Aprhodite in flames E-Book

Lina Elllina

• Herausgeber: Armida Publications
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 246

Beschreibung

In Aphrodite in Flames, Sergio Rossi embarks on a difficult quest amidst the chaos of political upheaval and military conflict in Cyprus. Faced with his cousin Paola’s life-threatening illness, Sergio journeys to Cyprus in a race against time to contact Giannis who holds the key to Paola’s survival. 

Arriving just as a Greek coup shatters the island’s tranquility, Sergio finds himself swept into a whirlwind of chaos. With Giannis arrested and a curfew imposed, Sergio joins forces with Sophia, Giannis’ daughter, to navigate the dangerous streets in search of her father. But as tensions escalate with the onset of the 1974 Turkish invasion, their mission becomes a perilous struggle for survival.

In the midst of the turmoil, Sergio and Sophia forge a fragile bond, united by their shared determination to find Giannis and escape the ravages of war. As they confront the harsh realities of violence and loss, they must summon courage and resilience to overcome the obstacles in their path. 

“Aphrodite in Flames” is a compelling tale of hope and resilience in the face of adversity.  

With its gripping narrative, this evocative novel explores the enduring power of family and the indomitable spirit of the human heart.

Will Sergio and Sophia navigate the chaos of Cyprus’s war-torn landscape,
or will they become casualties of the conflict?

Leseprobe

Aprhodite in flames

Lina Ellina

Armida Books

Copyright © 2024 Lina Ellina & Armida Books

All rights reservedThe characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.ISBN-13 (E-PUB): 978-9925-601-55-4Cover design by: Armida BooksDetails from images by Egor Myznik, Nathan Dumlao, Pawel Czerwinski,  & NordWood Themes on Unsplash

To Andreas, the love of my life,  born and raised in Famagusta,  and our wonderful children.

Foreword

I would like to thank my historical editor,

Dr. Nicholas Coureas, my publisher, Armida Publications,

Kevin Sullivan, and all my friends

who read the manuscript for their invaluable feedback.

1

July 8, 1974

Rovigo

Lorenzo stares out the window at the quiet backstreets of the sleepy little town of Rovigo. He runs his long, slender fingers through his graying hair. Then he rubs his neck, trying to ease the tension. The mere thought of meeting with Giannis after all these years sends chills down his spine. The young man has been the skeleton in Lorenzo’s closet, a secret he wishes he could take to his grave. But there’s nothing a father wouldn’t do for his daughter; nothing Lorenzo wouldn’t do for Paola.

The phone trills, startling him. It’s not as though he hasn’t been expecting the call. Still, it makes his muscles tense. He clears his throat and picks up the receiver. “Rossi.”

“Signor Rossi,” a heavy smoker’s voice says at the other end of the line. “I have the information you need. Do you have a pen and paper?”

“Just a moment,” Lorenzo says, reaching for the notepad on the telephone table. He takes a moment and a deep breath to steady his shaky hand. “I’m listening,” he says calmly, forcing his voice not to convey his angst. He jots down an address. Then he thanks the man and sets up a meeting.

“Who was that on the phone?”

Lorenzo turns around to face his wife. Time has been kind to her. She’s as beautiful as that first day he met her at the Club Oasis thirty-five years earlier when she came for a rehearsal. “The private investigator.” He holds the piece of paper with the address in the air. “He’s found Giannis.” He walks to the globe liquor cabinet, pours them a whiskey, and hands her a glass.

A sigh escapes Marcella’s lips as she reaches for her drink. “In Cyprus?” She sees a bead of sweat standing out here and there on his broad forehead and shares his apprehension silently. He nods. Marcella closes her eyes and is back on the island twenty-six years earlier. It was the best thing that ever happened to them. It was the worst thing that ever happened to them.

He takes a swig, wincing from the sting in his throat, and savors the burning sensation. “In Famagusta.” His voice interrupts her walk down memory lane. “Right where we left him.”

Lightheaded, Marcella leans against the doorpost. She senses Lorenzo’s eyes fixed on her and meets his gaze. She knows he has a lot of questions, but he’ll never ask a single one. It was their silent pact. The only way they could cope with what had happened. She sips her whiskey pensively. “Finding him was the easy part. Now, you need to convince him to say yes.” Doubt and fear lace her voice. Giannis has every reason to say no and only one to say yes.

