Chapter 13

Margot barely had time to sleep last night between schlepping back to the hotel empty-handed and Dr. Hunt’s ungodly early wake-up call. A quick snooze on the train ride was all she had time to squeeze in before a miles-long trek through the waking city landed her outside the Roman Museum of Antiquities.

A breathtaking structure rose before her—taking up at least two city blocks. All stone, the facade was sculpted with hand-carved engravings, depicting armor-clad soldiers, willowy women, and wreaths of laurel. Lemon trees flanked the entrance, summer ripe and sweet smelling. Massive limestone columns jutted out of the earth, supporting a clay-tile roof and, beyond that, a domed ceiling.

When they strode inside, soft yellowed light swirled through the foyer, streaking through a window high overhead, and tendrils of morning light cast floating dust motes in high relief. Dr. Hunt kicked off their lecture. She led the class beneath a stone arch to a marble room where glass cases with gold plaques housed artifacts from bygone civilizations.

As her classmates took notes, Margot caught a glimpse of their reflection in the glass. Not spending all day slumped over Plot D meant Margot broke out her cap-sleeved yellow polka-dot dress. It buttoned up the front and belled out around her hips, cutting off midthigh. Next to her, Van managed to look like a teenager from this century—layering his linen shirt over a thrifted tee.

The relics beneath the reflections shifted, stone tablets turning into papyrus, spears into swords.

“Maybe the shard ended up in a museum,” Margot said to Van, hushed as they paced the quiet halls.

Van’s mouth fell into that familiar unamused slope. “And maybe cars can drive themselves.”

“Well, actually—”

Suki leaned over, tapping Van’s shoulder from the other side of Margot. “Chad, do you have a pen I could borrow? I totally forgot mine.”

Van stared at the exhibits unflinchingly. In one ear and out the other.

Suki smiled harder. She shot a frenzied look toward Margot. Clearly Suki wasn’t used to not commanding the attention of anyone she set her sights on.

“Chad,” Margot urged, wedging an elbow between his rib bones.

He jolted to attention. “What? A pen?” He patted his pockets uselessly. “No, sorry.”

Which was a total lie because Margot knew for a fact there was a black ink pen tucked inside his journal, wrinkling all the pages in a way that would have sent Astrid into cataleptic shock. As his mouth flattened back into a rigid line, Margot watched his face for any tells. Either he was a very good bluff or feigning complete disinterest was his tell.

As Suki fell back to whisper something to Astrid, Van narrowed his eyes, turning to Margot. “Do I have jam on my face or something?”

“No,” Margot said, too fast. Her belly warmed at the memory of Van swiping layers and layers of strawberry compote onto his toast this morning in the cramped, wallpapered dining room.

“Then, why are you staring?” Van asked.

“I’m not.” She about-faced about as fast as humanly possible. Which only made Van cock his head, that much more curious. Margot whispered, “Are you okay with this?”

“The staring?”

“The museum. The history of it all. Doesn’t it make you feel . . .” Homesick? Unmoored? Forgotten?

“—No.”

“Right, I forgot. Robots don’t feel anything.”

Van’s eyebrows did something wiggly—somehow rising and lowering at the same time in a squiggly scrunch.

Oh, yeah. Robots probably weren’t big in the 1930s. Margot rattled her head. “Never mind.”

Dr. Hunt stopped the class in front of a glass case filled with ancient weaponry, and all the hushed chatter dried up. She tapped her fingers against her clipboard, scanning the group. “Rome may be the City Eternal, but even it had its beginnings. Today, your job is to analyze its foundations and developments leading up to the days of Pompeii. You and your partner should use this to learn about the kinds of items you may find during your excavations.”

Margot glanced toward Astrid, who was saying something behind her palm to Topher, but her icy gaze aimed straight at Margot. It made a slimy feeling slosh around in Margot’s stomach.

Growing up in a town where everyone knew each other meant that everyone knew you right back. Margot had tried to become a hundred different girls just to stop being the girl whose parents divorced, whose mom skipped town and left her behind.

