Page 9 of Us in Ruins

“Room 320. Thank you!” Margot said, pacing backward. She waved—the hand with the key—but quickly pocketed it with a grin. If Giuseppe saw or managed to care in his obvious state of sleep deprivation, she didn’t stick around to find out, high-tailing out the front doors.

Outside, the pastel evening had bled into nighttime navies. The air was still heavy with humidity, but a swirling breeze tossed her curls around, sticking to the oily layer of gloss on her lips. Yellow scooters lined the back wall of the hotel. When Margot clicked the key fob, one of them lit up.

Her chariot awaited.

Every mile down the road was a step backward in time. The full moon cast a silver lining over each clay shingle. She steered between peeling stucco buildings and iron balconies spilling with houseplants, past delicatessens and miniature orange groves, down quiet streets with modern Pompeians closing shops while Mount Vesuvius herself loomed in the distance, a smudge on the night-dark horizon.

When she swerved onto a side street near the ruins, Margot cut the headlights by way of trial and error, smacking every button and pulling every lever. Cramped buildings turned into sparse fields as she neared the back of the ancient metropolis. The road ended abruptly, but Margot didn’t yield.

Kicking up dirt and dust, the scooter sputtered down the field, digging out grooves in the grasses. Her Vespa was lacking all major off-road qualifications. When the tires refused any forward motion, Margot yanked the key out of the ignition.

She huffed an errant curl out of her eyes. This was fine. All in the name of adventure.

Pulling the map of Pompeii from her pocket, Margot found a patch of moonlight and skimmed her finger along the printed alleyways, examining her options. Van’s journal didn’t say anything about nighttime security—but that was because nighttime security didn’t exist last century. Honestly, each of the main gates were probably swarming with guards. She’d need a prayer just to get through without getting caught.

There had to be another route.

She pinpointed a spot near the Necropolis of Vesuvio Gate. It didn’t look like the fifth region had any major excavations, largely untouched and smoothed over with greenery. Which meant that the guards didn’t have anything to actually guard. If she was going to make it inside without getting caught—or subsequently arrested by Interpol and, like, deported—this was her best chance.

Chaparral clawed at her legs and snagged the satin threads of her shorts as she hiked across the hillsides. Pines and palms threaded together overhead, cloaking her in shadows as she paced toward the ruins. Each step along the dirt path clouded dust in her wake, and the tree line broke as she neared the necropolis.

Ahead, a flashlight beam halted her. Guards.

Any farther and she’d be destined for a life in handcuffs. (Or at least boredom, back home and totally grounded.) The only thing standing between Margot and Pompeii was a chicken-wire fence that lined the city limits. Going around clearly wasn’t an option anymore, so the only way inside the ruins was... over.

Her hands clawed through the metal lacework. At least, she thought sourly, they don’t have an electric fence. When she got to the top, Margot couldn’t hesitate, couldn’t give herself the opportunity to second-guess. She leaped. Tucked, rolled. Sun-hardened soil rattled every bone, every joint, every cavity filling from too many Halloween sweets.

But when she lifted herself off the ground, there were no sirens blaring. No alarms rang. She hadn’t tripped a secret infrared thermometer monitoring the perimeter.

Immortal Pompeii wrapped around her—past and present, all at once. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine the crackling fires extinguishing after a long day, the sound of sandaled feet slapping the earth as kids ran home, the smell of olive branches and lemon trees, of ash and earth not so different from now.

In the dark, Margot barely remembered the crooked paths Dr. Hunt had led them down that afternoon. The patchwork of cobbled buildings all looked the same. She might have been totally lost, but Van knew where to go. Margot fanned toward his first journal entries. He’d written:

Perhaps love truly isn’t surface level. The temple where the Vase will be returned, a palace for a gilded goddess—it had been under my nose, hidden in plain sight the whole time. Everyone else underestimated this patch of dirt, despite the clear and obvious evidence we had to believe ceremonies had been performed here. I could nearly hear the ardent prayers on the wind. Even the myrtle blooms pointed this way.

To enter Venus’s temple, all I had to do was ask at the temple door.

Her heart thrummed at the sound of his words. If Van were here, he’d spearhead the way, surging bravely into the fray like any hero would. But he wasn’t here. And Margot was stuck deciphering his very romantic but terribly complicated riddles.

Seriously, he couldn’t have just said X marks the spot?

Margot scanned her surroundings, searching for anything even vaguely temple-y. The whole city was patches of dirt. She slipped Van’s journal into her backpack as she wove through the narrow alleys. Everything looked the same. Brown. Nondescript. Half-deteriorated. Stone walls rose around her in every direction, but nothing that screamed Venus Was Here.

Except. The soft white blooms on a sparse few myrtle shrubs. They filled the air with fragrance, and she let herself follow it like a bloodhound hunting. Their boughs stretched toward the ribboning moonlight and guided her forward, forward, forward.

She took one step, then another, until she was full-out sprinting between the crumbling buildings. Her head swiveled back and forth, back and forth, until she worried she’d loosen the bolts so much it would fall right off. Adrenaline spilled through her veins, turning her exhilarated and nervous and acutely aware of how much trouble she would be in if any of the guards caught her trespassing after hours.

Margot ran until pain surged in her waist, until her lungs burned. She slowed to a stop at a crossroads and slinked into the shadows as a guard whistled past. He didn’t seem particularly invested in his patrol, tossing his flashlight into the air and catching it behind his back with one hand while swiping on his phone screen with the other, humming a melody Margot didn’t recognize. Easy, practiced motions. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary to see here.

Ahead, a big grassy knoll capped the hillside. Blooming myrtles encompassed its borders. It was as good of a chance as any. Suddenly, the guard swiveled left, and Margot jerked right, ducking behind another decaying structure.

If she could make it there.

Margot counted her breaths, waiting for the guard to round the next corner. At ten, she ran for it. Her feet pounded against the pavement. All she could do was pray the guard didn’t turn around because when she reached the top of the hill, there was nothing there.

Nothing to hide behind. Definitely no temples. Just a few half-decayed columns and patches of wildflowers.

She propped herself up against one of the stone outcroppings, sucking air deep into her lungs. Too bad she’d never had a track-and-field phase.

---