Page 49 of The Slug Crystal
"We have to," I reply, adjusting the tote bag housing Alex. I peek inside and find him shifting against his glass. "Otherwise, this whole trip was just an elaborate excuse to see Venice."
"There are worse reasons," Jake says, his hand brieflytouching the small of my back as he guides me around a puddle.
We spend the next three hours moving from stall to stall, showing Sarah's picture to vendors who barely glance at it before shaking their heads. The sun climbs higher, baking the stones beneath our feet, sweat trickling down my spine. Alex retreats into his shell as the terrarium warms despite my efforts to keep him in the shade.
"This is hopeless," I finally admit, slumping against a wall in a small square. "She could be anywhere."
Jake hands me a water bottle, his fingers brushing mine. "We've barely scratched the surface. Marco's talking to academics, Luca's got his taxi network, and Ben's probably charmed half the city by now."
As if summoned by his name, Jakes phone buzzes with a text from Ben to a group he labeled ‘Snail Fixers’: Meet at the Bridge of Sighs. FOUND SOMETHING. His text is thankfully accompanied by a pin, which Jake clicks to open and leads us to his location.
The famous bridge is packed with tourists, but Ben spots us immediately, waving wildly from beside a gelato stand. His face is flushed with excitement.
"Instagram," he announces triumphantly, thrusting his phone toward us. "I started searching local hashtags from last year's festival and found this."
I squint at the screen, my heart stuttering when I recognize Sarah's face in a crowded market photo. She's sitting behind a stall piled with crystals and small cloth bags, her dark hair pulled back, smiling at the camera.
"She was here," I breathe. "Actually, here."
"Posted forty-eight weeks ago," Ben confirms. "Caption says 'Selling handmade protection charms at the festival. Venice, you have my heart.'"
Jake studies the photo, brow furrowed. "But this was almost a year ago. We already know she lived in Pittsfieldsometime after that, or at least was staying there. She could be anywhere now."
"Maybe, maybe not," Ben says with a grin. "Show the picture around and see what happens."
It takes another hour of searching, but finally, a leather goods vendor with a silver beard recognizes Sarah from the photo. "La strega americana," he says, nodding vigorously. "The American witch. Very popular, very pretty. Not here this year."
"Do you know where she went?" I ask, hope rising in my chest.
He shrugs, then says something in Italian that makes Ben turn to Marco for translation. “Ah, he says no. She does not keep in touch.”
Marco thanks him for his time. My shoulders slump in disappointment, and our group wanders to the side to cluster out of the way of the crowd. “What now?” I ask.
The guys are all busy on their phones and don’t acknowledge my question. Thumbing through their screens, engrossed in searching for answers.
“Aha!” Marco exclaims. “My colleague has returned my email. He says if anyone would know, Sarah and her whereabouts, it's Mirella," Marco explains. "She befriended many of the... how do you say... alternative vendors last year."
"Mirella?" The name feels significant on my tongue. "Where do we find her?"
“I will get us there,” Marco says. He pulls up a map on his phone, and our strange procession winds through Venice's back streets, following the scent of fresh bread to a bakery with an apartment above it.
The stairway leading to Mirella's door is steep and worn, the wooden steps nicked and weather-worn, making me nervous as I climb upwards. I knock, and the door swings open to reveal a woman who looks like she stepped out of a fortune teller's booth at a carnival. She’s draped in colorfulscarves, with silver bangles jangling at her wrists and dark hair streaked with dramatic gray.
"Ah," she says, her English heavily accented but clear. "I was expecting visitors. The cards told me." She peers at each of us, her gaze lingering on the tote bag where the top of Alex's terrarium is visible. "Especially you," she adds, nodding at the bag even though the snail is not visible through the fabric.
I exchange a skeptical glance with Jake, who raises an eyebrow in silent communication. “Is this for real?”
"We're looking for Sarah DeMarco," I say. "We were told you might know her."
Mirella's eyes widen, and she steps back, gesturing for us to enter. "Sarah, yes. The crystal witch." She looks around as if checking for eavesdroppers, then lowers her voice. "I cannot tell you where she is now, but perhaps... I can contact her."
"Contact her?" Ben repeats. "Like, call her phone?"
Mirella laughs, the sound like bells chiming. "No, no. Through the veil. A séance."
I feel Jake stiffen beside me, practically radiating skepticism. Luca makes a small noise that might be a suppressed laugh. Marco looks academically interested, while Ben's expression suggests he's found the whole situation delightfully absurd.
“I thought Séances were only for the dead… Is Sarah dead?” Jake eventually asks.
