hands moving in vivid emphasis. Kate saw him shooting
those black eyes at her, and looked nervously up at Marc.
He laughed, slipping an arm around her shoulders. “He
says he does not like young ladies coming here because
Pyrakis always falls madly in love with them, especially
when they are blonde and beautiful, like you!” And his
grey eyes glinted wickedly.
She blushed and stammered, “I don’t believe he said
anything of the sort!” She moved away, so that his arm
slid off her shoulder.
Marc’s eyes continued to laugh at her. He spoke again
to the old man, grinning, and the old man laughed, deep
in his throat.
He talked gutturally, gesticulating, and Marc laughed.
Then they walked into the cool, shadowy hall and the old
man shuffled away, his great hooked nose like an eagle’s
beak, in profile.
Kate stared around her in fascination. The floor of the
hall was tiled in black and white marble. A gold-painted
tub stood in one corner, full of tall waving ferns, and
opposite her hung a gilded mirror in which her own face
swam, like a translucent mermaid’s, against the dim
background of the hall.
“That is Kyril. He has been with Spiro for years and is
devoted to him, in a fierce, scornful way. They shout at
each other and swear to kill each other, but they are
inseparable.” Marc came up behind her, staring over her
shoulder at her face in the mirror.
Their eyes met. Hers fell away, shyly, at something
odd in his. Then Kyril came back and led them down the