Because always, always, fight as he might against it, Ariadne was in his mind and heart alike.
Yet perhaps she'd survived. After all, he'd not been able to find her in her quarters. And she'd promised to meet him—where was it?—on the headland to the left of the mouth of the River of Amnissus.
At least, hunting for her would give him something to do; something to occupy his muscles and maybe, even, a small part of his brain.
So, now, he rose; turned towards the sea.
It was nearly dawn before he found his way to the headland. By then, the wind had died, and the sky in the east lay grey as the whispering, slate-colored waves.
A spark of tension came to life within Burke. Suddenly eager, heedless of fatigue, he clawed his way to the headland's highest point and scanned the whole area.
No sign of Ariadne.
The spark flickered; died. Dully, Burke stared out across the shadowy sea.
His life from now on would be like that: grey; all grey.
It didn't even matter that now he could see the hidden pattern behind the rise of Bronze Age Crete.