Chapter Fifteen

Astrid wore a smug grin when security escorted Margot and Van back to the rest of the class. “Nice work, Rhodes. You put the entire museum on lockdown.”

“Not now,” Margot said, firm. Van must have been rubbing off on her.

While the guards argued with Dr. Hunt in rapid Italian, presumably about which jail they’d cart them off to, she and Van hunched over the page from the ledger. Their cheeks were so close, she could feel warmth radiating off him. Her heart pounded loudly in her chest, but she blamed it on the leftover adrenaline.

Margot yanked a yellow highlighter from the depths of her backpack—they’d already destroyed museum property, so a little color-coordination wouldn’t kill anybody. She painted neon streaks across every instance of Atlas Exploration Company. Seven total.

“You know you were in the completely wrong wing of the museum to find worksheet answers,” Astrid said, poking her nose back in their space.

“I said not now, Astrid. Obviously we’re busy with something,” Margot said stiffly. She shifted away from Astrid’s prying gaze.

Astrid clenched her fists by her side. “Unless what you’re busy with is the worksheet we’re supposed to be finishing, it can wait.”

Margot ignored her. She skimmed her finger down the date column. The first trade happened at the start of July, just weeks after Van’s disappearance, and the last one at the end of September. Three months post-Van for Atlas to track down the Vase shard and trade it away. Her finger rested on the first museum.

“What kind of exhibits do they have here?” Margot asked Van.

“What do I look like, an encyclopedia?” He huffed a frustrated breath out through his nose. “Can’t you ask your flashlight or something?”

“My—?” Oh. Margot tugged her phone out of her back pocket. She googled Museo Storico Navale di Venezia, and the website pulled up a digitized record of their collections, but when Margot scanned their pottery, nothing resembled one of the shards. It was mostly naval instruments and shipwreck findings.

Suki hurried over. When she saw Van, her eyes went as wide as one of Miss Penelope’s teacup saucers. The legionary had split his lip, red running through the creases. “Are you okay, Chad?”

“Fine,” he grunted without making eye contact. His focus was solely reserved for the ledger, soaking in every line like there must be some secret code he could crack.

“I’m not clueless. None of this looks fine,” Suki said.

Margot’s blood ran cold as she watched Dr. Hunt chat with the security guards and a man in the most expensive-looking suit Margot had ever seen. The curator, maybe. She only had a few hours left before her flight, and getting arrested wasn’t exactly on her summer bucket list. She focused, trying to read Dr. Hunt’s lips, but unless she was actually talking about naked mole rats eating guacamole, Margot was clueless.

Dr. Hunt bade the security guards farewell and shuffled toward them. A stray curl draped over her eyes, and she smoothed it back behind her ear. Her expression wasn’t angry. She almost looked . . . concerned.

“Margot, Chad,” she said as she sidled up next to them. “The museum extends its apologies.”

That couldn’t be right.

The quicksand pit in Margot’s stomach, which was threatening to swallow her whole, begged to differ. She was supposed to be lectured about how foolish it was for her to run off or how irresponsible it was to let her emotions carry her away.

Astrid’s jaw sank halfway to the floor. “You’re joking.”

“Why would I be joking?” Dr. Hunt asked. Every drop of levity in her voice ran dry. “Margot and Chad could have been seriously injured with that statue in such a state of disrepair. They’ll be investigating the structural integrity of all the statues in the gallery so that no one gets hurt.”

Dr. Hunt turned to leave, but Astrid stopped her. “That’s it? Margot broke a Michelangelo.”

“No,” Dr. Hunt said. “The head curator assured me that the statue of Felix was in line for refurbishment and shouldn’t have been on display.”

A thrill ran through Margot. She tried to imagine it from an outsider’s perspective—the head had toppled off the soldier’s head, courtesy of an unnoticed split in the marble, and crashed into the glass case holding the lance on the way down. She hadn’t noticed any security cameras, and no one was going to believe the sole account of the scared-to-death researcher who witnessed the statue’s spree.

For all anyone else knew, Margot and Van had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Thank you, Dr. Hunt,” Margot said. “A few scratches, but we’re fine.”

“She shouldn’t have been there in the first place.” Astrid’s voice pitched higher. Her arms tugged across her chest in a defensive shield. “She was supposed to be helping me with our assignment. I’d like to request a new partner.”

Suki perched on her toes, leaning around Van’s shoulder. “Ooh, if we’re getting new partners, then maybe I could—”

Dr. Hunt cut her off. Her words were a sickle, slicing and definitive. “Okay, Astrid. You want a new partner? You’ll join Mr. Vanderson for the duration of the afternoon.”

Astrid’s face fell into a shade of despair Margot previously believed had been reserved for souls carted across the Styx. “No.”

