Hotel Magnifique(34)

My eyes darted from the guest contract I’d signed to this blank one. Sure enough, the line he pointed to was missing from my contract.

Once a new staff member steps inside the hotel, they will forget everything they leave behind.

If this were a staff contract, Bel was right; it was the opposite of the contract guests signed, the contract I’d signed. Except forget everything they leave behind seemed all-encompassing.

That clause meant Zosa would have signed away more than just her memory of home. I ran through everything we’d discussed the morning of the last soirée. Not once had she mentioned Bézier’s or Maman. She hadn’t touched that sack filled with Maman’s junk. Yet she remembered me—

Because she didn’t leave me behind. We walked together through the front door.

In Durc, I’d asked Bel to swear on his mother he’d give me a job, but he couldn’t. He said he didn’t remember her. I thought it was because she had died, not because his memory of her had been taken.

Alastair filed the blank staff contract back in the ledger. He then grabbed a pen and dipped it into a well of purple ink.

My heart leaped. “What are you—”

“It seems you signed a guest contract instead of one meant for staff. But it doesn’t matter anymore.”

I didn’t understand it until Alastair began writing on my guest contract. Amending it. Six purple sentences that made me feel ill.

I had to get out. Leaping up, I ran to the door and collided with a pair of muscled chests. The twins. They’d been waiting.

“Hold her,” Alastair ordered. Their magical grip felt like steel claws clamping my shoulders. I couldn’t move. Alastair lifted my chin, forcing me to meet his pale eyes. “Poking around where you aren’t supposed to is a violation of the rules I’ve set in place to ensure magic remains safe.” A look came over his features that I couldn’t decipher. “I’ll have to demote you. I have no choice.”

I didn’t think I breathed.

He released my chin. Both his hands were normal. Ten long, perfect fingers. No mottled skin like I’d seen in that hall. I must have imagined it. He then raised my amended contract. The fresh ink glimmered. “I promise this won’t hurt. Afterward, you won’t remember a thing.”

No.

I struggled when his other hand touched the wolf-capped inkwell to my collarbone, just as Des Rêves had touched her talon to Zosa. Magic hummed in my skull and tightened around my neck, choking me, as those six purple sentences glowed hot then dissolved into the parchment.

    With this demotion, you will forget everything.

Forget your home.

Forget your position.

Forget your friends.

Forget your sister.

Forget your name.





“Mol!”

Chef jabbed her finger, pointing past my shoulder. “You’ve worked in the kitchens for five weeks. Can’t you tell when a pot’s boiling over?”

Nine waist-high copper vats bubbled before me, the sixth one currently overflowing. Damn it. Drips of cream hissed against hot coals. Everything was hot. Sweat slicked the handle of my brittle wooden spoon. Don’t you dare snap, spoon. I plunged it into the steaming liquid. My forearms strained as I turned the spoon in a slow arc. A circle. Soup sloshed up, adding to the mess of stains gathering across my kitchen frock.

Chef walked over and sniffed the sixth pot. “Burned. Entire thing is garbage. Too busy daydreaming, Mol?” When I didn’t answer, her lip curled. “Mol?”

I swore under my breath. I’d been called that name countless times since that night in Alastair’s office, but it still felt like someone getting my attention by slapping someone else.

After a demotion, a worker was always given a new name. Although it didn’t seem to matter. Aside from basic knowledge about the hotel, like the locations of the lavatories, demoted workers weren’t supposed to remember a thing about working in their previous positions.

But I did.

Alastair had used his ink to amend the contract I’d signed and demote me. The ink should have worked, but for some reason that I couldn’t figure out, it didn’t take. I remembered everything. I just couldn’t let anybody else know.

I wrinkled my nose at the burned soup. “I’m sorry.”

Chef glared. “You’ve been here for weeks. You should know better.”

“Give the girl a chance. She’s still learning, aren’t you, Mol?” Béatrice came around the corner.

Chef shifted her attention to Béatrice. “What are you doing down here?”

Béatrice held up a basket of empty satchels. “A duke in the Of Mischief and Masquerade Suite requested lavender for his wardrobe. I was hoping Mol might give me a hand.” She grinned at me conspiratorially. “Surely you could spare her for a few minutes.”

Chef wasn’t a suminaire as far as I could tell, and it was an unspoken rule that suminaires had seniority over normal workers regardless of station. But that didn’t stop Chef from giving the head of housekeeping one of her signature stern looks. “As long as Mol is back before another pot burns.”

As Chef walked off, Béatrice threw a crass gesture at her back. I pressed my lips together to stifle a laugh.

Over the past few weeks, Béatrice often visited to check on a few kitchen workers, including myself. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but I sensed that she came down here because she felt guilt over my demotion; she seemed to be looking out for me, especially around Chef.