Page 36 of The Slug Crystal

The terrarium on my nightstand holds Alex, his shell gleaming in the sunlight that filters through the thin curtains. The sight of him centers me, reminds me why we're really here—not for romantic entanglements, but to fix my magical mistake.

A soft knock at my door signals the day's beginning, whether I'm ready or not. And I’m definitely not ready.

I pull on clean clothes, wincing as the movement jostles my tender head, and open the door to find Jake leaning against the wall opposite, arms crossed, eyes searching my face with practiced concern.

"Rough night?" he asks, his voice carefully neutral, though I detect the question behind the question.

I nod, gathering Alex's terrarium. "Nothing a coffee and some aspirin won't fix." As I glance around the room, I realize the guys must have crammed into our other room together, and a pang of gratefulness hits my chest at their thoughtfulness in giving me my own space.

We join the others in the pensione's courtyard, where Ben is already halfway through a pastry, crumbs catching in his beard.

Marco sits with perfect posture, reading something on his tablet, while Luca lounges in his chair, tilted back on two legs, his sunglasses hiding his eyes. His smile widens when he spots me.

"The sleeping beauty awakens," Ben calls, raising his coffee cup in salute. "We were just debating our next move."

"Our vote is Siena," Marco says without looking up from his tablet. "The P.O. box you found on Sarah's website is our most concrete lead so far."

I settle into an empty chair, gratefully accepting the espresso Jake places in front of me. "What about the journal at that shop?"

"A dead end," Luca says, finally dropping his chair back to all four legs and leaning forward. "Unless you would like to rob the shop owner."

"She won't sell us the journal," Jake adds, sliding into the chair beside me. "I went back to make an offer. She refused."

I sip my espresso, the bitter liquid shocking my system awake. "So, Siena it is." The words come out more resigned than I intend, but the chase is already wearing on me.

"We have the rental car for three more days," Marco offers, finally setting his tablet aside. His eyes meet mine with quiet understanding, no hint of awkwardness about last night's tenderness. "Siena is only an hour's drive."

“Let’s do it,” I agree. “To Siena!”

Ben whoops excitedly, and I grimace. My head hurts, and it’s just too early in the day for joy.

Within the hour, we're packed into the rented Fiat, a vehicle clearly not designed for five adults and a snail terrarium.

Ben calls shotgun, leaving me sandwiched between Jake and Luca in the back seat.

Marco is at the wheel, navigating the chaotic Florence traffic with unexpected skill.

Alex's terrarium rests on my lap, the blue snail seemingly unconcerned with our human dramas as he explores a fresh cucumber slice.

Luca's thigh presses warm against mine, a deliberate pressure that reminds me of his whispered suggestion in the pool.

His cologne, something expensive and subtle, mingles with the car's leather scent.

On my other side, Jake maintains a careful distance despite the cramped quarters, though occasionally his hand brushes mine when the car turns.

The Italian countryside unfolds around us as we leave Florence behind—rolling hills bathed in golden light, vineyards stretching toward the horizon, and ancient farmhouses standing sentinel amid the sparse trees.

It's breathtaking, or would be if I could focus on anything beyond the complications of my current situation.

"Almost there," Marco announces as a medieval city appears on the horizon, its terra cotta rooftops and stone towers rising from the landscape like something from a fairy tale. Siena.

The city welcomes us with narrow, winding streets and buildings the color of burnt honey.

We park near the famous shell-shaped Piazza del Campo, and I'm momentarily awestruck by the sweep of the open square and the imposing central tower reaching toward the cloudless sky.

It's beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache, this evidence of human creativity and perseverance across centuries.

"The address from the P.O. box is this way," Marco says, consulting his phone. He shoulders his bag, then carefully takes Alex's terrarium from my hands. "I'll carry him for a while. You've been his primary caretaker too long."

The gesture is small but thoughtful, typical of Marco. I thank him with a smile that he returns, the gold flecks in his hazel eyes catching the sunlight.