Transferring to Radcliffe was supposed to be her chance to find herself. To study new things—archaeology, cryptology, so many ologies to try!—and discover what she loved without being a spectacle to a bunch of kids who had watched her reinvent herself over and over and over again without ever getting closer to figuring out who she was.

Astrid, however, seemed hell-bent on making sure that didn’t happen.

Dr. Hunt added, “I’ll be passing around a worksheet for you to hand in at the end of the afternoon.”

A unanimous groan rose up from the class. Margot included. There was no time for busywork.

She pinched her eyes closed, pretending that when she opened them, she would be a different version of herself. A version who wasn’t going to bash her head through the glass if she had to listen to Astrid brag about her father’s father’s father for the rest of the afternoon.

“Let’s go,” Astrid said as she dragged Margot away from Van and shoved a worksheet in her hands. It was stapled. Not just a worksheet. A whole exercise. “I’m not letting you bomb this assignment for me.”

Margot recoiled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t be cute,” Astrid snarked. “You’ve barely put in any effort this whole weekend. I knew I was right.”

“Right about what, Astrid?” Tension knotted in Margot’s shoulders.

“You being here is ruining everything.”

“What’s your problem with me?” Margot snapped. She could feel it under her skin, her emotions slipping out of her reach. Even if she wanted to spool them back in, they’d still be a tangled, awful mess. “I don’t think I’ve committed any serious crimes against you. I didn’t copy your physics project or TP your dorm room or accuse you of stacking the votes so that you could win homecoming princess last winter.”

The look in Astrid’s eyes was so fiery, it could have melted steel. The jury was still out on how exactly Astrid had won the crown. But that was beside the point.

Margot threw her hands up, innocent. “Like I said. Not accusing. So, I’d love to know why every time you talk to me, you act like somebody just put a frog down your pants.”

Astrid tucked her bangs behind her ear. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because every time we’re supposed to work together, you suddenly have an emergency that makes it impossible for you to do your fair share of the work.”

Margot bit back, “I’ve done plenty—”

“I had this whole summer planned out so that I could get ahead on my college apps. Pasha Manikas and I were going to—”

“Shut up about Pasha Manikas!” Margot said a little too fast and a little too loud. “I’m sorry I’m not her, and I’m sorry you’re stuck with me.”

“You should be.” Astrid leaped at the chance to gloat. “If you weren’t so busy looking for that stupid Vase, maybe you’d actually learn a thing or two about archaeology.”

“It’s not stupid,” Margot seethed. Her hands tightened around the cloth straps of her backpack like it was a parachute, a lifeline. She’d known enough to find Van, to secure the first two fragments of the Vase. “People have been searching for it for centuries.”

“Exactly. My great-grandfather was one of those explorers. Don’t you think one of them would have found it if it were real?”

“I knew you couldn’t go two seconds without bringing up your family.” Margot’s throat ached against the words she knew she shouldn’t say but couldn’t stop. “Are you ever embarrassed that you’ve accomplished nothing for yourself?”

Astrid’s nostrils flared. She’d hit a nerve. “As if you’ve done any better. You cheated your way onto an excavation and want to act like I’m the one who hasn’t earned my spot here? Please.”

Margot’s teeth clenched so hard, she thought they might shatter. “I didn’t cheat at anything.”

Whipping her phone out of her pocket, Astrid said, “Hey, Siri. Define cheating.”

Siri’s stilted AI voice responded, “Cheating. A verb that means to gain an unjust advantage by skirting the rules.”

Astrid flicked an eyebrow, triumphant. “Say what you want about me, but you’ll never be half the archaeologist I am.”

Tears welled, hot and heavy, in Margot’s eyes. Astrid’s face blurred. Margot opened her mouth to speak, but it wasn’t her voice she heard.

“That’s a lot of hot air from someone with nothing to show for themselves,” Van said as he suddenly stepped beside Margot. He must have heard them fighting halfway across the hall. “But what else would we expect from an Ashby? Your family legacy can only get you so far.”

