Jilo (Witching Savannah #4)(19)

May stopped dead in her tracks as another thought struck her. What if those men hadn’t taken Jilo? What if it had instead been the creature who’d presented itself as a friend? The creature could have set up the whole adventure to fool May into believing it was acting as her protector.

The questions made her heart heavy, but pondering them made the remainder of her trek to work short. Before she knew it, she had arrived at the rear of Pinnacle. A concrete sidewalk ran behind the hotel, and May stepped onto it carefully so as not to trip where the roots of an ancient oak had pushed up from beneath the pavement and forced it up. Without giving it a thought, she passed by the entrance used by the white staff, heading to the far side of the building to the door labeled “Colored.” Humidity and warping caused the door to stick; each day it took a bit more out of May to tug it open and step through it. The door’s handle vibrated in her hand as the resistant wood finally yielded to her. She stepped into the side of the kitchen where the sinks would soon be full of dishes from the guests’ breakfasts.

But the dishes weren’t May’s concern, and she had enough work of her own to handle without taking on more. The hotel had sixty-eight rooms and only three maids. May and the two much younger women did the laundry and cleaned the guest rooms, halls, and great rooms. The younger women worked quicker, but May always did the best job—she didn’t miss spots or take shortcuts like her companions often did. The longtime guests, the folk who’d been coming here for years, knew to ask for her to service their rooms, and May felt justified in taking a touch of pride in that. Of course, it did nothing to prevent Mr. Porter, her buckra manager, from telling her she’d be out of a job if she didn’t step it up.

“Good morning, Mrs. Wills,” said Henry Cook, looking up from the wingtips he had been polishing. The small boy shined guests’ shoes and ran odd errands for management.

“Good morning, Henry,” May said, letting her hand brush the boy’s cheek. “How’s yo’ mama doing? Getting over her ailment, I hope.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Henry replied, turning back to his work. May could tell from his expression that he wasn’t telling the truth. His mama was still poorly. Sighing to herself, May opened the closet where the cleaning implements were stored. She reached up to take her apron from its hook, saying a silent prayer that the youngster’s lie might soon be made true.

The thought hit her that perhaps her magic could be the answer to that same prayer.

No.

She shook her head, forcing the temptation from her mind, and slipped on the apron. Once her uniform was neatly in place, she grasped the handles of the zinc mop bucket in her right hand and the mop in her left. The hotel had an elevator for guests, but not for staff. She planned to tote the cleaning supplies up the back stairs to the top floor and work her way down, meeting the other maids on their way up.

But May’s hand cramped, forcing her to set the bucket and mop back down. Following its usual course, the aching in her joints came as a sharp jab, then settled into a repeating throb. She closed her eyes and rubbed her swelling knuckles. It’ll pass. It’ll pass. May took a few breaths, willing the pain to subside.

One eye popped open in surprise. It’d never happened before, but this time the ache had eased. Instantly, at the very moment she’d formed the thought. With both eyes open, she stepped away from the closet, and held her hand up beneath the overhead light. There was no swelling. There was no pain.

Physical relief gave way to concern. Maybe she no longer had a choice about using magic. Maybe once the door had been opened, even a crack, it was open for good.

A door on the far side of the kitchen swung open. “May,” Mr. Porter snapped without even stepping into the room. “Follow me.”

“Something need cleaning, sir?” May asked, starting to bend over to pick up the bucket and mop. Her eyes fixed on the spots of dried calamine lotion that dotted Porter’s thin, gray face and bald pate.

“Leave those and come with me,” Porter said. May hurried across the kitchen to join him. Rather than hold the weighted door for her, Porter let it swing shut behind him, closing it right in May’s face.

May leaned back to escape being struck, then eased the door open enough to slip through. Porter had carried on without her, leaving her to scurry to catch up to him as he crossed the lobby and entered the dining room.

May only rarely ventured into the ornate room, except to sweep its deep red—Venetian red, she had once overheard a guest say—carpet, or to clean up a spill. The entrance was adorned by pillars, similar to those at the Greek church south of the Forsyth, but not quite so busy-looking at the top. She moved between those columns with trepidation.

The hotel was nearly full, and it had gotten late enough in the morning that May had expected to see guests at most of the tables, but other than the two men sitting at the table near the back wall, the room was deserted. May stopped dead in her tracks, a feeling of dread falling on her. Even from across the room, May had no difficulty recognizing Fletcher Maguire, the elder of the two visitors; she’d seen his picture in the Gazette more than once. But she recognized him not from his thick head of gray hair, piercing blue eyes, or prominent chin, but from the wooden wheelchair in which he was sitting. May remembered hearing he’d suffered a stroke around the time of her mama’s death. Word was, he’d been in that wheelchair ever since.