Page 85 of Us in Ruins

“There is only one way left.” When he finally dragged his gaze to meet hers, it had hardened.

The set of his jaw. The firmness of his gaze. Whatever it was, she wasn’t going to like it.

“When I put the shards on the altar, there was a door that opened, I remember. Presumably to the treasure room. I never got to see inside, but when they built this temple, they would’ve made sure there was a second exit.” His palm was warm against her cheek, but it didn’t change the cold precision of his tone. That voice was a surgical knife cleaving them apart.

Margot shook her head. “But we can’t open that door without remaking the Vase.”

Van’s lips thinned, smiling although it was hardly the time. “I know.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I won’t.”

Van looped his arms back around her shoulders, pressing her against her chest. Quiet enough she thought maybe she’d imagined it, she heard him say, “You get the Vase, and I get the treasure, remember?”

“If we do this, you won’t get the treasure.” Margot pulled back—how was she being the rational one right now?

He brushed a loose curl behind her ear. It did little to quell the dread weighing down her bones, an ache that permeated all the way down to the marrow. “But you will, and what’s that thing Dr. Hunt is always harping on? The buddy system. A win for you is a win for me.”

Margot’s voice cracked with emotion. “You’re the one who said there’s always another way. There has to be something else we could do.”

Every muscle in his body coiled tight. His shoulders rose, fell. He looked her square in the eye, spine straightening. “Not this time.”

“But I—”

The ceiling shuddered, threatening to send more soil cascading down.

“Margot, you can’t stay here. It isn’t safe,” he said. His words slowed with intention. A dam holding back the river. “All you have to do is put the shards on the pedestal. When the door opens, look for a staircase. Put your name on the discovery. You did it. You earned it.”

“What about you?” she asked. “It’s yours as much as mine.”

He scanned her face. Cataloging, remembering. But he didn’t waver. “I was never meant to leave this temple. You were my one last adventure. Go. Before it’s too late.”

Van backed himself into the circle of wilted myrtle blossoms, but determination staked Margot to the ground. Her arm stretched, holding onto his hand as long as possible. Until, finally, their fingertips fell.

No. No.

Margot’s heart shattered into five jagged pieces she’d bury at the bottom of her ribs like the Vase itself. She knew, even if she didn’t want to believe it, that Van was right, and what it meant for him to be.

The curse had a price that demanded to be paid.

One by one, she set the shards on the altar until the Latin inscription stared back, taunting her. Aureus, amor aeternus et cor lapideum. Everything she thought she wanted. Useless to her now.

Behind her, Van said, “You never needed the Vase, you know. Anyone would be a fool not to love you.”

A sob rattled through Margot, but he gave a reassuring nod. Hands shaking, she added the last shard to the altar.

With one last desperate breath, he said, “I’m so in love with you, Margot Rhodes.”

She didn’t get the chance to say it back.

On the altar, the shards lifted on invisible hands. Suspended midair, the Vase sewed itself back together with a golden thread of light. When their jagged edges met, a hot, bright light flashed through the temple, and Margot winced, covering her eyes.

When she opened them, Van was still standing there, the remnants of a smile carved onto his lips. But he was completely still. White marble dripped down his jaw, his neck, his shoulders. It clawed down his arms, hungry. Ivory stone encased him before she could reach him.

Her hand rested against his blanched cheek. All the warmth had seeped out of him. Her lips pressed to the tilt of his marble grin, leaving a red stain behind. Nothing like how her first kiss was supposed to be.

“I love you, too,” Margot wept. “Isn’t that enough?”

In the quiet that followed, floodwaters poured through her, furious and unyielding. Strong enough to carve out canyons. A mudslide she wouldn’t withstand.

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