Page 21 of The Slug Crystal

Jake steps closer to me, his shoulder brushing mine in silent support.

"We weren't aware that documentation was required for invertebrates," he says, his tone professional and calm despite the tension radiating from his body.

"In the U.S., there are no restrictions on transporting common garden snails. "

Maria's expression hardens. "This is not U.S. This is Italy. We have regulations for importing live animals."

Ben leans forward, flashing his most charming smile. "Look, it's just a little snail. Not dangerous, not invasive. Just a harmless pet." He winks, a move that has probably worked on countless women in countless bars. "Surely we can work something out?"

Maria's face could have been carved from stone. "Attempting to influence a customs official is an arrestable offense," she says, her voice dropping to an even more ominous register.

Ben backs off immediately, hands raised in surrender. "No influence intended. Just explaining the situation."

Luca mutters something in Italian that sounds suspiciously like a comment about bureaucracy and small-minded officials. Maria's head snaps up, her eyes flashing.

"What did you say?" she demands.

Luca switches to English, his accent suddenly thicker. "I said it is an unfortunate situation. Perhaps there is a form we can fill out? A fee we can pay?" His smile is strained now, the easy charm slipping.

Maria reaches for the terrarium. "I need to inspect this."

My arms tighten instinctively around the glass. "Please, he's very sensitive to being handled," I plead, knowing how pathetic I sound but unable to stop myself. "The stress could harm him."

"Regulations require inspection of all live animals entering the country," Maria says, unmoved. "Hand it over, or I will call security."

My vision blurs at the edges. This can't be happening. After everything we’ve been through so far, the spell, losing Alex to Ben, the road trip, the private jet, now we're going to be stopped by an airport customs officer?

Alex is going to end up confiscated, probably euthanized, and I'll be arrested for.

.. what? Snail smuggling? Is that even a crime?

I glance desperately at Jake, who looks as helpless as I feel. Ben's smile has vanished entirely, replaced by a calculating expression that suggests he's considering making a run for it. Luca is rigid beside me, his earlier relaxation completely evaporated.

"The documentation," Maria insists, her hand still extended. "Or permit for transport. You must have something."

"I don't," I admit, my voice breaking. "I didn't know I needed it. Please, he's very important to me."

"Regulations are clear," Maria says, reaching for the terrarium again. "Without proper documentation, live animals cannot enter the country."

My fingers tighten around the glass. I can see Alex inside. His blue shell gleams under the fluorescent lights, his antennae extended as if he’s sensing danger. For a wild moment, I consider turning and running, and making a break for the exit, while the three men create a diversion behind me.

But where would I go? How far would I get? And what then?

"Please," I try again, desperation making my voice thin. "There must be something we can do."

Maria's expression doesn't soften. "You can surrender the animal for quarantine and inspection, or you can return to where you came from." She gestures to a door marked with an official-looking sign. "Through there for processing."

My stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles. Processing sounds like a euphemism for something terrible. I imagine Alex, alone and confused, poked and prodded by scientists who have no idea what he really is. Or worse, deemed a health risk and disposed of .

"There has to be another option," Jake says, his voice tight with restraint.

"There is not," Maria replies, her tone final.

I feel the walls closing in, the fluorescent lights suddenly too bright, the air too thin. This is it. This is where our journey ends. Not with a magical solution, but with a bureaucratic roadblock we never saw coming.

Then, from behind us, a confident voice cuts through the tension. "Ah, I see you got too far ahead of me in the line. I’m glad I caught you.”

I turn to find a tall man in a tweed jacket with honest-to-god leather elbow patches standing behind us.

He has the kind of face that belongs on a university webpage.

He looks serious but kind, with wire-rimmed glasses perched on a Roman nose and salt-and-pepper curls that are just messy enough to suggest he's too busy with important thoughts to bother with combs.

He steps forward with the easy confidence of someone who's never questioned his right to be anywhere, smiling at Maria like they're colleagues at an academic conference.

