Chapter 7

Margot’s blisters had blisters. Her bones ached in protest with every step back to Plot D.

She’d spent the entire five-mile walk back to the hotel last night wondering how Van could be so utterly un-Van-like. He’d written about Pompeii like it was a spectacular adventure, something spellbinding. He was supposed to be dashing and inquisitive, a regular Reed Silvan. And sure, he would have challenged her, but it would have been because he knew she was capable of something remarkable, not because he didn’t believe in her.

Her Van would have never stranded her in the middle of the night in Italy with no phone.

Her Van didn’t exist at all.

Margot’s welcome to Plot D was as warm as she’d expected. Astrid and Suki had both been downstairs for breakfast by the time she’d pried herself out of the death trap that was the top bunk’s sheets. She almost hadn’t put on her lipstick. Almost.

In the daylight, the ruins were starker and more undeniable. There was no hint of magic threading through the streets like there had been last night. There was only stone, ancient and unforgiving, exhumed from its resting place for poking and prodding by curious minds.

Now, the class sat cross-legged in front of their excavation plots, and Dr. Hunt trekked back and forth as she lectured.

“Venus was the patron goddess of Pompeii, which meant she was viewed as the city’s primary caretaker and worshiped by its residents. Of course, we know Venus as the goddess of love, but the city of Pompeii also quickly found its footing as a major trading post and a travel destination for Romans throughout the empire, thanks to her generosity.” She pointed to the fresco on the courtyard’s wall. The depiction of Venus here was scantily dressed, requiring a level of maturity that far exceeded anything Rex and Topher were capable of. “Gods and goddesses have many different names—we call these epithets—and Pompeii’s Venus was known adoringly as Venus Felix, or Lucky Venus, and sometimes as Venus Aurelia.”

“Golden Venus,” Astrid said quickly, not waiting for Dr. Hunt to call on her despite her arm rod-straight in the air.

Margot glowered across the dig site. She didn’t have to be a Latin scholar to know that one.

“Precisely,” Dr. Hunt said, a soft smile gracing her lips.

Margot’s hand shot up, and Dr. Hunt nodded, encouraging her to speak. “And what about the Vase of Venus Aurelia? Why do you think no one knows where its pieces are?”

Rex said, “Because any archaeologist worth their salt knows the Vase is mythological. You know, a make-believe story.”

Dr. Hunt cocked her head. “Actually, Mr. Yang, many myths were formed on the foundations of truth. Achilles may not have truly fought in the Trojan War, but the Trojan War was fought. As for the shards, Venus was notoriously ruthless. Like Psyche descending into the underworld, I suspect the trials of the Vase are equally demanding. Impossible, even.”

“If you completed them all,” Suki asked, “would the Vase really make everyone fall in love with you?”

“No wonder Margot wants to hear all about it,” Astrid sneered. “She definitely needs it.”

Margot’s shoulders fell. Trying to exist near Astrid was like trying to floss with barbed wire.

Dr. Hunt didn’t acknowledge Astrid’s comment, thank god. She breezed forward, saying, “The myth is, like many, unclear. Some researchers suggest the Vase was believed to bestow gold to whoever successfully completed the trials. Others say the hero would be golden, eternally beloved and bestowed with Venus’s gift. It’s a linguistic conundrum.”

“Do you think it’s really out there?” Margot asked, even if Astrid snickered behind her.

Considering, Dr. Hunt trapped her chin. “I think history always finds a way of surprising us. That’s why we dig. Everybody, grab your spades and get started.”

Margot’s phone buzzed in her backpack. She waited until Dr. Hunt drifted toward Plot A to slip it from its pocket.

Her dad had texted. Margot’s stomach hit rock bottom as she thumbed open the message.

Gogo, saw on the online itinerary the class was going to Rome tomorrow. Booked a nonstop flight from FCO to ATL that evening at 7 PM. Forwarding the details.

Another notification popped up at the top. An email. From American Airlines.

Her chest ached, right behind her sternum—the vagus nerve, her therapist had called it. She pressed two hands against the bone to try to calm the swirl of emotions before it became a storm she couldn’t control.

How was she supposed to find four more shards in thirty-six hours? Talk about a Herculean task.

Margot’s legs stood of their own accord. She was pulled by an invisible tether she couldn’t fight and didn’t want to. She’d come here for a reason. She wasn’t giving up this time.

“Where are you going?” Astrid asked, snide.

“I . . . There’s something I have to go do,” Margot said half-heartedly. What she needed was to run. To get out of there. To find the rest of the Vase shards before it was too late.

