Hotel Magnifique(14)

“Seems the ma?tre decided on tomorrow’s destination,” Béatrice said.

Everywhere guests reached into their jackets and purses, pulling out slim itineraries. Soon exclamations in a multitude of languages filled the air.

I plucked the rouged itinerary from my pocket and ran a finger over shimmering purple writing where it had just been blank. The woman’s voice—the same effervescent voice I’d heard at the door—read the words as I touched them.





Itinéraire de l’H?tel Magnifique:


The city of Torvast, pinnacle of the Grimmuld Highlands.



Then the woman added, “Secure your hats and knot your scarves. The wind is a notorious thief.” A pause. “Prepare to depart at midnight!”

“Who is she?”

“You heard the woman’s voice?” Béatrice’s eyes grew. “No one knows. Odd you heard anything. She only speaks to guests.”

I ran my thumb down the itinerary and pictured Aligney appearing in purple ink. When I looked up, Béatrice was a distance away. I raced after her, past the great aviary. Inside, white vines grew so thick it was impossible to see anything. “Where’s the door?”

“There isn’t one. The aviary is forbidden to everyone except the ma?tre and Hellas, the Botaniste.” Her expression darkened at the mention of Hellas. Apparently, she didn’t care for him. “Let’s move. The ma?tre hates when maids dawdle.”

As we walked the rest of the lobby, Béatrice pointed out alcoves named for such and such duchesse or dignitary. I forgot each name as soon as she said it, too taken by the sights to pay attention to words.

We finally stopped at a wall of glass café doors partitioning the lobby from a dimly lit room.

“Here we are,” Béatrice said.

Inside, the ceiling reached two floors up, where crystal chandeliers dripped with those colored flames. A woman hung in the air above the stage, her feet balancing on what looked like glowing stars while she plucked a towering harp, lulling the guests. Above the doors hung the stained glass words salon d’amusements.

It reminded me of the first time I took Zosa to downtown Durc. We stood outside a restaurant sipping chocolat chaud and cackling as I made up stories about the fancy lives of the patrons behind the glass. But that restaurant was nothing compared to this.

“Bel was heading here earlier. If he’s still inside, this is your best place to catch him,” Béatrice said.

“Are maids allowed to go inside?” I didn’t see a single maid’s uniform among the guests.

“Only before lunch when it’s slow. Good thing you work for housekeeping. Kitchen workers aren’t allowed at all.” She pointed to a stairwell. “That’s the way down to the service halls. I’ll go over your schedule at orientation.” She then scurried off, muttering about soiled bedsheets.

I peeked inside the salon, but didn’t see Bel. Yrsa made drinks behind the bar. She might know where I could find him. Before I could second-guess it, I walked in and sat on a barstool.

Blown glass bell jars glittered across the bar top, each one filled with a different color liquid. I spotted one filled with the same gold paste Yrsa had used on my sister’s cut. Beside it, directly across from me, sat a peculiar vial swirling with silver smoke. I lifted its jeweled stopper and the tiniest plume snaked out.

Yrsa swooped over and corked the vial. “One minute here and you open that?”

“What is it?”

“Try a drop.”

I jerked when a sunken face with hollowed-out eyes appeared through the glass.

“It’s bottled nightmare,” she said. “Any alchemist worth their salt has a vial.”

“You’re an alchemist?” I’d heard of alchemists selling cure-alls off street corners in the north of Verdanne, mixing elixirs that could easily be mistaken for magic. “But alchemy isn’t—”

“Real magic?” Yrsa barked a laugh. “Most think that, considering nearly all alchemists’ potions are fluff nowadays, crafted by suminaires and their magic so long ago they’ve been diluted a thousand times over. But not here.” Her gaze roamed across the glimmering bell jars. “Most of these creations are new, and made by yours truly.”

“You made the nightmare?”

“I made this bottle, but the recipe for it was created long ago by a different suminaire. Some of the original stock still pops up at various destinations.” She hid the vial, then slid over a drink the color of moonlit garnets. It glowed. “Don’t worry, it’s just juice.”

“I’m supposed to believe you?”

“Believe what you want. I’m too busy to care.” She left in a huff.

“Wait. I’m looking for Bel!” I called out, but she was already helping a guest.

Damn it.

Reluctant to leave, I lifted the glass of juice and took the smallest sip. My eyes fluttered. The drink tasted exactly like the tartine slathered with preserved apricots I’d gotten from a street vendor last summer—a handsome boy with deep tan skin and bright hazel eyes. He had smiled shyly at me and refused to take my money. I’d looked for him the next day, but his cart had gone.

I inhaled and thought I could smell his cologne mingling with sun-warmed skin. The drink grew sweeter, apricot exploding across my tongue. Before I knew it, the glass was drained and the salon was busier.