Page 57 of The Slug Crystal
"What are you arguing about now?" I ask, carefully setting Alex's terrarium on the seat before distributing the coffees from Marco's tray.
"The best route through Florence," Jake explains, accepting his coffee with a nod of thanks. His fingers brush against mine during the exchange, and I'm acutely aware of his touch after last night's kiss. "Ben thinks we should start on the outskirts, which is ridiculous."
"Not ridiculous, strategic," Ben corrects, biting into a pastry with enthusiastic appreciation. Crumbs catch in his scruffy beard, and he brushes them away with the back of his hand. "We need to think like a witch on the run. Where would you set up shop?"
Marco sets the remaining pastries on the table between the seats. "Florence's historic center actually has many small, hidden shops in less touristed areas," he explains, slipping back into professor mode. His tall frame settles into the seat opposite mine, his dark curls brushing against the window as he leans back. "There are streets behind the Duomo where rents are more reasonable but still central. The buildings there have been divided and subdivided over centuries, perfect for someone seeking privacy while maintaining access to foot traffic."
Ben waves his pastry dismissively. "Sure, but a witch with the capability to turn a man into a snail might want more privacy than that."
"We don't know what Sarah does in her free time," I point out, stroking the top of Alex's terrarium absently. "I'm the one who activated the crystal. She just sold it."
Jake's eyes soften as he looks at me. "Either way, she's our best lead for reversing it, and we need a plan to find her."
As they continue debating routes and strategies, I turn to look out the window. The Tuscan countryside rolls by outside. There are vineyards and olive groves bathed in golden sunlight, cypress trees standing like sentinels along ridgelines. The landscape is so beautiful it almost hurts to look at it, especially knowing our presence here is tied to such strange circumstances.
I absently stroke Alex's terrarium, watching as the blue snail explores a fresh lettuce leaf. Does he sense the complications unfolding around him? Does some part of the human Alex remain aware inside that spiral shell, observing with silent judgment as I navigate these unexpected feelings?
The train speeds on toward Florence, carrying us closer to what I hope are answers. But with each mile, I become less certain about what I want those answers to be. Finding Sarah, reversing the spell, these goals haven't changed. But what happens after? Will this strange, unexpected connection with these four men dissolve once our mission is complete?
The thought is more unsettling than I care to admit. I'm growing accustomed to our odd little group, to the peculiar harmony we've found despite our differences. Like the pieces of a puzzle that shouldn't fit together but somehow do.
Marco catches me watching him and offers a small, private smile that makes my heart beat faster. I return it before looking away, fixing my gaze on the rolling hills outside, trying to steady myself against the growing turmoil inside.
One problem at a time, I tell myself. First Alex. Then... whatever comes next.
14ESCARGOT AND OTHER HORRORS
Friday,4:08PM. Florence sparkles with a honey-gold sunset that makes the Arno River shimmer like spilled wine. After dropping our bags at a modest pensione near the Ponte Vecchio, with two rooms blessedly larger than our Venetian sardine can, Luca leads us through winding streets to what he promises is "the most authentic trattoria in Tuscany, not for tourists."
My arms ache from carrying Alex's terrarium all day. But I don't trust anyone else with the responsibility, not even Jake. We spent most of the afternoon continuing our wild goose chase and have yet to come up on any new leads.
The cobblestones beneath my feet are rough and uneven, and I wonder how many other impossible quests have passed this way before us. The trattoria appears like a mirage at the end of a narrow alley, a stone-walled haven with vines climbing its ancient facade and warm light spilling from windows that have witnessed the Renaissance firsthand. A wooden sign swings gently above the door, its painted letters faded by time and weather. Inside, the ceiling curves in low arches, and exposed wooden beams crisscross overhead like the ribs of some ancient beast.
"My cousin's wife's uncle owns this place," Luca explains as we enter, the rich scent of garlic and simmering tomatoes washing over us. "The menu hasn't changed in two hundred years, and neither has the wine cellar."
A waiter with a magnificently curved mustache recognizes Luca immediately, erupting in a flurry of Italian exclamations and enthusiastic back-slapping. They speak so rapidly that even Marco looks slightly lost in the linguistic avalanche.
"He says we're family, and to expect only the best," Luca translates as we're ushered to a corner table beneath a stone arch.
Copper pots hang from hooks on the wall, catching the golden lamplight and casting warm reflections across our faces. The tablecloth is checkered red and white, topped with a stubby candle in a wine bottle dripping with layers of wax.
Jake pulls out my chair before Ben can reach it, his blue eyes briefly meeting mine in that intense way that still makes my stomach flutter, even after last night's awkwardness. Marco slides into the seat to my right, his scholarly posture somehow softening in this rustic setting. Ben flops into the chair across from me, immediately leaning back on two legs until Luca gives him a disapproving look. The five of us form a familiar constellation now, our bodies automatically arranging themselves in the most comfortable configuration.
The waiter returns with menus, thick leather-bound affairs with yellowed pages. I open mine, absently stroking the terrarium balanced on my lap while scanning the handwritten Italian. My high school Spanish isn't much help, but I recognize enough to make educated guesses. Until my eyes land on a word that sends ice through my veins.
Escargot.
My fingers freeze on the terrarium's glass. Alex is pressed against the side, his blue shell iridescent in the candlelight, antennae extended as if reading the menu with me. I slam themenu shut with enough force that Jake looks up, eyebrows raised in question.
"Everything okay?" he asks, that protective edge creeping into his voice.
"Fine," I say too quickly. "Just hungry. Really hungry."
The waiter approaches with a bottle of deep red wine, its label blackened with age. As he begins pouring, I realize I need to get Alex away from this table, away from a restaurant that serves his own kind as an appetizer. The irony would be too cruel, even by the standards of this bizarre adventure.
I clear my throat. "I need to put my purse under the table," I announce to no one in particular. "It's, um, bothering my shoulder."
Before anyone can respond, I duck beneath the tablecloth, sliding Alex's terrarium between my feet with trembling hands. The floor is worn terra cotta, cool against my ankles as I arrange napkins around the glass to stabilize it. When I emerge, red-faced and disheveled, everyone is staring at me.
