The storm came out of the west on the third day.
Paris had been on deck when the first dark clouds massed on the horizon, low and heavy and moving fast. Phaidon took one look at the sky and began shouting orders. The crew scrambled to reef the sails, to secure the cargo, to lash down everything that wasn't already tied. The Kalliste was a sturdy ship, built for the coastal trade, but it wasn't built for this.
"Get below," Phaidon said. "Both of you. Now."
Paris didn't argue. He climbed down into the cargo hold, where Helen was waiting in the cramped compartment behind the olive oil jars. She had been seasick for most of the voyage, her face pale, her hands gripping the edge of the bench. But when she saw his expression, she straightened.
"What's wrong."
"Storm. A bad one."
The ship lurched. The jars rattled in their racks. Somewhere above them, a wave crashed against the hull with a sound like thunder.
Helen reached for his hand. "Will we make it."
