Page 66 of Us in Ruins

Her body moved without her permission. Hands scraped against the rough walls, desperate for purchase. Her pulse thudded in her ears, her throat, her belly.

“It’s all right,” Van said on the other side of the rock enclosure. Was he shouting? Each syllable was hoarse, rubbed raw. “You hear me? It’s going to be fine.”

Which was precisely the kind of thing you told someone midcrisis where the being fine part was still vastly uncertain.

It was a dark so deep, her eyes could hardly adjust to it. Margot searched in the shadows for the shard’s gilded gleam, letting its presence guide her deeper into the tomb. She’d seen where it rose, centered at the far end of the cave. All she had to do was get there.

Maybe the trial was about... echolocation? Using the feel of the earth to see rather than ordinary sight? Hadn’t Van said something about Cupid meeting Psyche in the dark?

Her toes hit the pedestal first. Margot felt around, scaling up the column to its flat surface until finally her hand wrapped around the shard.

The walls of the tomb rattled, awakening.

“Van!” she shouted. “What’s going on out there?”

“The walls, they’re...”

She heard it, then. The sound of friction. Limestone against sunbaked earth. The walls of the tomb were moving—toward her. Something told her it wasn’t rearranging for better feng shui. The trial of Terra had begun.

Ragged, she asked, “What do I have to do?”

“You took Latin in school, right?” Van asked.

“No. I haven’t.” Now was not the time to dissect the irregularity of her electives.

A curse slipped past his lips, hushed enough that she assumed he hadn’t meant for her to hear it beyond the stone wall. “I thought everyone took Latin.”

“Did you take Latin?” she asked.

No reply.

Her head drooped toward her chest. “You can’t be serious.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed.” She could hear the downturn of his lips.

“As the one about to be freshly squeezed, I withhold the right to sound disappointed.”

He huffed. “I tried to tell you to let me handle it.”

“A lot of good that would have done.” Margot’s laugh was desert dry. She kept her palm firm against the shifting limestone, but it did little to slow to its movement inward. Already, she could touch both walls with her hands outstretched, and her elbows were beginning to hinge. “I take it Atlas completed this task, too.”

His silence was enough of an answer.

“Is that how he survived?” she asked. “He knew Latin?”

“Margot, breathe.” His voice sounded like a staticky television, cutting in and out. “We’ll figure it out.”

But she couldn’t breathe. Her mutinous lungs had their own agenda, and that agenda apparently only involved hyperventilating. Neither of them knew Latin, and if that was critical to the success of this mission, how was she expected to survive this? If it hadn’t already been pitch-black in the tomb, she was certain darkness would have tunneled her vision.

Van’s words came again, sounding more solid than they had before. Like he’d found his footing again. “Count back from one hundred. Actual one hundred this time.”

“One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight—” The walls inched closer. Not figuratively. Literally. If she didn’t pull it together soon, she was going to be crushed. “It’s not working.”

“You can do this, Margot. You have to believe in yourself.”

“I can’t. I can’t.”

“I believe in you.” His voice was quieter, gentler.

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