Page 4

‘Perhaps a bit of both,’ the Priest said. ‘It does make one wonder. Back in my day, the earth shaking called for great appeasement. Greater than burning a bit of hemp, at any rate.’

‘Back in our day,’ Sera said, ‘the gods listened.’

Shani scoffed. ‘Oh, don’t let her start. Harping about the old days, as if the crone even remembers last week.’

Sera’s nostrils flared, but Camilia stepped between them. ‘Save it for the Forum. Or the tavern.’

Loren let himself huff properly this time, pulling away to slump on the stairs of the cella.

Another day of pointless bickering, no different from his past four years here, where everyone had a voice but him and nothing was accomplished.

He suspected if he told them about the thief’s starring role in his nightmares, they might turn an ear.

But only long enough to laugh. Or grow angry with him, the way Camilia had, for meddling where he shouldn’t.

Sometimes Loren feared he bore the curse of Cassandra, the Greek prophetess: cursed to speak truths, doomed to be painted a liar.

All Loren needed was a chance.

‘A boy sleeps in the back,’ he blurted, ears burning hot when four shocked pairs of eyes turned on him. ‘He claimed sanctuary this morning. We don’t know his name, but—’

‘Is he handsome?’ Sera asked at the same time Shani cooed, ‘Poor dear.’

Camilia’s mouth twitched down, but Loren met her glare. Despite her mockery, she’d probably been concocting some grand revelation of the thief’s presence to prove to the Priest what a good temple trainee she was. Loren didn’t feel the least bit guilty for snatching her opportunity.

‘A thief, not a boy,’ she corrected. ‘That’s what the guard who chased him here called him.’

The Priest, still clouded in smoke, scratched his chin. ‘A thief. Perhaps . . .’

‘Perhaps,’ said Sera and Shani together.

‘Perhaps?’ said Camilia.

The four exchanged a glance, and Loren ached at the way he sat apart.

For the second time that morning, the Priest pointed at Loren. ‘Child, fetch water. Return quickly. Time is wasting.’

Loren scrambled up. ‘What are we doing?’

‘Don’t speak unless spoken to,’ Sera added, waving him off. ‘Gods, youths are so mouthy these days.’

Loren didn’t fetch water. At least, not right away.

Frustration followed him from the temple to the market street. Even hopping across the series of knee-high stones to the other side of the road did nothing to improve his temper, even though it was an activity that had once charmed him as a new arrival to the bustling city, four years prior.

Part of growing older, he’d found, was that everything lost its shine. For a dreamer, that realisation didn’t bode well.

Only Nonna calling his name from further up the street jolted him from his sour mood, though Loren mostly credited that to the sweet roll she slipped him. Honey melted on his tongue, chasing away bitter anxiety.

‘My sweet Loren,’ Nonna said when he kissed her brown, dough-soft cheek. ‘What have I told you about wearing a scowl so deep? Those lines follow you to your deathbed. ’

Grandmother to the city in all but blood, Nonna kept her collection of strays well-fed. She gave so much away, Loren didn’t understand how she kept her bakery afloat. But he ran errands for her, so he reckoned that made them even.

He swiped another roll for his pocket. ‘Are you all right after the quake?’

She flapped a dismissive hand and returned to scoring lines on dough. ‘I only pray it rattled sense into the council. Taxes here, taxes there, and more to come, I fear, though it is never the council who pays the price.’

‘They voted down the proposal to raise rates last week. Umbrius said—’

Nonna scoffed. ‘Umbrius is a man of many words and little substance. Gods only know why you wish to join him. Chew with your mouth closed, sparrow, and go. Nonna’s turn to be busy.’

Easy as that, his storm clouds returned. Loren knew her words carried no heat, but her jab at his political ambitions stung worse than usual. Why should the council welcome Loren when he wasn’t privy to his own temple’s plans? Even when he knew more about the thief than anyone? Errand boy.

For good measure, he crammed a third roll in his mouth, fleeing before her scolding could catch him. Hoisting the water jug on his hip, he set off up the Via Stabiana in search of a functioning spout.

Red and yellow awnings hung vibrant in the sun.

Merchants displayed their wares: plates and spoons, sandals and boots, silks and linens.

Mountains of autumn pomegranates teetered, piles of fresh sardines sweated.

Fragrant spiced nuts simmered in a wine-filled vat, and the seller hawked out prices that changed by the moment.

A donkey-drawn cart trundled past, wheels creaking in cobblestone grooves.

Even the quake hadn’t managed to do more than shake the surface. At her core, the city was built to carry on .

Familiar sounds and smells enveloped Loren, but he couldn’t relax into them. Not when the catalyst for his city’s destruction lay unconscious by his own hand.

He passed two fountains, but a quake that summer had knocked one dry, and the other had a line around the block.

Sighing, he pressed on until the hum of the merchant district quieted and the hush made him itch.

At the far end of the Via Stabiana, by the city’s northernmost gate, he could have been the only soul awake.

A water tower gurgled away in the shade of the city wall.

