Page 8 of Us in Ruins

She had the covers pulled up over her head and her phone flashlight nestled between her chin and Relics of the Heart. The words faded in and out of focus as her dad’s conversation replayed on a loop in her head, overtaking Isla and Reed’s banter. Which was totally rude because Margot had just gotten to the part where Reed kissed Isla as a decoy midheist, and it was steamy with a capital S.

Her dad must have gotten busy with work. A plane ticket hadn’t yet manifested itself in her inbox, but Margot didn’t dare dream she was off the hook. Rupert Rhodes was always running from one meeting to the next, but even he wouldn’t forget something like this. He was probably calling the airline support desk on his way to another open house at this very moment.

If he had actually listened to her, he’d understand that Margot hadn’t come to Italy just for the gelato. Van had documented his journey that fateful summer. Every wrong turn, every last-ditch effort, every triumph. His journal wasn’t just a historical text—it was a map. All Margot needed to do was retrace his steps, and she was certain she’d find the rest of the Vase shards.

There was no way she could be expected to lie here and listen to Astrid’s obstructed sinus passages for the next eight hours, especially if her last moments in Italy were slipping away. It was nearly midnight, the only light coming from stars and streetlights. No one would know she’d been gone at all.

Margot threw off her scratchy sheets and descended from the top bunk. She timed her steps with Astrid’s breathy inhales to cover up the ladder’s ungodly squeaking. By the door, she slid her feet into her high-tops, wrapping the laces around her ankles to double knot them. There was no telling what she’d encounter in the ruins. Quicksand? Rolling boulders? A tall, dark, and handsome dreamboat she’d become enemies-to-allies-to-lovers with? She had to be prepared for anything.

Without warning, Astrid rolled over, arm flailing wildly. Margot froze, leg midair, but her roommate just reburied her face in the pillow, content to snore until morning.

Slinging her backpack over her shoulders, Margot pocketed the room key. She shoved it down into her denim jacket, right next to the Vase shard and Van’s journal. She hadn’t bothered to change out of her pajamas—a pair of multicolored striped shorts and a matching button-up top—but she stashed her red lipstick in her backpack’s side pocket for good measure.

The elevator dinged when Margot reached the lobby. It obviously hadn’t gotten the memo that this was a covert operation. She slinked around the base of a sturdy column, pressing her back against the pillar to run recon.

On one end of the (horribly carpeted) lobby was an arched front door. Standing between her and sweet, sweet freedom was the front desk where Giuseppe the concierge yawned, tapping absentmindedly at his phone. Giuseppe was a pinstripe of a man with a mustache just as thin and dark circles so severe, she wondered if he’d ever had a good night’s sleep in his life.

She couldn’t exactly ask him for a lift to the ruins. There was no way the hotel shuttle would take her because the gates of Pompeii closed hours ago. A taxi would get her there—or the driver might kidnap her and scrape her insides away from her bones like a vulture scavenging dinner. No, thanks. Walking would be one hell of a workout, but she’d rather not risk any kidnapping or the aforementioned maiming.

What she needed was a ride of her own.

Margot squared her shoulders and held her chin high as she approached Giuseppe. All she needed to do was lure him away from the desk. She’d snag a key from the valet and be halfway to Pompeii before he ever realized something was missing.

In etiquette class, Miss Penelope always said there were three steps to making a good first impression. Smile. Make eye contact. And speak confidently. So, Margot wore her best pageant grin, looked straight into Giuseppe’s coffee-black eyes, and said, “I’d like another feather pillow.”

Giuseppe glanced up from his phone, sloth-slow.

“Please,” Margot added.

He laughed so hard, a little bit of spit flew out. Margot inched out of the splash zone.

“Is that a no?” she asked. Then, hopefully: “Or a maybe?”

Giuseppe looked down his nose. “Our pillows do not have feathers.”

Of course they didn’t. Hotel Villa Minerva wasn’t exactly a luxury accommodation.

“Two pillows, then,” Margot said. “My roommate, she snores like the dickens. An extra pillow would help all of us sleep better.”

The concierge clicked off his phone and stood, only to tower over Margot. His lips pinched, eyes slitting. “You sleep in your jacket?”

Margot had to quit musical theater because she couldn’t stop laughing when saying her lines. They felt like a lie on her tongue. Instead of saying anything, Margot shrugged, nodded, raised her eyebrows in quiet innocence.

Giuseppe caved. His heavy shoulders sagged even lower and he resigned himself to the linen closet. While he dragged out polyester pillows from beneath a pile of two-ply bedsheets, Margot skirted around the desk with one eye over her shoulder.

“Keys, where are you?” she whispered, digging through the drawers and rifling through cabinets. They had to be around here somewhere. Tape, three staplers, a handful of overly doodled pen pads. A cough drop supply, thirty-five ink pens, a stack of sticky notes. No keys. Anywhere.

The last drawer was labeled Servizio di Parcheggio.

Parking?

Margot tugged it open, and loose keys slid around the drawer, each wearing a diamond-shaped Hotel Villa Minerva tag. Jackpot. She grabbed one off the top and closed the drawer as quietly as humanly possible. Beggars really couldn’t be choosers.

She hopped back onto the other side of the desk only seconds before Giuseppe reappeared, his arms loaded with pillows. His voice was laced with annoyance when he asked, “Anything else?”

“No, just...” A stack of brochures at the end of his desk caught her eye. Guidebooks to Pompeii, Naples, Pisa. Perfect. “A map.”

“Where am I taking—”

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