“Yes.” Dr. Hunt nodded. She rapped a nail against her trusty clipboard. What did she even have clipped to it? “Margot, you can work with Suki. I’ll adjust everyone’s partners, but only for today. Tomorrow, I want the two of you to figure out how to work together. Understood, Miss Ashby?”

“Understood,” Astrid said, but the word came out thin.

Dr. Hunt and her clipboard clapped once and said, “Back to work!”

Van’s hand grazed the skin of Margot’s arm as he slipped something into her palm. Every nerve in her body went on code red. She gulped down the butterflies and unfurled her fingers. The ledger.

He nodded, just once, and Margot knew it meant keep searching.

The audience of prying eyes they’d gathered turned back to their worksheets. Except for Suki, whose forlorn stare followed Van to the other side of the exhibit. It bordered on creepy.

“Snap out of it,” Margot said, waving her hand in front of Suki’s eyes.

“Okay, okay.” Suki had braided her hair in one long stripe, and she toyed with the end of it now. “I just don’t understand why Chad wouldn’t want to be partners with me.”

Margot said, “He prefers to work alone, that’s all.”

In Suki’s defense, Van had a gravitational pull to him, like he was the sun, and everything orbited him. As they paced through the exhibits, with Suki jotting down answers on her worksheet and Margot frantically looking up museums, Margot couldn’t help but register Van’s proximity.

She swore she was trying to focus, but her cell service was painstakingly slow.

And, yeah, maybe there was a twinge of jealousy in her chest when Astrid faced him and whispered something only he could hear. Van stared down at his new partner, hard and long, wearing an expression Margot had never seen on him before.

He pushed his hand through his hair, the gold streaks glinting in the museum’s soft light. Margot’s stomach twisted into knots like a soft pretzel. His eyes cut across the gallery to hers, and she one-eightied so fast, she nearly flattened Suki against the glass.

“Sorry,” she said, flushed and distracted.

Suki glanced down at Margot’s phone. “What have you been working on? Reading more Relics of the Heart fan fiction?”

Like a porcupine, Margot’s spikes went up. “I’m not—”

Suki smiled, and Margot believed it. “It’s cool. My mom loves that book. I’m pretty sure she owns everything Catherine Avery Hannigan has, like, ever written.”

Margot softened. “Mine, too. This was always her favorite. But no, I’m—well, I’m trying to find this museum gallery, but Google apparently doesn’t think it exists.”

Suki’s eyebrows perked up. “A secret museum? Let me see, let me see.”

Margot smoothed the torn page over the glass and pointed to the last name on the list, La Galleria Bianchi. Her search finally loaded, but it was populated with spam sites and a boutique in Tokyo. Absolutely zero Italian museums.

“I’ve been to this place,” Suki said.

“You have?”

Suki threw her head back. “Yes, it’s unreal. You won’t find it online. It’s this underground antique market, basically. My mom and I came to Rome last summer for this big trade show, and I met this girl, Fernanda. She got me in.”

“Can I meet her?” Margot asked. Then, “Not to date. Although I’m sure she’s lovely. I need to go to that museum.”

“Well, it’s not exactly—”

“Please, please please.” Margot was not above begging. Not now. She’d do whatever it took. “I’d seriously owe you.”

Suki nodded, a devious smile glazing her lips. “Okay. So, here’s what you’re going to do.”

While the rest of the class finished up their worksheets, Margot and Van stood inside the world’s pinkest lingerie store. Van’s face matched the fuchsia bra the mannequin wore. Everything was lace and satin, thongs and bustiers.

“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” Van’s voice was pinched. He scratched uncomfortably at his shirt’s neckline, leaving a red patch against his collarbone.

“This is it.”

Suki’s instructions had been clear. Once they made it to the striped pink-and-red awnings at Mia Bella’s, they’d go to the front desk and ask for Fernanda. What Margot hadn’t expected was Van’s instant mortification by a few frills and ribbons. He fidgeted with the gold-chained compass he kept perpetually around his neck, clicking it open, checking their orientation, tucking it back under his shirt. A nervous habit.

Behind his back, Van held a bouquet of fresh violets and calla lilies. Suki swore they were Fernanda’s favorites, and a little buttering up couldn’t hurt since apparently Suki never called her back. (“Long distance,” she’d said, “you know how it is.” Even though Margot definitely did not.)

“Let me do the talking,” Margot said, weaving her arm through Van’s and dragging him through the store. Van kept his head trained toward his feet like glimpsing an undergarment would result in instant incineration.

A man stood at the desk, nearly buried behind three dozen black glass perfume bottles. He cradled a corded phone shaped like a pair of pursed hot-pink lips between his bearded chin and a bedazzled shoulder pad. Acknowledging them, he offered a knowing nod and pointed across the showroom. Margot pivoted, following the line of his arm to a display of matching his-and-hers sets.

“Not that,” Margot said, pointedly ignoring the heady blush creeping up her own cheeks. Van tensed beside her in complete and utter mortification. Margot was half certain that if it weren’t for her brace on his arm, he’d have fainted on the spot. “We’re looking for Fernanda.”

