Chapter 2

Technically, Margot hadn’t been trespassing when she found the shard. Her school library’s archives were strictly off-limits, unless you had written approval from the head librarian. Which she totally had.

Admittedly, she was supposed to be doing research for her final English paper, a thematic interrogation of her all-time favorite novel, Relics of the Heart by Catherine Avery Hannigan.

In the book, rival archaeologists Isla Farrow and Reed Silvan scoured the Mediterranean for an artifact believed to be nothing more than a story: the Vase of Venus Aurelia. Their adventure—long nights together, searching for the Vase, finding each other instead—had captivated her mom. The first time Margot read it after unearthing it from a box her mom left behind, she’d been spellbound, too.

Her copy had seen better days. The mass-market romance was all roughened edges and curled corners from being read and read again. She could still remember her mom hunkering down with it on the hammock she’d string up in the backyard each June. Every time Margot fanned through the pages, they smelled like those summers: coconut-scented tanning lotion, heaping scoops of strawberry ice cream, and freshly washed cotton sheets, sun-dried.

So, really, it wasn’t Margot’s fault that her foot slipped on the library’s rolling ladder in the section on Roman mythologies or that Van’s journal happened to be right where she landed. Definitely not her fault that behind it, wrapped in faded muslin, was something curious. Something uncatalogued—and therefore unmissed when she’d slipped it into her pocket.

The library at Radcliffe Prep was filled to the brim with antiques—priceless artworks, one-of-a-kind prints, and first edition texts. How they filled that library wasn’t something they advertised, and whatever kinds of questionable collection development tactics they used didn’t really matter to Margot. But she had never expected to see a Vase shard, like she’d stepped inside the pages of Relics of the Heart.

Unfortunately, Isla and Reed’s archaeological escapades conveniently underrepresented the dirt under her nails, the sweat clinging to the back of her neck, and the sunburn not even Supergoop! could keep at bay. And that wasn’t even counting the trek over to Italy. By the time they made it back to their hotel, Margot’s limbs had achieved the consistency of overcooked pasta. The jet lag and heat exhaustion combo punch was enough to KO somebody.

Yesterday, when they’d first arrived at Hotel Villa Minerva—which was so small it hardly counted as a hotel, let alone a villa—Dr. Hunt had doled out room assignments, but Margot already knew her fate. There were only three girls on the trip. There was a triplet bedroom with their names on it.

Sure enough, room 320 beckoned them. The third-floor suite was drenched in teal paisley wallpaper, and a lopsided chandelier clung to the ceiling for dear life. Bouquets of silk flowers and faux ivy had been draped over the tops of a cedar armoire. It was giving Grandma chic and smelled appropriately like mothballs and lemon cleaning spray.

There was one single bed and a set of bunk beds. Astrid had unceremoniously Neil Armstronged her suitcase onto the single bed like a flag on the moon, which left Suki and Margot to rock, paper, scissors for the bunks.

Margot had started saying, “I’d really like to—”

“I sleepwalk.”

Margot blinked. “You sleepwalk?”

Suki batted Lanc?me-long lashes. “I once walked all the way to In-N-Out in a dream. I bought a double-double with cheese, Margot. You’ve got to give me the bottom bunk.”

And that was that. Better to squish than be squished, she reasoned.

Tonight, Margot landed on her bunk with an oof. All right, maybe she minded a little bit that her mattress was evidently a layer of bricks thinly disguised beneath a bedsheet. But the way the exhaustion hit her, she knew she wouldn’t be awake long enough to care.

Suki and Astrid trailed in after saying good night to Rex, Calvin, and Topher across the hall.

“You know, I didn’t think you were going to last the whole afternoon, Margot,” Astrid said.

“Thanks for the concern,” Margot huffed, muffled into her pillow.

“I’m serious.” Palm to her heart, Astrid looked like she really thought Margot was going to fall for her fake sincerity. “I don’t know how you’re going to survive the entire summer.”

Margot shuffled onto her elbows, irritation chafing every nerve. Suddenly sleep was entirely out of the question.

Astrid sighed. “God forbid you break a nail.”

“Don’t worry. I brought my gel kit.”

Astrid’s grin was anything but sweet. The kind of saccharine smile that accompanied a good, old-fashioned bless your heart. “I’m sure you did.”

Suki leaned around the bedpost. “What colors did you bring?”

“Suki!” Astrid griped.

“What?” Suki asked. “Free mani.”

Astrid rolled her eyes so far back, Margot was surprised she didn’t strain a muscle. “The point is that you’d only pass this class because we’re partners. Without me, you’d be completely helpless.”

There was no graceful way to flop over on a bed to come to your own defense. It was more fish-out-of-water than anything. When Margot finally righted herself, she said, “I know I’m not a pedigreed archaeologist, but I’m here.”

