Hotel Magnifique(22)
Lights dimmed and a circle of guests formed nearby. It was too dark to see if the twins still guarded the service stairs. Too dark for them to see me. Swallowing down nerves, I slinked toward the circle.
A woman with beautiful brown skin and glittering lips stood motionless in the center, sheathed in navy velvet. She held a purple flower bud to her nose. Her unyielding posture reminded me of the Durc street performers who powdered themselves bronze, pretending to be statues.
A man beside me squeezed a card.
“May I?” I asked.
He passed it over. Silver embossing ran across the front: Le Spectacle de Minuit. The Midnight Show. The back of the card read like a program.
The Illusioniste will begin with a flutter of smoke, followed by the Botaniste with a feat of paper.
For those needing a refreshment, Madame des Rêves and her chanteuses
will perform on stage in Salon d’Amusements.
But hurry back, mesdames et messieurs, hurry back.
For at the stroke of midnight, the Magnifique will take us Elsewhere.
My fingertip hovered over the word chanteuses. Zosa was probably performing in the salon, but I’d be a fool to try to go there now.
I scanned the rest of the card. All the other titles must be of suminaires, which meant the woman with the flower bud was the Illusioniste. Except she wasn’t doing much.
I looked up and gaped.
Eight versions of the woman now stood smelling the unopened flower. Then they moved in unison, touching index fingers to the petals. Guests cried out when the buds bloomed into wings.
Moths, butterflies, and bees began pouring from their open palms, forming clouds that covered the ceiling. The women clapped their hands and the clouds changed color. Mauve. Peach. Blood-red. Silver. Indigo. Guests looked stunned at the spectacle. But the show had only just begun.
The lights flickered and the women vanished.
“Look!” someone shouted.
High above, the eight women descended from the clouds on an enormous chandelier in the shape of a ship. Their gowns were replaced with corsets and pantaloons dripping with silver netting. They began to speak in unison.
“I am the Illusioniste hired to astonish you. In my last trick, I’ll become a tempest on the ocean blue. Revel in my underwater merriment. For after checkout, you will forget all of it.”
They clapped their hands and the lobby filled with blue light. A salty breeze rolled through. A nearby guest squealed as bubbles fluttered out of her nostrils. Another guest’s skirts billowed as if underwater.
My own skirts swirled up, exposing my calves. I tugged them down. When I looked up, the chandelier was gone, the lobby returned to normal.
The eight women now stood on the floor. I blinked and the women changed to one. She bent to take a bow, and a man wearing hotel livery came up.
The crowd erupted in applause until shouts drew everyone’s attention.
A young man stood across the lobby. His silver hair reached down his back and leaves painted on his cheekbones glittered against the deep gold color of his skin. Around him, red flowers grew up from white squares on the marble.
“Do it again, Botaniste,” said a guest in accented Verdanniere.
The Botaniste. The title Béatrice had mentioned. She’d said only Alastair and Hellas, the Botaniste, were allowed inside the Aviary. She didn’t seem to like Hellas. This suminaire.
Hellas shuffled a deck of cards and held up a jack of spades. He tossed it forward. It landed on the ground and grew into a white vine covered by black spade-shaped flowers, matching the card’s suit.
An older guest stepped on a flower and it shriveled back to a card. “It just crumbles to nothing. The suminaire’s magic is weak!” he shouted.
The crowd gasped. Hellas smiled and snatched the guest’s fedora.
“Give it back.” The guest flailed, but I supposed it served him right for being so rude.
Instead of returning the hat, Hellas pushed a playing card inside and tossed it up. When the fedora hit the ground, the marble parted. Roots coiled around the guest’s feet, growing into a white paper tree. The guest howled. Thankfully, bark grew over his mouth and bloomed with blossoms the exact hue of the fedora’s sapphire feather.
“Never doubt a suminaire of Hotel Magnifique, else you’ll find yourself losing things besides mere hats,” Hellas said without any hint of humor. I decided right then that I would never cross him.
The crowd clapped then began backing up, making room around the lacquered door.
“The Magnifique should be here any minute,” said a guest. “I heard he’s the most powerful suminaire here, besides the ma?tre.”
A stage had been wheeled in front of the door. Oil lamps were lowered on pulleys, brightening the entrance. Alastair stepped out alongside Madame des Rêves.
She had changed into an outrageous gown decorated with peacock feathers. Her wig was no longer periwinkle but pure white and twice as tall. She still wore the silver bird’s talon at her bust, but her fingers were wrapped around a delicate oval hand mirror.
She fanned herself with it until Alastair plucked it away and carefully pushed it down his jacket pocket, as if it were precious to him.
Madame des Rêves cleared her throat and the entire lobby darkened. “Esteemed travelers! Please welcome the suminaire whose glorious magic moves us each night.” Des Rêves raised her arms. “The Magnifique!”