Page 58 of The Slug Crystal
"Your wine, signora," the waiter says, holding out a glass.
I reach for it too quickly, my nerves making me clumsy. My elbow catches my water glass, sending it toppling. Cold water rushes across the table, soaking the tablecloth and lapping at the edges before anyone can react.
"Shit!" I yelp, grabbing napkins. "I'm so sorry!"
Jake is already on his feet, using his napkin to dam the flow before it can cascade into our laps. His movements are quick and efficient, with no wasted motion and no drama. Just Jake, fixing things like he always does.
"It's just water," he says quietly, his hand briefly squeezing mine as we both mop at the spill. "No harm done."
The waiter hurries over with fresh napkins and a new tablecloth, which he manages to slide beneath our place settings without disturbing a single fork. The entire operation takes less than thirty seconds, executed with the precision of someone who's handled thousands of such minor disasters.
Luca leans forward, speaking rapid Italian that makes the waiter's expression shift from concern to understanding. He nods vigorously, patting Luca on the shoulder before disappearing toward the kitchen.
"I took the liberty of ordering for everyone," Luca explains, his accent thickening in this authentically Italian environment. "The menu is mostly for tourists anyway. The real specialties aren't listed."
"Let me guess, the chef's grandmother's secret recipe?" Ben teases, but his smile is warm.
"Exactly," Luca confirms without a trace of irony. "Passed down for seven generations. We'll start with bruschetta and burrata, then pappardelle with wild boar ragu, and then bistecca alla Fiorentina to share."
"Sounds delicious," I say, even though I barely understand the names of the dishes.
From the street outside, the gentle strumming of a mandolin drifts through the open windows, mingling with the murmur of conversation and the rhythmic chopping from the kitchen. The scent of garlic and wine permeates the air, rich and comforting. For a moment, I almost forget why we're here—the magic, the spell, the urgent quest to find Sarah. Instead, I'm just a woman in Florence, surrounded by interesting men, about to enjoy an authentic Italian meal.
I take a careful sip of my wine, the deep ruby liquid catching the light as my glass moves. I’m mindful of my earlier clumsiness, so I make my movements slower to avoid another incident. The flavor blooms on my tongue. It tastes like cherries and earth and something darker, more ancient, like a spice I've never had before.
Ben raises his glass in a toast. "To finding Sarah," he says. "And to the most peculiar vacation I've ever taken."
We clink glasses, and Ben's foot bumps mine beneath the table. I glance down, worried about Alex's terrarium, but it's safely nestled between my feet. When I look up, Ben hasshifted closer, encroaching on Marco’s space, as he sits between us.
"You know," he murmurs, his voice pitched low enough that I have to strain to hear, his fingers lightly brushing the tabletop, "you deserve someone, or someones, who treat you like you're the magic, not just someone chasing it."
His eyes hold mine, sincere beneath their usual playfulness. My laugh comes out breathier than I intend, the wine and his words making my head swim slightly.
"Is that your professional opinion as a journalist?" I deflect, but his words have already settled somewhere beneath my ribs, warm and persistent.
"Just an observation," he replies, his fingers continuing their gentle path across the tablecloth, tracing the checkers slowly. "You're so focused on fixing Alex that you don't see what's right in front of you."
Before I can ask what exactly he thinks is right in front of me, the bruschetta arrives, golden toasts topped with glistening tomatoes and basil. The conversation shifts to food, then to Florence, and finally to tomorrow's plans for finding Sarah. But Ben's words linger, mixing with the wine and the mandolin music and the golden lamplight, creating a heady cocktail that makes me wonder, just for a moment, what might be possible after Alex is restored, after this strange journey ends.
I glance down at my feet again, checking that Alex's terrarium is still secure. The blue snail has retreated into his shell, perhaps sleeping, perhaps hiding from the aroma of garlic that might be terrifying to gastropod senses. I should feel nothing but urgency about his condition, nothing but determination to find Sarah and fix this mess. Instead, I find myself savoring this moment, this meal, this company—and the guilt of that pleasure adds a bittersweet note to the wine on my tongue.
The courses arrive in a parade of small plates, each onemore aromatic than the last. I'm reaching for a slice of aged pecorino when I feel it—a warm pressure against my right leg, gentle but unmistakable. Marco's hand has found my knee under the tablecloth, resting there with such casual confidence that for a moment I wonder if it's accidental. But then his fingers apply the slightest pressure. This deliberate touch sends warmth blooming through my body like watercolor spread on wet paper. I don't pull away. I should probably, but the wine, the golden light, and the absurdity of our situation have created a bubble where normal rules seem distant and irrelevant.
Above the table, Marco passes the bread basket to Luca with his free hand, his scholarly face betraying nothing of what's happening beneath the checkered cloth. His touch remains steady on my leg, a warm anchor in the swirling current of conversation.
"Florence was essentially the Silicon Valley of the Renaissance," Marco is explaining, his professor voice in full effect despite the intimate contact of his fingers. "The Medici were venture capitalists, investing in artists instead of startups."
"So, Michelangelo was basically developing apps of the old times?" Ben asks, tearing into a piece of bread with enthusiasm. A drop of olive oil clings to his scruff, catching the candlelight like a tiny jewel.
"In a manner of speaking," Marco concedes with a small smile. "If the Sistine Chapel could be called an app of the old times."
Jake laughs, actually guffaws, the sound startling me almost as much as Marco's hand on my knee. I turn to find Jake's posture looser, his shoulders relaxed, his eyes bright with genuine amusement. The Tuscan wine has painted a slight flush across his cheekbones, and he's rolled up his sleeves to reveal forearms that have always been one of his most underrated features.
"I think I'd prefer the Renaissance patronage system," Jakesays, swirling wine in his glass. "Seems more straightforward than venture capital. Paint something beautiful, get paid, repeat."
"You forget the part where you live or die by the whims of powerful families," Luca counters, gesturing with his fork. "One wrong move and—" He draws a finger across his throat dramatically.
"So exactly like modern capitalism," Ben interjects, which draws another laugh from Jake.