Margot didn’t have Van, but she did have Van’s journal. And that boy was nothing if not meticulous. Entries had been dated and time-stamped, chronicles of each step on his quest for the Vase of Venus Aurelia.

Unfortunately, he also apparently wrote in little riddles.

Mysterious and intriguing? Admittedly, yes. Indicative of trust issues? Perhaps. Irritating and obnoxiously inconvenient? Definitely.

Start at the top of the forum and head due east for three crosshatches.

Google Maps didn’t accept crosshatches as a unit of measurement. Margot stood beneath a pine that stretched halfway to heaven, casting swaths of shade across the triangular forum, trying to make sense of her paper map. She blazed through the crowds of white-sneakered tourists down Via del Tempio d’Iside, which turned into Vicolo del Menandro, which turned into . . . a fork in the road.

Turn right for eighteen heartbeats.

At what bpm, Van?

Margot walked until the road split again, frantically deciphering his instructions. She followed Van’s cryptic clues until she stood at the entrance, and the only thing separating the ruins of Pompeii from the bustling modern city of Pompei (with one I) was a silver turnstile. Trailing over Van’s neat handwriting, she read and reread his words, triple-checking his directions.

Onward thirty-seven quarter-kilometers opposite the sea.

Somewhere behind her, the blue-green waves must have sparkled under the morning sun. This was the right path forward. She just hadn’t expected to have to leave the grounds of the ancient city.

As soon as she pushed through the gate, the ruins gave way to awning-covered doorways and wrought-iron balconies, sidewalk seating with laminated menus and arched windows offering glimpses into pubs and pizzerias. The buildings were each painted in salmons and peaches, rich golds and paper whites. Margot rushed to cross the street, propelled by Van’s words.

Right at the dripping myrtle, and an immediate left at the statue missing two limbs.

Follow the northern perimeter of the piazza along the avenue of trees.

Perpendicular to Mount Vesuvius for sixteen paces.

Margot slowed to a stop outside a sign that read Martines Cucine. It was a lopsided, goldenrod-painted restaurant with red shuttered windows and flower boxes spilling with wide orange blooms. Outside, couples clinked wine glasses and swirled creamy pasta around their forks, laughing and leaning into each other. It was picturesque: something out of an old movie, timeless and romantic.

Except for the shouting.

Tugged forward by the sound, Margot peered down a cramped alleyway. Beside a stack of crates, a man in a striped apron and a massive white toque gestured wildly, hollering at someone hidden.

Another voice answered. A voice Margot recognized.

“I’m not trying to steal your bread,” Van yelled. “I don’t want your bread at all!”

“You can’t come into my kitchen. This door is locked for guests.” The man scratched his monster of a mustache. “How else can I say it? You are not welcome here. Go to the front.”

Margot inched closer, her back pressed against the stucco exterior. Van’s voice seemed to lift out of a carton of ripe lemons. “I don’t need to go to the front. I need to go sixteen paces east. This is east.”

Sixteen paces. That was Margot’s next instruction. Of course Van would be searching for the shards, too.

Creeping around the crates, she got a good look at him. Van wore the same clothes as last night, woefully out of place with his suspenders and khaki pants on a sweltering summer day. He’d rolled down the sleeves of his shirt, and color gathered beneath his eyes, evidence of a sleepless night.

“Yes, eat. Out front. Luna will seat you.”

“Not eat. East.” Van’s agitation manifested in every inflection. He started like he was going to push past the chef through sheer force of will. “I don’t have time for—”

“There you are!” Margot said, waving. She brushed a smile on her face, easy and eager. Maybe the key to not being caught in a lie was only telling the truth. “I’ve been wondering where you ran off to.”

“You’re here,” Van said, a simmering heat radiating off him. “Dandy.”

The chef glanced between them, his hat wobbling with the movement. “A table for two?”

Margot looped her arm around Van’s, bringing her hand up to rest in the crook of his elbow. She leaned her head in sweetly like she’d done it hundreds of times before. Van’s bicep tensed beneath her cheek. His whole body was tense, actually. She squeezed her fingers tighter in return.

“I think we just got a little lost,” Margot said. She dialed her southern drawl up to a hundred and batted her lashes for good measure. “We’re awfully sorry for any trouble, aren’t we, sweetheart?”

When Van didn’t say anything, Margot jabbed his kidney with an elbow. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Yes. Awfully.”

“My boyfriend here, he’s so bad with directions. Terrible, really.” Margot nodded toward the kitchen door where sauces bubbled, filling the air with oregano and rosemary. “We wouldn’t want to keep you from the lunch rush.”

“Grazie,” he said. Then, eyeing Van, he added, “Maybe keep your boyfriend on a leash.”