Lorenzo places his glass gently on the coffee table. He walks over to her and takes her in his arms. “I got him to say yes before. I can do it again.” Or so he hopes. “Don’t worry, cara; Paola will be all right. Everything will be fine.” If only he had a way of knowing that.

***

Sergio Rossi, Lorenzo’s nephew, tucks the file with the foreclosure cases under his arm as he walks to his car. Dealing with defaulted loans is the most stressful part of his job. Italy has been in social, political, and economic turmoil for years. The years of lead, they call them. Life in a small province like Rovigo has not been easy. The cases pile up on his desk – even more so since the oil crisis. Inflation hit the West hard. Each day is a struggle.

The OPEC embargo ended four months earlier, but the fear of lacking access to such a vital commodity has yet to fade away. Italy did not support Israel in the Yom Kippur War. Hence, it was not among the countries directly targeted. Yet Italians had their share of shortages. For months, people drove on odd-even rationing on Sundays and public holidays. Worse still, the crisis forced several small family businesses to close. People lost their jobs, and now they can’t repay their loans. Each file has a sad story to tell. Sergio often takes work home. As hope springs eternal, he tries to find a way to help people keep their homes and farms, at least for as long as possible.

He checks the time. He had plans for the evening, but Bianca called earlier to say she wouldn’t make it. She has a deadline to meet for an article she’s writing. This is the second time she has canceled in as many times as he’s asked her out. Last time, her piece about the Delta of the Po River kept her in the area overnight. Any other man would think she’s making excuses. But Sergio wants to give her the benefit of the doubt; her job can be demanding.

He gets into his red Fiat 127, lowers the window, and loosens his tie. He lights an MS, turns the radio on, and soon, the strain of the day dissolves to the sound of Berto Pisano’s A Blue Shadow. Sergio cruises down Piazza Duomo as an idea is formed in his mind. He smiles to himself and makes a quick stop at Pizzeria Vesuvio. Then he heads toward Via Mure San Giuseppe.

Fifteen minutes later, he walks into the office of Il Gazzettino, the town’s newspaper. Most lights are off. Bianca and Guglielmo, her mentor, are the only ones still working. They’re absorbed in their discussion and don’t see him until he stands at their desk.

“Sergio,” Bianca says, not trying to mask her surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“I come bearing gifts.” He holds up a pizza box and a bottle of Sangiovese. “If the mountain won’t go to Mohammed… Buona sera, Guglielmo,” he says, turning to face him. “Join us.”

“Buona sera, Sergio.” The silver-haired man lifts his chin in greeting.

Bianca takes plastic cups out of a drawer, and Sergio pours them some wine. “You’re my savior,” she says, smiling, and he pats himself on the shoulder for his idea. “I’m sorry I had to cancel on you,” she says with a rueful smile. “Rain check? Friday?”

He sits at the corner of her desk. “Sure. Tavernetta Dante?” She nods. “Pick you up at seven?”

“Perfect.” She takes a bite. “Mm, Vesuvio is the best.”

Sergio bites into his slice and wipes his lips with a napkin. “What’s the article you’re writing about?”

“The situation in Cyprus.”

He washes down the pizza with some wine. “What situation?” He remembers vaguely something in the news about the Cypriot president accusing Greece of conspiracy against him.

Bianca sips some wine and places her cup on the desk. “The island is a tinderbox, a disaster waiting to happen. There’s tension between the Greek junta and President Makarios. Also, between the Greek and the Turkish Cypriots, who fear their civil rights will be further curtailed.”

Sergio takes one more slice. “Why’s that?”

Bianca is chewing, so Guglielmo answers. He pushes his glasses up with his pointer finger. “The obvious answer would be that the Greek Cypriots want union with Greece, while the Turkish Cypriots want the partition.”

Sergio understands the Turkish Cypriots’ fears of being swallowed up by the eighty percent Greek-Cypriot majority. His question is different. “Why do Greek Cypriots want the union with Greece when they can have their own administration?”

Guglielmo lights a Muratti and inhales deeply. He exhales and says, “Three thousand years of shared history for one. Besides, the English promised them that much twice before. But they never kept their word.” Sergio wonders why the Brits care so much about a speck of a country but doesn’t get the chance to ask.

“I think the roots of the problem go deeper,” Bianca says. “All the way to the Treaty of Establishment.” She tucks a lock of her chin-length auburn hair behind her ear, only for it to flop again.

“What’s wrong with it?” Sergio has no interest in complicated legal treaties. He’s more interested in engaging her in a conversation to prolong his stay.