The clerk pushed his palm against the receiver and shouted her name toward the back.

Fernanda appeared around the corner. Her bright blue hair had been braided around her head and patterned with clip-in butterflies. With her wide-set brown eyes, deeply tanned skin, and upturned nose, she could have been plucked right out of the Nymphaeum. “Ciao, come va?”

“Hi,” Margot said, “We’re looking for La Galleria Bianchi—”

Fernanda nearly shoved a pair of thigh-high socks into Margot’s mouth just to smother her words. She leaned over the countertop, eyes slicing toward her colleague, who was now in a heated argument regarding biancheria intima. With a harsh whisper, she said, “Do not say it out loud.”

Margot spat out the socks and lowered her voice. “Suki Takeda sent us.”

“Ah, Suki.” Fernanda dragged out the last syllable.

In response, Margot dug her elbow into the soft spot beneath Van’s ribs.

He thrust the bouquet between them. “And these.”

For a moment, Fernanda did nothing. Just stared at the bouquet clutched too hard in Van’s fist. Finally, she took the flowers and lifted them under her nose. Then, her features hardened. “Tell her I say thank you.”

“That’s it?” Margot gasped. “What about the”—Fernanda glared, dagger sharp—“The other thing?”

“I don’t know who you are or why you’re here.” Fernanda sniffed the bouquet again. “What exactly are you looking for?”

Oh, right. Okay, Suki had prepared her for this.

Margot cleared her throat. “We need two pairs of knee-high stockings in alabaster white, monogrammed with AOA.”

Fernanda donned a sparkling smile. “Fabulous! This way!”

She came around the counter and guided them through the storeroom. Van glanced at Margot, disbelief written all over his face, and Margot could only hope she didn’t actually end up with two pairs of socks out of this. Fernanda led them through a sheer gauze tapestry at the back of the shop to a cozy hallway made of exposed stones. A door was on either side—one labeled, one not.

“Enzo!” Fernanda said, hitting the side of her hand against the unmarked door three times. She didn’t stick around for someone to open it. Offering Margot and Van a salute with the hand holding her bouquet, she neatly vanished between the racks of negligees.

“I can’t believe that worked,” Van said. His face slowly returned to its usual shade, his eyebrows finding their typical irritated furrow. “Do girls even like that sort of thing?”

“Flowers?” Margot asked. “Yeah, usually.”

Van made a sort of unimpressed snort. “Why? They just die.”

“It’s thoughtful,” she said. “Who doesn’t like to be thought about?”

Van’s feet scuffed the ground as they waited. “What else do they like?”

Margot shrugged, trying desperately to look nonchalant despite the way her pulse skipped very chalantfully. “You know, picnics, little gifts, handwritten letters. Romantic gestures.”

“Sto arrivando!” called a voice from behind the thick door.

It swung open, and Margot jumped back to avoid getting smacked.

Whoever Margot had expected to round the corner, it wasn’t a boy Van’s height and about his age—eighteen-ish, not a-hundred-something. His skin had the bronze glow of someone who spent their afternoons in the sun, but his hair was so black, it almost looked blue. The boy wore a black hoodie, stamped on the front with a globe, tilted on its axis, with a ribbon encircling it, and he crossed his arms over his chest.

Was Margot imagining it, or did Van tense next to her? Almost protective.

A string of Italian words ran out of Enzo’s mouth. Knowing him, Van probably understood them perfectly, but Margot could only blink like she was trying to solve a complicated math problem.

“Americans,” Enzo said, finally, as if it explained everything. “Let me ask again: If you want to know love, how will you look for him?”

This was where Suki’s instructions had ended. Every day, the bouncer had a new riddle. Get the answer right, and it was instant access to the world’s most exclusive gallery of antiques. Wrong? They’d be on the curb quicker than Margot could say marinara.

“Um . . .” Margot faltered. She really should have taken one of Dr. Hunt’s classes last year. Every intelligent thought she’d ever had suddenly decided to take a sabbatical.

Beside her, Van said, “You don’t.”

Margot whipped toward him, hands clammy. They only had one shot at this. He hadn’t even considered consulting her?

At her antagonizing stare, he shifted his weight between his feet. “He said look for him. Not it. I can only assume that references Cupid, the Roman god of love. He’d been betrothed to Psyche but hid in the darkness each night because he didn’t want to be loved because of his appearance or his reputation. He didn’t want to be seen—only known.”

Something unnameable twinged in Margot’s chest.

Van refocused on Enzo. “So, how do you look for love? You don’t. Love comes to you.”

There was about a trillion percent chance that door was getting slammed straight in their faces. Margot winced in anticipation, her chances withering like a week-old grocery store bouquet.

It didn’t come. Instead, Enzo sidestepped and pushed the door open wide. “Benvenuto.”

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