Free The Whispers of Nemesis by Anne Zouroudi

said. ‘Unthinkable as it is, somehow poor Santos has been . . . changed.’
    He drank down his Metaxa.
    â€˜Don’t be absurd,’ said Frona. ‘There’s surely been some trick, some malicious prank.’
    She looked towards Attis for reassurance.
    â€˜Of course you’re right, Frona,’ he said. ‘Papa, you might close the box. The question is, what do we do now?’ He put on his reading glasses, and from an envelope in his pocket, withdrew several papers held together with a legal seal. ‘Because, following today’s events, the wording Santos used in his will takes on new meaning.’
    â€˜What new meaning?’ asked Frona. ‘What do you mean? Four years, he said, and four years have gone.’
    Her face was troubled. Attis looked down at the papers; in the twilight, they were impossible to read. He switched on the lamp, snatching his hand from the sting of an electric shock. At the room’s corners, the shadows deepened in the lamp’s sallow light.
    Attis scanned the pages.
    â€˜I don’t think he said four years, exactly,’ he said, as he read. ‘That’s what we assumed he meant. Here it is, here’s the paragraph: the monies are to be distributed, when my bones finally see daylight . So I suppose everything rests on whether we can reasonably assume his bones have seen daylight today.’
    The priest looked dubiously at the metal box at his feet.
    â€˜But to declare those – whatever they are – are Santos’s remains would make us look idiots,’ said Frona. ‘They’re not human; we can see that.’
    Maria carried in a stack of plates, and laid them on the table.
    â€˜Eat, all of you, please; come, eat,’ she said, gesturing at the food. ‘What can I do with all this, if you don’t eat? And where’s Leda? She should eat something. She’s had nothing since breakfast this morning.’
    â€˜She isn’t here,’ said Frona. ‘I don’t know where she is. She’s had a great shock. How must the poor girl be feeling? Attis, will you go and look for her?’
    â€˜I will,’ said Attis, ‘when we’ve decided what to do. Papa Tomas will be wanting to get away.’ He replaced the papers in their envelope. ‘Maria, tell me something. What are they saying in the village about this business?’
    â€˜Business? What business? Papa, let me fill you a plate.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ said the priest. ‘That’s very kind.’
    â€˜This business.’ Attis pointed at the metal box. ‘What are they saying about this?’
    â€˜I haven’t been to the village to find out,’ said Maria, choosing from the best of the food for Papa Tomas. ‘But if I had to guess, I’d guess they’d be saying the poor boy’s bones have been transformed.’ She touched the corner of her eye, where tears were gathering. ‘Someone put the evil eye on him, is what I’d be saying. What else could they say, if it’s the truth?’
    In exasperation, Frona threw up her hands.
    â€˜See! They’ll have us in horns and hoods in no time, dancing on his grave at midnight. Their stupidity and superstition is beyond bearing.’
    Papa Tomas blinked; Maria turned her back, and busied herself with the Turkish delight.
    â€˜They have faith in powers beyond the earthly,’ said the priest, ‘as should we all.’
    â€˜So what do you say, Papa?’ asked Attis. ‘In your professional opinion, are what we have here Santos’s bones? Are you happy to inter them as such?’
    The priest cleared his throat, and took his time in taking a drink which emptied his glass. He wiped a small dribble from his mouth.
    â€˜Well,’ he said, holding out his glass so Attis might refill it, ‘if they are – and I’m not saying they are – then clearly there’s been some kind of – let’s say