“Where do I begin?” She stares at him with her beautiful blue eyes, and he finds it hard to concentrate on her words. “We’re talking about a complex, dysfunctional constitution here. Every constitutional expert I have interviewed says Cypriots were offered sham independence. More pages of the constitution deal with British prerogatives than how the two communities can live together. Did you know,” she says, tapping her index finger down on her desk for more emphasis, “that there are thirty-one sites outside the two British bases which Britain has the right to continue to use without restriction or interference?”

Sergio frowns. She may as well be speaking Chinese. “What does this mean?”

It’s important to her that he understands. Sergio is a good example of the average reader. He’s interested in world politics but doesn’t want to get lost in tons of details. She takes a moment to think of an analogy that clarifies what she means. “Let me give you an example. What would our Italian MPs say if the British or the Americans – take your pick – were given the power to take over at will at Fiumicino or Marco Polo Airport for military purposes in peacetime or war, even if Italy was not involved in that conflict?” Satisfied with the comparison, she takes one more bite.

Sergio’s eyebrows furrow. “And this is in the constitution?” Bianca and Guglielmo nod, giving him a now-you-are-getting-it look. “Why don’t they change the constitution then?” What could be simpler?

“A valid question.” Guglielmo puts out his cigarette. “And herein lies the problem: they can’t. The Treaty of Establishment does not allow it. It even denies them government by an elected majority.”

“Can they do that?” Sergio looks from Guglielmo to Bianca, perplexed.

Bianca snorts. “They already have.”

Sergio shakes his head. “I can imagine the British are nervous; their empire is collapsing. And Cyprus’ position so close to the Middle East oil is important, but still.”

“Well, it’s all part of the Cold War chess game,” Guglielmo says. Sergio casts a blank stare at him. “Cyprus’ position,” Guglielmo explains patiently, “is ideal for electronic listening equipment, which feeds the British and the Americans with top secrets.” Sergio’s eyebrows shoot up. Then he nods slowly in understanding.

Bianca checks her wristwatch. It’s nice Sergio dropped by, especially with pizza and wine. But they won’t meet their deadline if he tarries much longer. Getting the message, the young man empties his glass. “I’ll let you two get back to work,” he says, rising to his feet. “I can’t wait to read the article.”

“Thanks for dinner,” Guglielmo says.

“Thanks for the lesson in current affairs,” he replies and turns to Bianca. “Friday, at seven?” She nods, and he wishes them goodnight.

“He likes you,” Guglielmo says when the young man is out of earshot. “The question is: do you like him?”

Bianca shrugs. “He’s nice.” Guglielmo raises an eyebrow. “Nice?”

Bianca loads a sheet of paper into the Olivetti on her desk. “Come on; we have work to do.”

***

Sergio greets Mrs. Panziera at the entrance of his apartment building and climbs up the stairs with a spring in his step and the bank files tucked under one arm. The phone rings as he throws open the door of his apartment. He reaches it in two strides. “Rossi,” he says, tossing the files and his keys on the telephone table.

“Sergio,” a thick voice, barely above a whisper, says.

“Marcella?” He hears muffled sobs and knows something is wrong. “Marcella, what’s the matter?”

“Lorenzo. He…” her voice trails off.

Sergio’s mind begins to race, considering several scenarios. “Has something happened to Lorenzo?”

“He’s …” She can’t bring herself to say the word. Nothing has prepared her for this moment. A fresh wave of tears flows freely down her cheeks, and she wipes her nose with the back of her hand. She needs to find the words. Sergio is the only one who can help, the only one she trusts. “There’s been an accident,” she forces herself to say. “And Paola…” She bursts into tears again.

Her words feel like a punch in the gut. He hopes whatever injuries there may be are not too serious. Paola’s body is too weak to fight back, and Lorenzo has never taken care of his health. “Where are you?”

“At Ospidale Santa Maria della Misericordia.”

Cold sweat runs down Sergio’s spine. “I’ll be right there.”

With his heart pounding, he dashes out of the apartment, gets into his car, and speeds down Via Badaloni. Ten minutes later, he eases his Fiat into a parking space at the Ospedale Santa Maria della Misericordia. He runs up the stairs two at a time and reaches the reception in long strides.

“Buona sera!” He waits until the receptionist meets his eye. “Lorenzo Rossi?” He didn’t mean to sound terse, but he can’t worry about that right now.

The woman in a white uniform checks the notes in front of her. “You should talk to Dottore Sabbatini.”