Red poured into Astrid’s cheeks. “I’ll have you know, I’m a Pliny Junior Scholastic Award winner.”

“Congrats on your studies.” Every word was level, precise. The only thing that betrayed Van’s fraying temper was a glint in his eye. “Let’s see how that helps you find something worth being remembered for.”

“At least I have actually studied,” Astrid said. Her eyes sliced toward Margot. “That’s more than some of us can say.”

Margot wiped the back of her hand across her cheek. It came back wet. She wasn’t going to stick around just to get ridiculed. She raced out of the exhibit hall.

Astrid’s voice trailed after her, saying, “Of course. Run away like you always do!”

She did. She slumped onto the first stiff stone bench she found, tucking her head against her knees and wrapping her arms around her head like a shield. Vaguely, she registered Van sinking down next to her. The threads of his too-big T-shirt from the thrift shop brushed against her skin.

Once the tears came, they didn’t stop. There was no way to swallow them down or hold them in. They raked through her, tsunami tides against the shore.

Van didn’t say anything while she wept. But he also didn’t move. Didn’t shy away from the storm front.

The back of his hand was so close to hers that she froze, scared he’d feel the tremble under her skin—the anxious adrenaline, the fear of never being enough. There was an uncertain pull to him, like he was a current in an endless ocean that could either guide her to high ground or cast her to sea. She wasn’t sure which, but the memory of his words called to her, a lighthouse in the mist. Actually, I was going to say brilliant.

A bitter laugh rattled out of her. “Sometimes, I swear I don’t even know why I came here if everyone hates me so much for doing it.”

Van rested his elbows on his thighs, twining his fingers together. He stared at the polished floors rather than at her. “You know exactly why you came here, and no one hates you.”

Had he participated in a completely different conversation back there?

A garbled noise erupted from Margot’s throat in protest. “Astrid would sooner throw me in the snake pit than ever have to work on a project with me again. Dr. Hunt almost assuredly regrets bringing me here in the first place. My dad—”

She hadn’t said actual words to him since their call. Just a thumbs-up emoji when he asked if she’d received her flight itinerary. What was there to say?

Van picked at the cuticle of his thumb. “Far fewer people hate you than hate me. Trust me. I’m not . . . always the most agreeable. Or so I’ve been told.”

“Well, everyone who hated you is dead.”

“Thanks for the reminder.”

Margot winced. “That’s not—sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He peeked at her out of the corner of his eye. “It’s true. Probably hated me until they took their last breaths.”

“Doesn’t that, I don’t know, bother you?” she asked.

Van nodded, a noncommittal bob. “There are worse things in life than not being liked. People are going to come to their own conclusions,” he said. “What people think usually says more about them than it does about me.”

She wanted to agree, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Maybe, she thought, biting into her cheek to keep from saying anything out loud, I just want him to like me. Because she wanted everyone to like her.

Van didn’t need other people’s approval, and somehow he still managed to get it. He had that whole broody and irritable thing going for him. He was Van Keane, after all.

Margot peeled her gaze away from him, ashamed of what he’d find if he looked too closely back into the blues of her eyes. She finally noticed where she’d run to, and suddenly she was rendered speechless.

Every inch of the walls had been lined with scrolls, delicate parchments handled with steady hands, next to stone tablets and chipped granite, stained with ink. Sconces protected lit candles, dotting the shelves with orbs of orange light.

Statues in varying states of disarray had been perched on smooth pedestals like Mr. Potato Head pieces—washboard abs with no head attached, the bald pate of some stoic emperor, a woman sliced in half down the middle: half a smile, half a dress, half a heart. At the far end of the hall, a Roman legionary stood with his hand on a blade and his head bowed beneath a helmet. Not an exact replica of the guardians but close enough to chill Margot to the bone.

“This room gives me the creeps,” she said, shivering.

“Nothing here can hurt us,” Van replied, his voice calm.

She shuddered again. “Don’t you think that statue looks too much like—”

“It’s not. Margot, we’re perfectly safe.”

And then, the soldier’s head lifted. Stone scraped as he unsheathed his sword.