Page 19 of Us in Ruins
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.”