I follow him through labyrinthine alleys, the stones uneven and old. Ben and Luca walk ahead, arguing good-naturedly about the best gelato flavor, while Jake remains beside me, his stride matching mine automatically.

"How are you holding up?" he asks, his voice pitched low for my ears only.

"I'm fine," I lie, the words automatic. Then, reconsider. "Actually, I'm exhausted. And scared we'll never find her."

His hand finds mine, a brief squeeze that speaks volumes. "We will."

A post office appears suddenly. It’s squeezed into a space like an afterthought, tucked between a leather goods store and a café. A tarnished bell announces our entrance, its jingle lost beneath the heavy scent of old parchment that hangs in the air like fog.

Inside, the mail shop is even smaller than it appeared from outside, shelves crammed with mailers reaching from floor to ceiling in the front corner.

A small counter with an ancient register sits across the door; behind that is a collection of mail trolleys and carts.

To our left sit a dozen, small metal cubes.

Each is numbered with a silver key slot. These must be the mailboxes.

A man sits behind the cluttered counter, his threadbare sweater hanging loose on his thin frame despite the summer heat. He barely looks up from his book as we enter, acknowledging our presence with only the slightest nod.

I approach the counter, sliding the now-familiar photo of Sarah on my phone across the worn wood surface. "We're looking for this woman," I explain when he frowns. "Sarah DeMarco. American. Sells crystals and magical items."

The man's expression shifts, recognition sparking in his deep-set eyes. He sets his book aside, finger marking his place. "La strega americana," he says, nodding slowly. "Yes, she came here."

My heart leaps, hope surging through me after so many disappointments. "Recently? "

"Weeks ago," he replies, and my hope deflates as quickly as it rose. "She bought a mailbox. Paid for the entire year up front." He gestures to the boxes off to the side.

"Did she say how often she would come back to check the box?" Jake asks, moving to stand beside me. "Any information would help."

The man scratches his stubbled chin, considering.

"No, she did not give me her schedule. We talked about a place in Assisi.

A peace commune, I think. She said she needed quiet to complete important work.

She could be there. She has not been back here for quite some time.

" He pulls a bundle of letters wrapped tightly with a rubber band from underneath the counter, placing them on the wood before us. “This all does not fit in her box.”

I grimace. It looks like Sarah hasn’t been here since she reserved the PO Box, if the number of letters she’s received is any indication.

"Assisi," Marco repeats the man, the word careful on his tongue. He cradles Alex's terrarium against his chest, angling it away from a shaft of direct sunlight. "That's further south. A couple hours journey at least."

I feel my shoulders slump. Another lead that's really just another leg of this endless chase. I force a smile, thanking the man who has already returned to his book, clearly dismissing us.

Outside in the alley, the afternoon sun feels too bright, too cheerful for my mood. "So now we go to Assisi," I say, trying to sound determined rather than defeated. "To find a 'peace commune' that could be anywhere in the area."

Jake's hand finds my shoulder, a steady, reassuring weight. "We're getting closer," he says with such conviction that I almost believe him. "Each person we talk to narrows the search."

Marco carefully adjusts Alex's terrarium, ensuring the snail isn't overheated. "The literature I've read on Assisi indicates several spiritual retreat centers in the region. If we cross-reference with alternative communities, we should be able to identify potential locations."

I watch as Alex explores his glass home, his blue shell catching the light, antennae extended as if sensing my gaze.

"Let's go then," I say, reaching for the terrarium, my fingers brushing Marco's as he passes it to me.

"Assisi and another wild goose chase." Despite my words, I feel a stubborn flicker of hope reignite.

Jake is right. We're following Sarah's trail, and each clue, however small, brings us closer to fixing this mess I created.

As we make our way back to the car, Ben throws his arm around my shoulders. "Look at it this way," he says, green eyes crinkling with his usual irreverent humor. "How many people can say they've toured Italy's most beautiful cities with a blue snail and four devastatingly handsome men?"

Despite everything, I laugh. He's not wrong.