Cool water thundered into the clay jug, splattering Loren’s temple robes, but he paid the mess no mind.

His gaze had snared on the open gate and the countryside beyond.

Pompeii was everything. Pompeii held all Loren’s desires his parents spent his childhood stomping out. Pompeii was opportunity. Freedom. Ambition.

So why did Loren feel so trapped?

Corking the jug, Loren propped it against the spout, then – just to prove he could – strode through the gate and into the long shadow of Vesuvius.

The mountain dominated the horizon, sharp and steep as the fang of some wild animal, but it wasn’t half so vicious.

It stood watch over the city, an old sentry.

The road snaked towards it through low hills.

Herculaneum, Pompeii’s sister town, lay beyond.

Further northwest was their capital, Rome.

But breathing didn’t come easier out here.

Anyone else – anyone smarter, more selfish – would have left Pompeii after the first dream of its destruction.

After Loren woke, gasping for breath, with the truth buzzing in his head: that the city was doomed.

Cleaner to cut one’s losses, escape before it became clear no one would ever take his visions seriously.

His parents had words for him: delusional. Stubborn. Filled with hubris, the same pride that dogged Odysseus and Icarus and all other heroes of misfortune .

Loren called it hope. He had to believe fate could be changed. He had to believe that the bloodied boy who stumbled into the temple – the living counterpart of the nightmarish ghost who caused the destruction – was Loren’s answer to stopping Pompeii’s calamity.

‘There are closer fountains in town,’ said a girl’s voice from behind with a dismissive sniff. ‘I passed four.’

‘Half of which are dry.’ Loren didn’t turn. ‘Last time I petitioned the council to fund repairs, I was escorted out. And asked not to return.’

Fabric rustled against stone as Aurelia slipped from her perch on one of the hundreds of above-ground tombs lining the road.

She picked a late-season poppy as she crunched closer.

Circles hung low under her eyes, far too dark for a girl of only twelve.

Aurelia was the same age Loren had been when he’d fled his family’s villa, but she always struck him as older.

Mature wasn’t the right word for it. Removed from her time, more like.

At least, when she wasn’t throwing pebbles at him or picking fights with those twice her size.

‘Couldn’t sleep?’ Loren asked, dreading the answer.

‘I came to visit Pappa. He never liked hearing about my nightmares, but he listens now.’ Aurelia’s nose wrinkled. ‘Besides, I knew to find you here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Saw it.’

His stomach sank. ‘Aurelia.’

‘Not like that. I saw you leave the temple, then stop with Nonna. I raced you.’ She grinned, a wild thing, showing off her missing front tooth. ‘I won.’

‘You can’t win against someone who didn’t know they were playing.’

‘Spoken like the loser of a race. What’s the real reason you’re out here?’

Loren closed his eyes against the glaring sun cresting over Vesuvius’s flank, schooling his features. The champion of half-truths, he said, ‘I needed fresh air. ’

‘Something else is the matter.’ She flopped into the grass, stripping her poppy of its petals. Dark curls curtained her face. ‘But fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll work it out. I always do.’

He couldn’t help the fond tug of his mouth. It died quickly.

A familiar ache panged his gut. Often he wished he could lay their dreams side by side, examine them, see where they matched and where they differed. He didn’t know which would be worse – confirmation they saw the same end, or that her horrors were ones he hadn’t yet seen.

Aurelia knew of their shared plight. It was what drew them together, close as brother and sister. But it was his responsibility not to worsen her burden by telling her what he saw. Not when most visions involved her death. Not until he found a solution.

Loren knew it shouldn’t be this way. Visions were meant to be tools of change, and the stories he read proved ill fates befell those who didn’t heed oracles.

But in the eyes of society, he and Aurelia were children.

Nobody believed children. Especially not children who were right.

The unfairness stung like a wet slap. The thief’s arrival brought Loren the closest he’d come to fathoming his dreams, yet he felt further behind than ever.

Black wave. Copper streak.

At the centre of the storm, the ghost.

Abstract, burning visions that gained clarity with each passing night. The clearer his dreams became, the closer the danger loomed. When the final details distilled, would the end begin?

A bee landed on the back of Aurelia’s hand, and she giggled. The sound bruised Loren’s heart, and the dregs of his frustration flamed. He’d solve this mystery for her. He would save Pompeii. He would make these nightmares mean something, and he wouldn’t let the ghost scare him from the answers.

But first . . .

‘Shift over.’ Loren nudged her to make space in the grass. ‘I’ll braid your hair.’

Aurelia lit up. ‘Do the twisty thing. Mamma thinks it’s pretty.’

One last moment before all turned to ruin.

He could braid Aurelia’s hair to match his own, and she could chatter about nothing and everything.

Back at the temple, the others could wonder why he took so long, and the copper-haired ghost – the clever-jawed thief – could wait in exchange for haunting Loren all these years.

The mountain could cast shadows against the daylight, and for a moment, he could forget about his dreams.

For now, Loren had this.