Page 26 of The Slug Crystal

The terrarium sits on the dresser, Alex's blue shell visible as he explores a fresh piece of lettuce I placed there the night before.

Four men and a snail in Venice, this wasn't exactly how I'd planned to spend my week.

Desperation makes people do strange things, including gather new travel companions.

"Morning," Jake says without looking up. "I've been mapping possible areas to search." His voice is careful, neutral, as if last night's bed-sharing negotiations never happened.

I sit up, combing fingers through my tangled hair. "Any brilliant insights?"

"Venice is small but dense. If we split up, we can cover more ground." He finally looks at me, his expression softening. "How'd you sleep? "

"Like someone trying not to fall off a mattress the size of a pizza box," I reply, which makes him smile.

A knock interrupts us, and Ben's voice filters through the thin door before he barges back into our tiny, cramped room.

"Rise and shine, Team Snail! Marco's found us a café that makes something called 'the best cappuccino in all of Italy,' which is either true or a deeply effective marketing strategy. "

Is everyone else on this trip a freak? "Why is everyone up so early?" I ask as I notice Jake and I are the only two left in the room.

"I was too excited to sleep," Ben says. "Marco was working to connect with his University contact to see if he could get us any leads. And I think Luca just wanted to make sure he woke up early enough to have time to style his hair."

Chuckling, I shake my head and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. I shuffle through my suitcase. "I think I might need to go shopping for some extra clothes today," I mutter, barely having any options for clean items left.

"Me too," Jake agrees. "We'll work it into the schedule later. Just go get dressed."

We meet the others in the narrow hallway, and everyone seems surprisingly alert.

Luca looks unfairly refreshed in a crisp linen shirt, Marco adjusts his glasses with scholarly precision, and Ben bounces on his heels like a kid on a field trip.

I clutch Alex's terrarium, which I've started carrying in a canvas tote bag padded with hotel towels.

Like the Venice equivalent of a snail car seat.

Over breakfast at a standing-room-only café, we huddle around a map that Marco's marked with colored pens. "The Festival officially ends Sunday," he explains, "but many vendors and performers stay through the week. The city will still be quite... lively until late next week."

"So, what's the plan?" I ask, burning my tongue on espresso that's approximately the temperature of the sun's surface .

Jake taps the map. "We split up. Cover more ground."

"Divide and conquer," Ben agrees through a mouthful of pastry. "Classic strategy."

Luca nods, leaning close enough that I can smell his cologne. "I'll speak with the water taxi drivers. They know everything in this city."

"I have colleagues at the university who might have connections to the... alternative spirituality community," Marco offers. “But I have not heard back from them yet. I will continue to try to get in touch.”

"Great," I say, feeling a spark of hope. "Jake and I will check the vendor stalls. Ben, you're good with people. See what you can charm out of the tourists and locals.”

Ben winks. "My specialty."

“Let’s make sure we all have each other’s numbers so we can keep each other updated,” I say, pulling out my phone. Then I realize I don’t have any service. “Ugh, no service. But you four can swap, and I’ll stick with Jake if you need to reach me.”

Number swapping ensues, then we part ways outside the café, the morning sun already hot against my skin.

The narrow streets teem with people. There are tourists with maps and selfie sticks, locals carrying shopping bags, vendors setting up stalls along the canals.

Evidence of the festival lingers everywhere.

There are faded paper lanterns strung between buildings, confetti ground into cobblestones, and the occasional mask discarded in a corner.

Jake walks beside me, his stride matched to mine as we navigate the labyrinth of alleys. "You really think we'll find her?" he asks quietly.

"We have to," I reply, adjusting the tote bag housing Alex. I peek inside and find him shifting against his glass. "Otherwise, this whole trip was just an elaborate excuse to see Venice."

"There are worse reasons," Jake says, his hand briefly touching the small of my back as he guides me around a puddle.

We spend the next three hours moving from stall to stall, showing Sarah's picture to vendors who barely glance at it before shaking their heads.

The sun climbs higher, baking the stones beneath our feet, sweat trickling down my spine.

Alex retreats into his shell as the terrarium warms despite my efforts to keep him in the shade.

"This is hopeless," I finally admit, slumping against a wall in a small square. "She could be anywhere."

Jake hands me a water bottle, his fingers brushing mine. "We've barely scratched the surface. Marco's talking to academics, Luca's got his taxi network, and Ben's probably charmed half the city by now."

As if summoned by his name, Jakes phone buzzes with a text from Ben to a group he labeled ‘Snail Fixers’: Meet at the Bridge of Sighs. FOUND SOMETHING. His text is thankfully accompanied by a pin, which Jake clicks to open and leads us to his location.

The famous bridge is packed with tourists, but Ben spots us immediately, waving wildly from beside a gelato stand. His face is flushed with excitement.

"Instagram," he announces triumphantly, thrusting his phone toward us. "I started searching local hashtags from last year's festival and found this."

I squint at the screen, my heart stuttering when I recognize Sarah's face in a crowded market photo. She's sitting behind a stall piled with crystals and small cloth bags, her dark hair pulled back, smiling at the camera.

"She was here," I breathe. "Actually, here."

"Posted forty-eight weeks ago," Ben confirms. "Caption says 'Selling handmade protection charms at the festival. Venice, you have my heart.'"

Jake studies the photo, brow furrowed. "But this was almost a year ago. We already know she lived in Pittsfield sometime after that, or at least was staying there. She could be anywhere now."

"Maybe, maybe not," Ben says with a grin. "Show the picture around and see what happens."

It takes another hour of searching, but finally, a leather goods vendor with a silver beard recognizes Sarah from the photo. "La strega americana," he says, nodding vigorously. "The American witch. Very popular, very pretty. Not here this year."

"Do you know where she went?" I ask, hope rising in my chest.

He shrugs, then says something in Italian that makes Ben turn to Marco for translation. “Ah, he says no. She does not keep in touch.”

Marco thanks him for his time. My shoulders slump in disappointment, and our group wanders to the side to cluster out of the way of the crowd. “What now?” I ask.

The guys are all busy on their phones and don’t acknowledge my question. Thumbing through their screens, engrossed in searching for answers.

“Aha!” Marco exclaims. “My colleague has returned my email. He says if anyone would know, Sarah and her whereabouts, it's Mirella," Marco explains. "She befriended many of the... how do you say... alternative vendors last year."

"Mirella?" The name feels significant on my tongue. "Where do we find her?"

“I will get us there,” Marco says. He pulls up a map on his phone, and our strange procession winds through Venice's back streets, following the scent of fresh bread to a bakery with an apartment above it.

The stairway leading to Mirella's door is steep and worn, the wooden steps nicked and weather-worn, making me nervous as I climb upwards.

I knock, and the door swings open to reveal a woman who looks like she stepped out of a fortune teller's booth at a carnival. She’s draped in colorful scarves, with silver bangles jangling at her wrists and dark hair streaked with dramatic gray.

"Ah," she says, her English heavily accented but clear.

"I was expecting visitors. The cards told me.

" She peers at each of us, her gaze lingering on the tote bag where the top of Alex's terrarium is visible.

"Especially you," she adds, nodding at the bag even though the snail is not visible through the fabric.

I exchange a skeptical glance with Jake, who raises an eyebrow in silent communication. “Is this for real?”

"We're looking for Sarah DeMarco," I say. "We were told you might know her."

Mirella's eyes widen, and she steps back, gesturing for us to enter. "Sarah, yes. The crystal witch." She looks around as if checking for eavesdroppers, then lowers her voice. "I cannot tell you where she is now, but perhaps... I can contact her."

"Contact her?" Ben repeats. "Like, call her phone?"

Mirella laughs, the sound like bells chiming. "No, no. Through the veil. A séance."

I feel Jake stiffen beside me, practically radiating skepticism. Luca makes a small noise that might be a suppressed laugh. Marco looks academically interested, while Ben's expression suggests he's found the whole situation delightfully absurd.

“I thought Séances were only for the dead… Is Sarah dead?” Jake eventually asks.

“No, no,” Mirella states with a dramatic wave of her hand. “We may use the dead to contact the living. Sarah is alive, to my knowledge.”

Desperation wins out over doubt. "When can we do it?"

"Now," Mirella says, her bangles clinking as she gestures toward an inner room. "The spirits are already waiting."