Page 46 of The Slug Crystal
"Been looking everywhere for you people," Ben continues, sauntering toward us. "Passed at least three gelato shops and two pizza places, and yet here we are, standing on a bridge having a staring contest." He stops, finally noticing Jake's sodden state. "Whoa, did you decide to swim home? Bold choice with the water quality in these canals."
"He saved Alex," I explain, holding up the terrarium. "The terrarium fell in."
Ben raises his eyebrows. "Well, that's one way to make an entrance. Very heroic, very wet. Though you might want to get into dry clothes before you catch something medieval."
The corner of Jake's mouth twitches, not quite a smile but close enough. Something in my chest loosens at the sight. No matter how complicated things get between us, Ben has a gift for defusing Jake's darker moods.
"I'll survive," Jake says dryly. "Wouldn't be the first time I've been soaked to save something Emma cares about. Besides, Marco has our bags. He was dropping them off somewhere in the gondola."
There's no bitterness in his voice, just the familiar teasing note that's been missing since his confession in the motel room. For a moment, he's just Jake again, my best friend, my steady constant.
But then his eyes flicker between Luca and me, and I seethe shadow pass over his face again. He catches me watching and quickly looks away, running a hand through his wet hair.
"We should find somewhere to dry off," he says, addressing Ben rather than me. "And get food."
"First sensible thing anyone's said all evening," Ben agrees, clapping Jake on the shoulder and grimacing when his hand comes away wet. "Though you might want to wring yourself out first. You're like a walking sprinkler system."
I notice how Jake's eyes still track to Luca every few seconds, gauging the distance between us, checking for any sign of resumed intimacy. Luca, for his part, maintains a careful few feet of space, though his eyes meet mine occasionally with quiet intensity.
"There you all are!" Marco's voice carries over the ambient noise of the festival as he appears behind Ben, slightly out of breath. "I've been searching the entire north side of the canal." He takes in Jake's dripping form with raised eyebrows, but, ever the diplomat, merely nods as if encountering soaking wet Americans is a regular occurrence in his academic life.
"I believe we should head to our lodgings before continuing the search for Sarah. I dropped our bags, but you need to be present to reserve the room," he suggests, adjusting his glasses, which have fogged slightly in the evening humidity. "It's getting late, and Venice's layout is challenging enough in daylight. At night, for newcomers..." He spreads his hands expressively.
"The professor's right," Ben says. "Food, dry clothes, beds. Detective work can wait until morning."
Jake nods, a droplet falling from his chin with the motion. "Where are we staying?"
"My friend's pensione is not far," Marco says. "I was not sure where Luca wanted to stay, but this place is nearby. Simple, but clean." He gestures toward a narrow street leading away from the bridge. "This way, if everyone agrees."
I look around at our strange, mismatched group. Jakedripping canal water onto centuries-old stone; Ben with his restless energy barely contained; Luca, still elegant despite the evening's chaos; Marco, patient and observant; and Alex, perhaps the most passive participant in any quest in history.
"Lead the way," I say to Marco, careful to direct the words to everyone rather than just him. "We could all use some rest."
As we leave the bridge behind, I feel Jake's eyes on me, a familiar weight of concern and something deeper. When I glance back, he's watching me with an expression I can't quite read—part resignation, part determination, entirely Jake. I offer him a small smile, and after a moment, he returns it, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.
The accordion music follows us as we wind through the narrow streets, a bittersweet melody that echoes the complicated emotions swirling between us all.
Wednesday, 3:47PM. The pensione Marco's friend runs turns out to be a fifth-floor walkup in a building that probably dates back to when Venice was a maritime superpower. Each step of the narrow staircase creaks under our collective weight, the walls close enough on either side that I can touch both simultaneously if I hold my hands out.
By the time we reach our room, singular, not plural, because apparently five people and a snail don't merit multiple accommodations during festival season, Jake has mostly dried through the power of exertion and body heat. Though his shoes still make sad squelching noises with every step.
Marco's friend, the proprietor, is a round-faced man with expressive eyebrows who speaks rapid-fire Italian and keeps clapping Luca on the back like they've survived a war together after he learns he’s a pilot. He hands over an ornate brass key with a flourish, assuring us in broken English thatwe're getting "the very best room, very special, very authentic."
What "authentic" means, apparently, is smaller than my first apartment's bathroom.
The door swings open to reveal a space that could be generously described as cozy, and more accurately as claustrophobic. The walls are stucco, painted a pale yellow that might once have been cheerful but has faded to the color of old piano keys. Two queen beds are crammed so close together that I could high-five Jake across the gap without fully extending my arm. A sagging pull-out couch occupies the opposite wall, leaving approximately eighteen inches of walking space between the furniture.
"Is this..." Jake begins, then stops, apparently unable to find a polite way to ask if we're looking at a closet rather than a room.
"Perfect!" Ben declares, tossing his bag onto the nearest bed and bouncing onto the mattress. "Very European. Very intimate."
Luca peers around the doorframe, his expression morphing into one of mild concern. "It's certainly... efficient in its use of space."
"Venice is an old city built on water," Marco explains with a shrug. "Space is at a premium. This is actually quite generous by local standards."
I set Alex's terrarium down on the narrow dresser that's wedged between the window and the bathroom door, making sure it's stable. The blue snail emerges cautiously from his shell, antennae extending as if to say, "Seriously? This is where we're staying?"
"It's fine," I say, though I'm not sure who I'm trying to convince. "We just need a place to sleep before we start looking for Sarah tomorrow."