“Please. You don’t know an amphora from a krater. I bet you don’t last the week,” Astrid said.

Margot dropped down the ladder and squared her shoulders. Heat worked over her skin, her body temperature rising. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Astrid didn’t back down. “I’ve seen enough. Everyone else has done fieldwork before. You aren’t ruining my summer for me, one way or another—you’ll either give up and crawl home, tail between your legs, or I’ll get it through Dr. Hunt’s head that you don’t belong here, and she’ll send you home.”

Margot didn’t bother excusing herself to the bathroom. When she felt that first prickle against the back of her throat, she knew the waterworks were coming. She slammed the door behind her, and there was a crash on the other side. Guilt twined around her ribs—her overreactions never came without a price—but she couldn’t stop herself.

Her eyelashes clumped together, wet with tears. She ran her hands under cold water, letting the chill sink into the soft skin of her wrist. Her therapist said it helped soothe her central nervous system and deactivate fight-or-flight mode. Which was definitely needed at the moment. Red crept up the column of her neck like being around Astrid all afternoon had given her a bad rash.

As much as she hated to admit it, maybe Astrid was right. It was only day one. Her manicure was already wrecked. How was she going to survive six whole weeks?

An exhale shook Margot’s lungs. She couldn’t keep crying. Not right now. This was what she always did—she jumped headfirst into something, exhilarated and determined, but swam to shore when the waters were deeper than she imagined. Not this time.

Reaching into her pocket, Margot clutched the shard from the Vase. She traced her fingertips along the flecks of gold. It was a charm, warding off Astrid’s evil energy. When Margot looked at it, the ground beneath her feet felt solid again.

She’d made it this far. And maybe, she could belong here.

Like a shot from a starting gun, the gazillion-year-old corded phone she’d seen on the side table rang with a vengeance. Margot nearly leaped out of her skin, and she poked her head through the bathroom doorway. Astrid crouched on the floor and swept up the fragments of a black coffee mug, broken into chunks of porcelain—it must have taken a nosedive when Margot slammed the door.

“Easy. Don’t Hulk out on us again,” Astrid said as she deposited the pieces on the dresser. Then, turning over her shoulder, she snapped, “Are you going to answer that or what?”

“Do I look like a receptionist to you?” Suki grabbed the screaming phone and answered with a gruff “What’s up?” While whoever was on the other line spoke, her eyes zipped toward Margot. She pointed a finger at her and mouthed, It’s for you.

But it couldn’t be for Margot. Because no one knew she was here.

Suki nodded as if the caller could see her and then said, “You’re looking for Margot? Margot Rhodes?”

Margot shook her head wildly. Eyes wide, pleading.

“How do I know you’re not some creepy stalker?” A pause. “Oh, you’re her dad?”

Doomed. She was absolutely doomed. Margot clasped her hands at her chest, namaste-style. She begged with a harsh whisper, “Please don’t say I’m here. Don’t say anything about me. Tell him you’ve never heard of me.”

A few mental calculations placed it around one p.m. in Dogwood Hollow, Georgia. Lunchtime for her dad, breezing between meetings to grab balsamic and burrata paninis at Evelyn’s corner café. Late enough for him to realize she wasn’t answering his texts about whether or not she wanted potato salad on the side, which was a dead giveaway because Margot always wanted potato salad on the side. She’d masterminded the whole plan—it wasn’t that hard to disappear for six weeks. How could this have happened?

Suki listened for a second. “Yeah, okay. She’s right here.”

Margot’s whole body slumped. “Are you kidding me?”

“He said he was going to call the school back to unenroll you.” Suki covered the receiver with the palm of her hand, shoulders shrugged up to her ears. “Also, your dad sounds like kind of a DILF.”

“Suki,” Margot hissed.

“Just saying.”

The phone burned when Margot held it to her ear. Her voice sounded stiff, pinched. “Hiiiiii.”

“Hey, Gogo,” her dad said from the other end, and her heart squeezed at the nickname. Behind him, she could hear the bluebirds singing and the faint hum of the street quartet’s string instruments—they always gathered in the town square on Friday afternoons. Rupert Rhodes could hardly walk ten steps without saying hello to someone because when you’re the Deep South’s small-town version of a real estate mogul, you basically know everybody. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

“What do you mean? You sound like you’re running late for a new client meeting. Maybe I can catch you after work.”

His sigh could be felt across the Atlantic. “You mean today or six weeks from now?”

Every brain cell in Margot’s head shifted into overdrive. Last night, while he was showing a house over in Copper Springs, she’d left a note under his coffee mug, outlining the details of her flight. Except she’d said she’d be boarding a flight to New York City to spend the summer with her mom in Manhattan doing . . . whatever it was her mom did without her. It wasn’t like her parents were on speaking terms. There was no way it could have backfired this badly this quickly.

