Page 54 of Us in Ruins
“Does it still hurt?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” Van said, simmering. “It’s just a flesh wound.”
“Do you even have flesh to wound?” Margot asked. Fear thinly disguised as a laugh bubbled out of her. “I mean, what changed? You’re—are you turning back into a statue?”
“Yes, I believe.” The words scraped out of him. “The Vase shards. I think they must control the statues. Including me.”
An adrenaline-soaked montage flashed through Margot’s head. The guardians in Venus’s temple. The nymph opening her hand at the Nymphaeum. The legionary at the museum. The statue gallery. The whole time, she had shards in her backpack. Whatever power Venus imbued into that clay, it must have been enough to make even hearts of stone beat.
“So, when Enzo stole the backpack...”
“He took the shards too far away for their magic to reach me.”
Margot dabbed hydrogen peroxide on a cotton pad. Was she supposed to clean a wound that wasn’t there anymore? “I thought a guy like you doesn’t believe in magic because it’s impractical.”
He winced and continued, “I don’t.”
The end of the word ticked up. Making don’t sound like didn’t.
While Margot patted the cotton pad against Van’s arm where the seam of marble tore through his skin, Van clenched and unclenched his hands, testing the joints. It sparked something in her memory, him doing that outside Martines Cucine. As if reading her mind, he added, “It happened once before. The night I left you at the ruins. Slow at first. But by the time you found me—”
“It had moved down your arms to your hands,” Margot finished. “And you dropped my prized possession in the sewers. I remember.”
“Sorry about that.” Van flinched against the cotton pad, but Margot held him steady. He was warm beneath her touch. How long would it last? How much time did he have until the stone reclaimed him?
“So, we’re going after Enzo,” Margot said, tossing the cotton in the trash. “He took my backpack. We find him, we steal the shards back, and you stop turning into stone.”
Van stood, rolling his torn sleeve back down over the stripe of stark white. He took up most of the space in the cramped bathroom. “No point. We know where he’s going. Those three shards mean nothing to him without the last two. We’ll cut him off at the next trial. There’s one in Naples and one in Pompeii.”
“What if it isn’t soon enough?” Margot asked, each word delicate, like cracks might web across Van’s skin and render him to dust before her eyes.
The look Van’s face held could hardly be called an expression—he was entirely expressionless—but that was how Margot knew there was something eating away at him, termites in a log cabin. Usually he had some vaguely annoyed, presumptuous look about him. This was... empty. Lifeless. “I’m not supposed to be here, Margot.”
“I know we’re missing Dr. Hunt’s assignment, but I’m sure we can catch up.”
“I’m not supposed to be now.” Van closed his eyes and rattled his head. “This was always borrowed time. People like me don’t get second chances.”
And for the first time since he clawed out of that marble slab, Margot saw a version of Van she thought she recognized from his journal. The boy she could imagine chewing on the end of his fountain pen, palms smudged with black ink, who wrote careful, vulnerable words within the folds of his leather journal. A place he thought no one would ever read them.
When she needed to be brave, he’d been there. Not him. But his words. Every sentence in his journal made her feel like anything was possible. Like scheming behind her dad’s back wouldn’t be the end of the world because she’d find the Vase, just like he had.
Not that they even had the Vase shards anymore. Enzo had made sure of that.
This was just another thing Margot did halfway. Another half-written chapter in the story of Margot. The thought of the inescapable disapproving lecture she’d receive from her dad for the laundry list of things she’d screwed up in the last few days stung her chest and left an acrid taste in her mouth. She’d disappointed him. Again.
But Van. Van still needed her, whether he wanted to admit it or not. Maybe Margot had a track record of giving up on hobbies—but she wouldn’t give up on him.
18
Margot missed her flight the same way she missed her dad’s call: on purpose.
She waited for the little red notification to pop up after he’d left a voicemail to slide her phone out of her pocket. All too chipper, he said, “Good morning, Gogo. Or afternoon, for you. I hope you’ve gotten this out of your system. You’ll be onto the next thing soon enough anyway. It’s closing day for the Goodwin house, but I’ll meet you at the airport around midnight.”
His words chafed against her ear. Onto the next thing soon enough. Like what? Doing taxes? Cooking Hamburger Helper for dinner? Leaving PTO meetings early for the fourth open house of the week?
What he didn’t say was even louder than what he did. She was just another task on his to-do list to take care of. Less a daughter and more an agenda item.
She put her phone on airplane mode anyway. It felt appropriate.