13 Little Blue Envelopes(28)

“It’s not funny.”

“I nicked a little toy,” he said, pinching the Godzilla between his fingers. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

“Fine.” Keith walked over to the edge of the platform and 119

tossed the little toy down onto the tracks, then wandered back.

“What did you do that for?” Ginny asked.

“You didn’t want it.”

“That doesn’t mean you should just get rid of it,” she said.

“Sorry. Was I supposed to take it back?”

“You weren’t supposed to take it in the first place!”

“Know what I’ll take?” he asked. “The bus. See you.”

He disappeared through the crowd before Ginny could even

manage to turn around to watch him go.

120





#5&6



#5

Dearest Ginger,

When I was a kid, I had an illustrated book of

Roman mythology. I was completely obsessed with

this book. My favorite of all the gods and

goddesses, believe it or not, was Vesta, goddess of

hearth and home.

I know. So unlikely. I mean, I’ve never owned a

vacuum cleaner. But it’s true. Out of all of the

goddesses, she was the one I liked the most. Lots

of hot young gods pursued her, but she made a vow

of perpetual virginity. Her symbol, her home, was

the fireplace. She was basically the goddess of

central heating.

Vesta was worshiped in every town and in every

home through fire. She was everywhere, and people

depended on her every day. There was a large

temple built in her honor in Rome, and priestesses

at her temple were called the vestal virgins.

Being a vestal was a pretty sweet job. They had

one major task: They had to make sure that the

undying fire in Vesta’s ceremonial hearth never

went out. There were always six of them, so they

could work in shifts. In exchange for this service,

they were treated as divinities. They were given a

palace to live in and had the same privileges as



men. In times of crisis, they were called upon to

give advice on matters of Roman national security.

They got great tickets to the theater, people held

parties for them, and they were paraded and

revered everywhere.

The only catch? Try thirty years of celibacy.

Thirty years of living with their fellow vestals,

poking the fire and doing crossword puzzles. If

they broke the virginity rule, they were taken to a

place that translates as “Evil Fields” and led down

a set of stairs to a small underground room with a

bed and a lamp. Once they were in, the door to the

room was shut, the steps pulled up, and the whole

thing sealed over in dirt. Which is pretty harsh.

Still, you’ve got to hand it to the vestal

virgins. It may seem sad and scary—but realize

just how much power people have always seen in

women on their own.

The remains of their temple are in the Roman

Forum, and you can see their statues. (The Forum is

basically attached to the Colosseum.) Go and visit

them, and make them an offering. This is your task.

When you are done, you can open the next envelope,

right there, in the temple.

As for where to stay, may I recommend a little

place I stumbled on when I arrived in Rome? It’s



not a hotel or a hostel—it’s a private house with

one room for rent. It’s run by a woman named

Ortensia. Her house isn’t far from the main train

station. The address is on the back of this letter.

Va-va-voom,

Your Runaway Aunt





The Road to Rome

Ginny hated her backpack. It kept falling over on the scale because it was so weird and lumpy and tumor-like. It was more purple and green than ever in the fluorescent light of the airline counter. And it was obvious that the millions of straps (which she wasn’t really sure she had laced right, so the entire thing could come apart at any second) were going to catch on the conveyor belt and stop it and all of the luggage would get backed up. Then the flight would be delayed, which would throw off the entire airport schedule and disrupt events in several countries.

Also, the nasally BudgetAir checkin woman had taken a

little too much delight in telling Ginny, “Five kilos overweight.

That’ll be forty pounds.” She was clearly unhappy when Ginny yanked on some of the straps and managed to get one of the pouches off, making the bag just the right weight.

As Ginny walked away from the checkin, she realized that this flight could not be safe if five kilograms made that much of 127

a difference. This flight had also been purchased online that morning for the insane sum of ￡35. (It was called BudgetAir for a reason.) Richard was standing by a slowly rotating display for duty-free liquor, wearing the same slightly baffled expression he’d worn when they’d met days earlier.

“I guess I should go,” she said. “But thanks. For everything.”