Sergio’s pulse races wildly. “Where do I find him?”

“Let me see.” She shuffles some papers on her desk. “His shift fin- ished twenty minutes ago, but I don’t think he has left yet.” She casts a cursory glance around. “Ah, there he is.” She points to a man by the door. “That’s him leaving now.”

Sergio thanks her and rushes after the doctor. “Dottore!” Dr. Sabbatini looks over his shoulder, stops, and turns around. “Thank you for waiting.” Sergio catches his breath. “My uncle, Lorenzo Rossi, had an accident.”

“Why don’t we have a seat?” The doctor’s voice is soft and calming. He shows Sergio to a row of beam seats and sits next to him. Despite two decades of practicing medicine, he still feels his chest constrict each time he must tell the family of the death of their loved ones. “I’m sorry, but I have bad news. Your uncle was already dead when they brought him to the ER.” He watches the color drain from the young man’s face with sympathetic eyes.

Sergio is suddenly dizzy. “What?” He can’t have heard right.

“I’m sorry. There was nothing we could do,” the doctor says gently.

Sergio fixes his gaze on the tips of his shoes. How can Lorenzo be dead? They had lunch together the other day. And now he’s suddenly gone? The notion is too hard for his brain to conceive. Random memories pop up in his head, overwhelming him. Lorenzo was more than an uncle. He was the one person Sergio could always turn to, a mentor and a confidant. He even taught him how to play the saxophone. Sergio’s parents were not thrilled. ‘A noisy waste of time,’ they would say. But Sergio did not neglect his studies, so they gave in.

A thought crosses the young man’s mind that twists his stomach in knots. He lifts his eyes to the doctor. “What about Paola?” His voice is hoarse as he braces for more bad news.

“She’s in the ICU. Her good kidney has been punctured. She needs a kidney transplant.”

“Again?” Sergio tilts his head back in surprise. When Paola had a kidney transplant several weeks earlier, her body rejected it.

“I’m afraid so. The problem is her body is filled with antibodies now. This makes it difficult to match with another donor. Our chances would be better if the donor were a family member.” If the doctor finds it strange that no one in the young woman’s family has volunteered to do so, he keeps his thoughts to himself. She’s not his patient. He’s not close to the family and doesn’t want to jump to conclusions.

“I wish I could give her one of mine,” Sergio says as if reading the doctor’s mind. “But I’m blood type O, and she’s A.” He rises to his feet. “I should find my aunt unless you need me to fill in any forms.”

The doctor stands up, too. “That can wait. Your aunt needs you now.”

Sergio thanks him and walks to the ICU. The nurse won’t let him see Paola yet, but she walks back in to tell Marcella he’s there. Moments later, the door opens, and she comes out. His dazzling aunt looks ten years older overnight. He wraps his arms around her, and she sobs quietly on his shoulder. They stay in each other’s embrace, not taking notice of the people passing by.

Then Marcella lifts her head. “I can’t lose them both, Sergio.” As she speaks, her voice cracks.

He rubs her back, fighting back tears. He must stay strong for her. She needs him now more than ever. “I know. Is there anything I can do?”

“Can you take care of the funeral arrangements? I don’t think I have the heart for that.”

“Of course,” he agrees readily.

2

July 9, 1974

Agios Sergios, Famagusta

Sophia opens the garden gate of her uncle’s house in Agios Sergios, a coastal village near the ancient site of Salamis, less than five miles north of Famagusta. She waves at the two men, her father and uncle, working on the roof. They wave back and glance up at the sun high in the sky. Their growling stomachs remind them it should be lunchtime. They put down the tiles they’re holding and climb down the ladder.

“What’s that?” Giannis, her father, asks, pointing to the bag she’s carrying.

“Ice cream,” Sophia says as they enter the house. She puts the ice cream in the freezer as the two men take turns washing their hands. “I made five pounds today.” She breaks into a wide smile. “They sold all my pieces, and I have two new orders for next week.”

“People like your jewelry,” Giannis says, concealing his pride. It started as a hobby, a pastime. It was her way of fighting grief over Alexandros, her dead husband. In the end, it turned out to be lucrative. And this came in handy. With the baby coming soon, Sophia needs the money.

“Of course, they do,” Anna, her aunt, says. They’re all proud of Sophia, bouncing back so quickly. Carrying Alexandros’ baby helped, too.

