Page 38 of Us in Ruins
Margot winced. “Well, that journal is also so water damaged, it’s practically unreadable. You probably just misread something.”
Darkness shifted in Van’s stare. If he could breathe fire, she for sure would have been incinerated. He spoke slowly, carefully. “We found the first shard right where I’d found it last time. When the pieces disappeared from the temple, they must have all returned right where they’d been found.”
“Except for this one, maybe.”
Van shook his head, defeated, and ducked beneath the caution tape, back outside into the quiet evening. “This one, too. Someone must have found it.”
This time it was Margot’s turn to pinch her face up in pointed disagreement. “You think someone did what we just did? With the boulders and the screaming and all those dead bodies on the way in?”
Another sigh raked through Van’s body. He tilted his chin toward the clouds. “If they hadn’t, it would still be in there.”
They left the House of Olea, no closer to finishing the Vase than they had been before.
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.”