigued.
“All beyond value. All taken with utmost care from earth, where they sleep for centuries, for millennia.”
Standing nearby, London considered the amphorae and other pieces of pottery. Some dirt had been rubbed into their surfaces, or a small abrasive pad taken to their paint to give them an antiqued appearance. Though she was no expert in archaeology, even a laywoman such as herself recognized such fraud. “I am surprised there is no paint on your hands,” she said, also in English. “For these were made no later than a week ago.”
At first, the vendor scowled, but he quickly smoothed over a smile. “My lady is clever. Clever as she is beautiful. Yes, these pieces not old. To weed out ignorants, you understand. I save good pieces, ancient ones, for the sharp-witted, such as yourself and this esteemed gentleman.”
“Naturally,” London said dryly.
The Frenchman glanced over at her quickly, then took a second, slower look. He was rather handsome and very neatly dressed in a traveling suit. He smiled at London, and she gave him a polite nod.
“Here, I show you.” The vendor dove down underneath one of the tables, then reemerged with a small wooden chest. He cleared space between some kraters, shunting the ceramic vessels aside with little care, then opened the box. On the rusty velvet lining lay several shards of pottery. “These are too valuable to simply lay out for any fool to grab. But my lady is wise like goddess Athena, and so I give her this privilege. You both may look, if you like.”
London tugged off her cream kidskin glove, which Sally took, and picked up one of the shards. Some writing, faded almost to obscurity, decorated its surface, along with traditional palm-leaf motifs. If it was a fake, it was a kind not so obvious as the vendor’s other wares. “What can you tell me about this?” she asked.
The vendor beamed, believing he had an interested customer. “Old, yes, very old. I have on most high authority the piece you hold is from time of Darius the Great.”
“Darius the Great!” exclaimed the Frenchman, impressed.
“Are you sure?” London asked.
“Quite, my lady. Papers I have, somewhere, to prove it.”
“Sir,” she said after a moment, “you are not being honest with me or this gentleman.”
The vendor looked offended. “You doubt?”
“I do, sir, very much.”
“How do you know he is not speaking the truth, Mademoiselle?” the Frenchman asked with a trace of condescension. London did not bother telling him that she was most definitely a madame and not a mademoiselle.
“Look here,” she said, pointing to the writing. “This form of Greek wasn’t in use during the reign of Darius the Great. Here, and here, the wording isn’t correct. The vowels, you see. They shifted. It’s clear that this piece of pottery came from the era of no earlier than Darius the Third.”
The Frenchman gaped at her in disbelief. Sally also looked shocked. But then, Sally had never truly comprehended the depths of London’s study of language. London had taken the years of enforced seclusion following Lawrence’s death to rigorously apply herself to studying more ancient languages than she already knew, sending servants out to buy dusty, nearly forgotten tomes from the booksellers in Covent Garden and poring over them late into the night. Yet, despite herself and the years of wisdom she had gained since the time of her blighted marriage, London felt her cheeks grow hot. Even here, in Athens, an educated woman was a freakish anomaly.
The vendor scowled. “What do you do? You say I lie and you chase off my customers?”
“No, no,” London said quickly. “I merely pointed out that the dates weren’t quite—”
“You the one who lies!” the vendor shouted. “No lady knows this language! You make trouble!”
Dozens of eyes turned toward them, drawn by the commotion. People craned their necks to watch as the vendor grew more and more angry. He switched to speaking Greek, a fast barrage of words that questioned London’s upbringing and why some rich Englishwoman must ruin his business when he had a wife and dozens of children at home who only wanted a morsel of bread, the pitiful creatures.
The Frenchman slunk away, leaving London alone to face the vendor’s verbal bombardment. This was certainly something that etiquette training never addressed. She wondered how to extricate herself without getting arrested.
“Save those slurs for your grandmother,” said a deep, masculine voice to the vendor. He spoke Greek with an English accent.
London turned to the voice. And nearly lost her own.
She knew she was still, in many ways, a sheltered woman. Her society in England was limited to a select few families and assorted hangers-on, her father’s business associates, their retainers and servants. At events and parties, she often saw the same people again and again. And yet, she knew with absolute clarity, that men who looked like the one standing beside her were a rare and altogether miraculous phenomenon.
There were taller men, to be sure, but it was difficult to consider this a flaw when presented with this man’s lean muscularity. He wonderfully filled out the shoulders of his English coat, not bulky, but definitively capable. She understood at once that his arms, his long legs, held a leashed strength that even his negligent pose could not disguise. He called to mind the boxers that her brother, Jonas, had admired in his youth. The stranger was bareheaded, which was odd in