“Mm, it smells good,” Nicos, Giannis’ brother, says. “What is it?” Anna opens her mouth to speak, but he raises a hand to stop her. “No, don’t tell. Let me guess.” He sniffs. “Bamies.” He’d recognize the aroma of the caramelized tomato sauce in the okra anywhere.

“Your favorite,” Anna says, placing the serving dish on the table.

“No one makes bamies like you do. You have hands of gold.” Nicos smiles at his wife as they sit around the table.

“Sometimes I wonder if you love me or my cooking more,” she says, tilting her head to the side.

“Woman, I love everything about you.” Nicos plants a peck on her cheek.

“Flatterer,” she says, not hiding her delight.

Giannis helps himself to the okra and turns to face his daughter. “So, what did you do today? Besides selling your pieces?”

Sophia washes her food down with some water. “I went for a swim.” Giannis raises a scolding bushy eyebrow. He wishes she would take better care of herself in her condition. “Don’t worry, Papa. I was careful. I did not stay in the sun too long.” She meets his eye, briefly enough to see she hasn’t convinced him, and changes the subject. “Uncle, weren’t the twins going to ask for a leave to help with the renovation?”

Nicos’ hand stops in midair. His face clouds over. He wasn’t going to tell them. What was the point of worrying them, especially Sophia in her condition? But since she asked, he can’t lie to them. “They were.”

“And?” the young woman asks, looking from Nicos to Anna. Her aunt drops her gaze to look at her hands, twisting her wedding ring.

“One of Stavros’ officers made a speech about how they should be ready to intervene if Makarios takes a wrong turn,” Nicos explains. “And you know your cousin; he can’t keep his mouth shut.” His voice is laced with pride and concern in equal measure.

Giannis peers at his brother with a worried frown. “What happened?”

Nicos shakes his head in disapproval. “What they do to dissidents: they accused him of being a communist, detained him for twenty days, and sent him to Kokkina.”

Sophia feels a chill down her spine at the thought of her cousin serving in the remote coastal outpost at Kokkina, monitoring the Turkish Cypriot enclave. After the Turkish Cypriots withdrew from the government, escalating to the intercommunal violence of 1963-4, Turkish Cypriots started living in enclaves. “But Stavros is not a communist. He’s a Makarios supporter.”

“You think they care?” Anna says indignantly. “If you’re not with them, you’re against them. I don’t know what is worse for them: a communist or a Makarios supporter.”

Giannis nods. “Their goal has been clear from the start: over- throw Archbishop Makarios. Then, clear up the menace of communism.”

“Yes,” Sophia says. “His supporters are a red rag to them. At least, communists know how to keep a low profile. They know better than to get in their way.” If only Alexandros had known, too!

“What choice do they have? Everyone has guns but them,” Nicos says. They play with the food on their plates in contemplative silence for a while.

“Their audacity knows no end,” Giannis says, annoyed and anxious to the same extent. “If they feel they can behave like this...” He shakes his head, leaving his sentence unfinished.

“And what about Antonis?” Sophia asks.

“He’s in the infirmary,” Anna replies. “Some EOKA B bullies beat him up in the dark.”

Sophia stares at her, appalled. “In the barracks?” Anna bobs her head. “Wasn’t there anyone to help him? Didn’t anyone see anything?” Her voice is loaded with disbelief.

“Even if they saw, they were too scared to do or say anything,” Nicos says, defeated.

“What did the doctors say?” Giannis asks.

Nicos snorts. “That he tripped in the dark and fell because he wasn’t wearing his glasses. No one stopped to think he lost his glasses in the beating.”

A stunned silence spreads around the room. It’s not as though they haven’t heard such stories before. Still, they’re reeling from the shock. They have always been careful and did not expect it to happen to them.

Giannis gulps down his cold beer. “Sophia, I’ve been thinking. Perhaps you should stay with Aunt Anthoula in Manchester when the baby is born.”

Sophia shoves a strand of her chestnut hair behind her ear. She shares his nervousness, but she has her own plans for her future. Living in Manchester is not part of them. “What will I do in Manchester? My life is here. Besides, it’s cold and rainy there.” A Pause. Then, “When do you think the roof will be ready?”

“Changing the subject won’t change anything, you know… Saturday, if all goes well. Then we can go home.”

“Make sure you buy groceries on the way,” Nicos says.

Sophia is about to take a bite but puts her fork down. “You’re that worried, Uncle?” She hopes he’s exaggerating, but the look on his face bespeaks his concern.