As soon as the chef vanished behind the swinging door, Van whirled in front of Margot, extracting himself from her grip. He leaned close. Close enough for her to notice the speckles in his eyes—flecks of gold through the green, amber as a fossil. He seethed, “Boyfriend?”

Margot smiled. “Worked like a charm.”

“How did you find me here?” His eyes drifted to her hand, wrapped around a very familiar leather-bound notebook. “You stole my journal?” he asked, cutting like a butcher knife.

Margot paced backward. Both hands clutched his journal. “I didn’t steal anything. I borrowed it. From a library.”

His mouth flattened, eyes creasing. “And you’re here, which means you read it.”

Paling, Margot stuttered, “Well, listen. I mean, yeah, but it’s really . . . well-written?”

“Give it to me.”

“It’s not like I knew it was your diary. It’s a historical text, okay!”

Van’s expression somehow grew even more annoyed. “It’s not a diary. It’s a journal. My journal.”

He held his hand out, expectant.

“No. No!” Margot shucked off her backpack and flung the journal to the very bottom before zipping it tight. No way was he taking it away from her. “You can’t have it back. If the librarian finds out I took it and I don’t return it, I’m toast.”

“So, you did steal it?”

“Not the point.”

“Give it back to me.”

Margot took another step, but she rammed into the fruit crates. “I can’t do that.”

Van placed a hand on the box behind her head, cornering her. Every move he made was stiff, like he’d slept on the hard ground. “Because you think you’re going to use it to find the Vase of Venus Aurelia.”

Margot tipped her chin upward so she could look him dead in the eye and asked, “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Yes,” he said, like it was obvious. “You don’t stand a chance. This isn’t amateur hour.”

“I’m not an amateur—”

Van’s eyebrows threaded together. “Really? Because you’re acting like one.”

Margot tugged her arms against her chest. “Am not.”

“Are, too.”

“Am not—okay now who’s acting like an amateur?”

Van retreated. He flexed the muscles in his hand, shaking out his fingers like he’d clenched them so hard they’d cramped. “This is why I don’t work with partners.”

“I get it. I’m stuck with a partner I don’t want to work with either, but haven’t I proved myself useful already?” Margot asked.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Van sighed. His glare didn’t exactly fade so much as wear away, his resolve like silt in a riverbed, eroding. “Could you keep it down? I’m thinking.”

“You know, trying to silence women might have been cool in the thirties, but it’s such a faux pas these days.”

“I’m not trying to silence women,” Van scoffed. “I’m trying to silence you.”

“I didn’t see this restaurant in your diary, that’s all I’m saying.”

His fingertips dug into his temples—she had no doubt he blamed her for that migraine. No, it couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that he’d spent the better part of the last century entombed in stone and now he was in way over his head.

Then, it clicked. “Your instructions are wrong.”

Van straightened, defensive. “Certainly not.”

A smug grin washed over Margot’s face. “They might have been right a hundred years ago, but not anymore. Some of these buildings are new, aren’t they? And now you don’t know where to go.”

“You’re wrong.” His mouth twitched. “I know exactly where I’m going.”

Margot peered both ways down the alley. A dead end. “But you can’t get there.”

A metaphorical light bulb flashed behind Van’s eyes. His gaze darted from the top of Martines Cucine to the bottom, scanning left to right. She could practically see him downloading information, analyzing his options.

His attention snagged on the tower of wooden boxes.

Wordlessly, he picked up the lemon crate and repositioned it against the restaurant’s wall. Retracing his steps, he stacked a carton of tomatoes on top of it. A tower. He couldn’t go through the buildings, so he’d go over them. Even if she kind of hated him, Margot had to admit it was a good idea.

She heaved the next crate into her arms.

“What are you doing?” Van snapped.

The weight nearly toppled her over, but she managed to drop her carton on top of the one he’d just moved. “I’m helping you.”

“No, you aren’t.” He grabbed two crates next. Like he was trying to make a point.

Margot’s shoulders sagged, flustered. “Are you kidding? I just saved you from Italian Gordon Ramsay. Don’t I get a little bit of credit?” She scooted the last crate out of the way with her legs. “You don’t think I can handle a little parkour? I took three months of gymnastics. I was made for this. I’m coming with you, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

Van’s face scrunched up, caught somewhere between annoyance and amusement. He didn’t climb the crate tower they’d built. Instead, he stayed quiet as he pried up a metal sewer cover that had been buried beneath the boxes and dropped it against the ground with a crash.

Sinking down the first rung of a ladder descending beneath the city, he finally said, “We’ll see about that.”