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‘And now I’ve done so, I’ll leave.’
    â€˜But you haven’t paid your proper respects to the saint,’ said the fat man, obstructing the door, perhaps unintentionally. ‘Who is the idol here? St Fanourios, it would seem. Please, I truly don’t wish to disturb you. I shall wait outside until you’re done, before I undertake my little tour. As the place is so small, I shall be done in half a minute, unless I find something of particular note. My interest is not in the present structure but in its foundations, and whether this chapel usurps an earlier building, an ancient temple. There have been rumours, down the years, of a temple to Demeter in this area. Whether this is the chapel that covers it, would be interesting to find out.’
    He left her. Leda carried the burning candle to all the icons, and twisted it into the candle-box sand.
    Outside, the fat man was standing once again before the shrine, smoking a cigarette whose tip glowed red in the twilight.
    â€˜The Orthodox habit of digging up the dead has always seemed peculiar to me,’ he said, waving his hand towards the skulls as she appeared. ‘Why not leave them in the ground where they are comfortable? And these fellows here have it worse than most, displayed like goods in some shop window. They may be useful as a reminder of mortality, but these men have been left no dignity. Even as I made my way up here, they were exhuming some other poor soul at the cemetery. Perhaps you know who it was?’
    The evening shadows seemed to diminish his stature, and his affable expression encouraged confidences.
    â€˜It was my father,’ she said.
    The fat man raised both his hands in apology.
    â€˜How tactless of me!’ he said. ‘Please, forgive me. Your father, then . . . May your God forgive his sins. But – forgive me again, it is my unalterable nature to be inquisitive – on such an important occasion, why are you spending your time here with St Fanourios and not at home with your family?’
    â€˜You’re right,’ she said. ‘I should go back to them.’
    â€˜Before you go, will you permit me a question?’ He dropped what remained of his cigarette to the ground and crushed it under the sole of his white shoe; then he bent to pick up the butt, and placed it on top of the shrine. ‘I shall dispose of that properly, in a moment. Now, please advise me: St Fanourios, the Revealer, your patron saint of lost things. I have misplaced a ring, which perhaps he may help me find. It’s gold, and an antiquity, but its value to me is more sentimental than monetary. It was a gift to me from my mother, and she will be most upset to think I’ve lost it. If you would confirm that my understanding of the ritual is correct, I might invoke Fanourios’s help myself. I must offer to say a prayer for the soul of his mother, is that right?’
    â€˜You must offer to bake him a cake,’ said Leda, ‘a fanouropita for the soul of his mother. Then you must take the cake to seven different houses, and before your neighbours eat, they must pray for St Fanourios’s mother, too. All the cake must be eaten; none must be thrown away.’
    The fat man looked doubtful.
    â€˜How can I undertake this ritual?’ he asked. ‘I don’t know the recipe for fanouropita , and if I did, I have no kitchen to bake cakes.’ He considered. ‘Do you think we might economise, and join my request with yours? When you bake your cake, will you ask for the return of my ring, as well as what you have lost?’
    â€˜I shan’t be baking any cake,’ said Leda. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you.’
    She turned her back on him, and set off down the road, in the direction of the poet’s house, and the village.
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    The evening was growing dark; the nearest trees were still visible, but in the deeper forest, night had already fallen. Leda walked as quickly as