Page 74 of The Slug Crystal
He leans back in his chair, pointing upward. "There—do you see that bright star? That's Arcturus. In Italian, we call it 'Arturo.'" His accent softens the word, making it sound like music.
"Arturo," I repeat, tasting the word.
"And there," his hand traces a pattern in the air, "is Orione—Orion to you. The hunter."
"I know that one," I say, following his gesture. "The three stars in a line are his belt, right?"
Marco nods, pleased. "Exactly. And there, that W-shape—that's Cassiopea. And that long stretch of stars? Il Cigno. The swan."
His voice wraps around the Italian names like a caress, turning astronomy into poetry. I find myself watching his face as much as the sky, captivated by the way starlight catches in his eyes, how his features soften with genuine wonder as he maps the heavens.
"How do you know all this?" I ask.
"My grandmother," he explains, smiling at the memory. "She would take me onto the roof of her house in Tuscany every clear night. No formal education, but she knew every constellation, every planet. She would tell me their stories. Not just the scientific facts, but their myths and legends."
There's something so intimate about this glimpse into his past, and I realize how close he must be to his grandmother to have this many stories of her. "That sounds wonderful," I say. "My science education was mostly frog dissection and baking soda volcanoes. All in school. My parents were more interested in pop culture than science."
He laughs softly. "Those have their place too." His gaze shifts to Alex's terrarium. "Though I imagine your recent experiences have been more educational than any classroom."
"That's one way to put it," I agree, watching the blue snail. "I never thought I'd become an expert in snail care. Or that I'dbe chasing a witch across Italy with four men, most of whom I met a week ago."
"Life's unexpected turns often lead to the most significant discoveries," Marco observes. "In science and in personal journeys."
The simple wisdom in his statement touches something in me. Unlike the commune's empty platitudes, his words carry the weight of genuine thought. "The stars are different here," I whisper, changing the topic, and looking back at the sky. "But somehow familiar."
Marco turns to face me, moonlight catching in his eyes. "Like people," he replies. "New encounters that somehow feel like recognition."
Our hands rest on the arms of our chairs, inches apart. I don't know which of us moves first, but suddenly our fingers are touching, the contact slight but electric. Neither of us pulls away. His thumb traces a gentle pattern against my skin, as deliberate as his mapping of constellations.
"Emma," he says, my name a question in his mouth.
I turn toward him, heart suddenly racing beneath my ribs. The moment unfolds with quiet inevitability, like stars wheeling through their ancient patterns. He leans forward, hesitant at first, giving me every chance to pull away. When I don't, his lips find mine in the darkness, gentle as a whisper. His lips move across mine in featherlight movements, a pressure so light it almost feels imagined. The kiss deepens slowly, his hand coming up to cup my cheek with his scholarly precision that somehow contains more passion than forceful urgency ever could.
I tremble slightly beneath his touch, not from cold but from the realization washing over me. I'm falling for him, for his quiet confidence, his thoughtful observations, and his genuine interest in both the stars above and the blue snail beside us.
When we finally part, Marco's eyes search mine in the darkness. "I didn't plan this," he says softly.
"Neither did I," I admit. "None of this was in my plans."
His smile is gentle with understanding. "The best scientific discoveries often come from unexpected data."
I laugh softly, resting my forehead against his. "Is that what this is? A scientific discovery?"
"More like astronomical observation," he replies, his fingers threading through mine. "Recognizing patterns previously unseen."
I smile gently, feeling a strange peace beneath these ancient stars. As if, perhaps, this journey across Italy isn't just about fixing a magical mistake but about discovering something I didn't know I was looking for.
"Tell me more about the stars," I whisper, settling back in my chair, my hand still linked with his. "Teach me their Italian names."
Marco's smile in the darkness feels like its own constellation, a pattern I'm just beginning to map.
18VILLA BIANCHI
Monday,8:03AM. Morning at the commune brings clarity that starlight couldn't provide. This place is a total scam. I sit on the edge of my bed, watching Alex methodically devour his breakfast lettuce in the sunlight that filters through the cabin's small window.
Last night's stars and Marco's kiss feel like a dream now, replaced by the harsh reality that we've exhausted every lead, questioned every commune member, and come up empty-handed. Sarah DeMarco remains as elusive as ever, and with her, Alex's chance of returning to human form.
A soft knock at my door breaks the silence. Jake stands there, his expression already telling me what I don't want to hear.