But he’d called her. On a corded phone from the last millennia.

“Have you talked to Mom?” she asked, chewing on the inside of her cheek. Could he tell the way her voice hitched? The problem about being the human embodiment of a mood swing was that Margot couldn’t hide her emotions to save her life. Lying to him was out of the question. She’d orchestrated this so that she wouldn’t have to lie. At least, not to anyone’s face.

“Sort of,” her dad bristled. “I left her a voicemail and then got a text saying she had no idea you were coming for the summer, and if she had, she wouldn’t have booked a two-month hiking trip down the Appalachian Trail.”

“That’s so weird because—”

“Tell me the truth, Gogo,” he said. “Why did I get forwarded to a hotel concierge named Giuseppe when I called your school office?”

“Because I’m in Italy.”

Even 4,300 miles away, she knew the way his eyebrows would worry together, creased down the middle in a wrinkle that never fully went away. “Little Italy?”

Margot picked at her bottom lip, flaking off bits of pigment. “No, uh, the big one.”

Someone on the other end honked—probably at her dad for stopping, stunned, in the middle of the street, if she had to guess. It was like the cogs started spinning in his head again. “Dr. Hunt’s excavation. You went to Pompeii even when I told you not to. I knew sending you to that boarding school was a huge mistake.”

“Dad, I—”

“I can’t believe you would do this, let alone how you managed to pull it off.”

It was, Margot wagered, a rhetorical question. Her dad didn’t really want to know that she’d forged his signature on the permission slip so that she could turn it in on time. Or that she’d signed up for a part-time job at the campus coffee shop, spending her evenings brewing vanilla lattes for tired-eyed seniors and saving every cent so that she could afford her plane ticket without asking him to help pay.

He was the whole reason she was here in the first place. If the Vase of Venus Aurelia could make everyone love Margot, that had to include Rupert Rhodes.

“I earned this spot, Dad.” Much to the chagrin of the blonde-haired brownnoser conveniently eavesdropping on this conversation from the other side of the room. Margot dropped her voice, just for good measure. “It’s not just a phase this time.”

“It’s always something with you. But this is too far, Gogo. I’m booking you a plane ticket home.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Of course I can. I can’t be anything but serious right now. I wish you would try it. You’re just like your mom sometimes.” Another agitated breath blew into the speaker, crackling on Margot’s end of the line. “The second you’re back on American soil, you’re grounded for the next century.”

Margot sank onto the windowsill. The phone’s sticky beige cord wrapped around her as she leaned her chin into her hand. The last dregs of evening sun splashed everything in Aperol orange. Aperol she still wasn’t legally allowed to drink until the end of summer (the drinking age in Italy was eighteen!), but she wouldn’t be here by then if her dad had his way. There was a whoosh of air on his side, and Margot could practically feel the bite of the air-conditioning in his downtown office. She was running out of time to convince him.

Clutching the receiver so hard her fingers felt like they might snap off, Margot pleaded, “I’m working on this really important research project that will be completely life-changing. If you just let me stay. Two weeks, even. One week. Dad, I promise—I’ll never leave my dishes in the sink ever again.”

“What’s that? Hold on.” There was a rustle, the sound of him covering the phone with his hand, and a hushed back and forth. “Margot, I’ve got to run. Client emergency. I’m buying you a ticket. You’re coming home. Not next week. Now. End of conversation.”

It always was. Because nothing Margot did was ever enough for him.

For the last six years, it had only been the two of them. Her mom vanished after enough shouting matches to leave them all feeling battered and bruised, and her dad became the single father of an only daughter. He was the one person she could hold on to, but he’d retreated into his work, out of reach when she needed him most.

Before the divorce, he’d always known how to calm her down with two hands on her shoulders, their foreheads pressed together like maybe he could transfer some of his cool-tempered tendencies to her through osmosis. She couldn’t help but laugh when his eyes blurred together up close.

But lately, it was like they were constantly speaking different languages. He was always running around town, busying his days with buyer calls and his nights with paperwork. These days, the only time he made for her was to tell her she was messing something up or overreacting.

Margot knew her dad better than anyone else—how he took his coffee, how he swore there was a left and right sock, how he refused to watch movies with sad endings—but it was like he didn’t know her at all. Or, worse, he did, and still didn’t love her.

The Vase of Venus Aurelia could fix that. Would fix that. It had to.

Suki and Astrid watched expectantly as Margot set the phone back on its receiver.

“So?” Suki prompted.

There was really only one thing to do. Margot forced a smile that definitely didn’t reach her eyes. A pathetic excuse for a lie. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”