“He doesn’t know about Phaon?”
“He knows...but can’t come.”
“Shall I go to him?”
“Wait...for a while,” he said.
P
My girls seldom leave me: Atthis, Gyrinno, Anaktoria, each brings flowers and gifts, bringing them surreptitiously or with a hint of jollity—sometimes compassion. Old Exekias pats my hands, kisses my skirt or turns away, tears unchecked.
Atthis, cheek against mine, murmurs her love. As we walk through our garden she says:
“I miss him too... I loved him too... We placed a wreath for him... We three have made a shrine in the woods...”
Gyrinno appears in the night, as I lie sleepless. Unable to mention the tragedy, she whispers hoarsely that she loves me and wants to help: Is there anything she can do for me?
Anaktoria has probed deeper: