Page 31 of The Slug Crystal
My arms ache from carrying Alex's terrarium all day. But I don't trust anyone else with the responsibility, not even Jake. We spent most of the afternoon continuing our wild goose chase and have yet to come up on any new leads.
The cobblestones beneath my feet are rough and uneven, and I wonder how many other impossible quests have passed this way before us.
The trattoria appears like a mirage at the end of a narrow alley, a stone-walled haven with vines climbing its ancient facade and warm light spilling from windows that have witnessed the Renaissance firsthand.
A wooden sign swings gently above the door, its painted letters faded by time and weather.
Inside, the ceiling curves in low arches, and exposed wooden beams crisscross overhead like the ribs of some ancient beast .
"My cousin's wife's uncle owns this place," Luca explains as we enter, the rich scent of garlic and simmering tomatoes washing over us. "The menu hasn't changed in two hundred years, and neither has the wine cellar."
A waiter with a magnificently curved mustache recognizes Luca immediately, erupting in a flurry of Italian exclamations and enthusiastic back-slapping. They speak so rapidly that even Marco looks slightly lost in the linguistic avalanche.
"He says we're family, and to expect only the best," Luca translates as we're ushered to a corner table beneath a stone arch.
Copper pots hang from hooks on the wall, catching the golden lamplight and casting warm reflections across our faces. The tablecloth is checkered red and white, topped with a stubby candle in a wine bottle dripping with layers of wax.
Jake pulls out my chair before Ben can reach it, his blue eyes briefly meeting mine in that intense way that still makes my stomach flutter, even after last night's awkwardness.
Marco slides into the seat to my right, his scholarly posture somehow softening in this rustic setting.
Ben flops into the chair across from me, immediately leaning back on two legs until Luca gives him a disapproving look.
The five of us form a familiar constellation now, our bodies automatically arranging themselves in the most comfortable configuration.
The waiter returns with menus, thick leather-bound affairs with yellowed pages.
I open mine, absently stroking the terrarium balanced on my lap while scanning the handwritten Italian.
My high school Spanish isn't much help, but I recognize enough to make educated guesses.
Until my eyes land on a word that sends ice through my veins.
Escargot.
My fingers freeze on the terrarium's glass. Alex is pressed against the side, his blue shell iridescent in the candlelight, antennae extended as if reading the menu with me. I slam the menu shut with enough force that Jake looks up, eyebrows raised in question.
"Everything okay?" he asks, that protective edge creeping into his voice.
"Fine," I say too quickly. "Just hungry. Really hungry."
The waiter approaches with a bottle of deep red wine, its label blackened with age.
As he begins pouring, I realize I need to get Alex away from this table, away from a restaurant that serves his own kind as an appetizer.
The irony would be too cruel, even by the standards of this bizarre adventure.
I clear my throat. "I need to put my purse under the table," I announce to no one in particular. "It's, um, bothering my shoulder."
Before anyone can respond, I duck beneath the tablecloth, sliding Alex's terrarium between my feet with trembling hands. The floor is worn terra cotta, cool against my ankles as I arrange napkins around the glass to stabilize it. When I emerge, red-faced and disheveled, everyone is staring at me.
"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 has shifted 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 one more 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.