“Only a fool wouldn’t be.” He helps himself to some yogurt. “Things are going from bad to worse. The Colonels did not like it one bit when Makarios cut the length of military service. And then the next day, he accused Ioannides of planning to liquidate the state.”

“Does he think the junta will hold off, as it did in ’72?” Sophia says. “It worked then.” She hopes it will work now, too.

Nicos purses his lips together. “Things were different then,” he says. “The Greek junta and EOKA B conspired with the bishops. They had the Holy Synod defrock Makarios, but he outwitted them. He called a Major Synod and had the bishops defrocked instead.”

Sophia remembers this dangerous chess game and Makarios’ checkmate. The whole island held its breath until the tension de-escalated. “Who would have thought a junta would rule the land that gave birth to democracy,” she says more to herself.

“For all the CIA intelligence, Americans don’t get it,” Nicos says, shaking his head. “Makarios is anything but a red priest. The man studied in the States. He has introduced a free market economy. There is no trace of communism in his bones. But when the right wing won’t support him, what choice does he have but to take support where he can find it?”

Giannis thinks the Americans know all that. The island is bristling with spies. And Cypriots love to talk, spilling out secrets, hoping to pass off as more important than they are or out of plain naivety. He thinks Makarios makes Americans jittery; the archbishop is popular on the island and not easily controlled. But Giannis keeps his thoughts to himself. He doesn’t want to upset the women more. Anna is trying to put on a brave face, but he knows how shaken she is about her boys. And Sofia has already been through a lot. “Let’s hope things will work out,” he says but doesn’t sound convincing. Turmoil is a looming fear. Makarios’ demand for the immediate recall of all the junta officers is a bad omen.

“Have you thought of a name for the baby,” Nicos asks Sophia, trying to lighten the mood.

“If it’s a girl, I’ll call her Marina, after my mom. If it’s a boy, I’ll name him Alexandros, after his dad.”

It has been five months since Alexandros’ death at the hands of EOKA B. If only he had listened to her when she begged him not to go to the clandestine meeting with the Turkish Cypriot unionists in the countryside of Limassol. He came back in a coffin. They said it was a hunting accident. Maybe it was. All she knew was she lost him forever.

“Giannis, you’ll be a grandpa soon, an old man,” Nicos teases.

“Speak for yourself,” Giannis returns the teasing. “You’re the one who has retired from the Force, not me.”

“Early retirement,” Nicos reminds him.

“Pensioner all the same,” Giannis says, rising to his feet. “Come on, old bones. The roof won’t get tiled itself.”

***

“Let’s see if I am going to win the lottery ticket. I could use the money for the little one,” Sophia says as she turns her cup upside down in the saucer. “Or maybe a prince charming is coming to my rescue?” She sprouts a smirk at the corner of her mouth.

“Fortune telling is serious business,” Anna says, a touch of irritation in her voice. Her grandmother taught her how to read the cup when she was a girl in Constantinople. Her family left right before the anti-Greek pogrom, a massive attack on the Greek minority of Istanbul orchestrated by the Turkish state. Anna’s father managed to bring his wife and daughter to Cyprus just in time. But Granny chose to stay in the city she loved. They haven’t heard from her since.

“I’m sorry, Auntie. Please, go on,” Sophia says, and this is all the encouragement Anna needs. She can use the distraction from the worry about the twins. She turns the cup in her hands a couple of times, raising her eyebrows and then frowning. Sophia does her best to contain her curiosity. But when she sees Anna shake her head, she can’t help herself. “Well?”

“Patience, Child. There’s something here that doesn’t make sense,” Anna mutters.

Her words pique Sophia’s curiosity. “What’s that?”

“Well, a stranger is coming for you.” The fretful look on her aunt’s face puts any thoughts of teasing on hold. “Your life is in danger, but he’ll save you.”

“My knight in shining armor,” Sophia stifles a giggle, and Anna shoots a reprimanding look. Sophia sounds serious when she speaks again. “Perhaps the doctor who will deliver the baby?” Sophia is afraid of dying at birth, as her mom did. But she hasn’t told a soul.

Anna senses the change in Sophia’s mood and stares into the cup again. “You’ll travel. Not a pleasant journey. I see a lot of turbulence.” She stops and puts the cup down on the table. “I’m talking nonsense. This is not working. I’m not thinking straight. I guess I’m worried about the twins. We should try again tomorrow.” She rises to her feet, taking the cups to the sink. She wishes she had kept what she saw in the cup to herself. But time and words are two things you cannot get back.

***