"Excuse me," he says in accented but perfect English. "I am Dr. Marco Rossi, professor of malacology at Ca' Foscari University." He switches to rapid, fluent Italian, gesturing professionally toward my terrarium.

Maria's eyebrows lift slightly. It’s the first change in her stony expression since we approached her booth. She responds in Italian, her tone still clipped but with a new note of professional respect.

I clutch Alex's terrarium closer, barely daring to breathe as this stranger, this apparent snail expert, continues speaking, his hands moving expressively. The words flow too fast for me to catch, but I recognize "ricerca" and "scientifico" peppered throughout his explanation.

Jake shifts beside me, his posture radiating suspicion. Ben and Luca exchange glances, clearly as confused as I am about this unexpected intervention. But none of us dares interrupt.

Dr. Rossi reaches into a battered leather messenger bag slung across his chest and produces a folder.

He extracts several papers, pointing to official-looking stamps and letterhead as he continues his explanation.

The documents have university logos, scientific diagrams, and what appear to be permit numbers.

"You see," he says, switching back to English and gesturing to the terrarium, "this specimen is part of an ongoing international research project on genetic diversity in Helix pomatia populations with unusual shell pigmentation.

Quite fascinating work. We've identified several unique phenotypic expressions that suggest adaptive environmental responses. "

Maria studies the papers, her stern expression gradually softening into something closer to professional interest. She asks a question in Italian, her finger tapping one of the documents.

"Ah, yes," Dr. Rossi responds, nodding enthusiastically.

"The importation clearance. It's all there. The specimen is certified disease-free and poses no threat to local ecosystems. The blue coloration is actually the focus of our study. It’s a rare genetic variation that appears in less than 0. 01% of the population."

I glance down at Alex, his blue shell pressed against the glass of the terrarium. I want to laugh hysterically. If only they knew the "genetic variation" was actually due to this being a human turned snail from a spell kit I bought online while drunk and heartbroken.

Dr. Rossi continues, his voice taking on the rhythmic cadence of a practiced lecturer.

"We're tracking shell pigmentation anomalies across multiple countries to establish correlation patterns with environmental factors.

The data suggests possible epigenetic influences on shell formation proteins, particularly conchiolin expression in the periostracum layer. "

I have no idea what he's saying, but it sounds incredibly impressive. Even Maria seems affected by the barrage of scientific terminology, her rigid posture softening slightly.

"The specimen has been cleared through the European Association for Mollusk Research," Dr. Rossi adds, tapping another document. "You'll find all the necessary authorizations there, including the temporary research transport permit under EU Directive 92/65/EEC."

Maria takes the papers, examining them more carefully. She asks another question in Italian, her tone now curious rather than accusatory.

Dr. Rossi laughs warmly. "Yes, exactly! You have a good eye. The distinctive cerulean hue is indeed unusual. We believe it may be linked to copper absorption patterns in their native habitat. That's precisely why this specimen is so valuable to our research."

I hold my breath, watching as Maria's expression shifts from suspicion to grudging acceptance. She glances at me, then back at the documents, then to Dr. Rossi. "And these people?" she asks in English, gesturing to our group.

Dr. Rossi nods enthusiastically. "My research assistants and colleagues.

We're convening in Venice for the International Symposium on Gastropod Conservation next week.

They've been helping transport the specimen with appropriate care protocols. I’m afraid we were separated when I left the line to go to the restroom.

They do not usually handle documentation, so they were unaware I had already filed for transport rights. "

I try to arrange my face into something resembling that of a responsible research assistant rather than a panicking woman who has accidentally transformed her ex-boyfriend. Jake stiffens beside me, clearly uncomfortable with the lie but smart enough not to contradict it .

Maria hands the documents back to Dr. Rossi with a small sigh.

She stamps our passports one by one, her movements crisp but no longer threatening.

"Next time," she says, fixing me with a stern look, "ensure all documentation is readily available.

Research specimens must be properly declared upon arrival. "

"Of course," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you for your understanding."