Hotel Magnifique(35)

Whatever the case, I was grateful. She’d become a good friend, even in spite of her big opinions, and little respect for personal space.

She pinched my cheek. “You’re looking too pale and thin, Mol. You should visit the forêt à manger.”

She meant the dining hall on the service floor where workers took meals. It was an enchanted forest of honeyed meats and sugary cakes. The entire room was created for a guest fête, then repurposed for staff.

I’d gone once weeks ago. Never again. Working in the kitchens was difficult enough. The last thing I needed was to dine with someone who would call me Mol then run to Alastair when I mistakenly corrected them.

“I eat in my room.”

“Suit yourself, ma chérie. But don’t think you’re off the hook that easily. You know . . .” Béatrice smirked. “I could always order L’Entourage de Beauté to put a little glow on your cheeks.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” I said in mock shock.

“They could freshen your hair, tidy that rag of a dress.”

“I’d never speak to you again.”

“Then you’d be awfully lonely down here, weeping into soup, no friend to put up with your pouting.”

“I’d make friends with Chef.”

She barked a laugh. “What would you do? Braid each other’s hair?”

I pictured that and snorted.

“Come on. Before Chef hears us.” She took my elbow. Together, we walked past a group of liveried front-of-house staff stacking a filigreed service cart with glass boxes of pastel sweets.

I halted. Red, the suminaire from the escape game, stood with them.

I’d seen her from time to time. She never made eye contact, but I couldn’t help staring. Her right eye—the eye I’d watched Yrsa gouge out—caught the kitchen light and gleamed a shade brighter than the other, nearly inconspicuous. If I didn’t know what to look for, I’d never guess it was glass.

Thankfully she disappeared around a corner, the reminder of what I’d caused gone for now.

Ahead of me was aisle after aisle of sweltering cooks doused in flour and egg yolks and frosting, oblivious of their missing memories.

There were hundreds of questions I wanted the answers to, like if they craved the same food they used to before coming to the hotel, or laughed at the same jokes, or wore their hair in the same style.

After witnessing the maids’ behavior, I assumed Alastair’s ink changed a person on a deeper level, so it would make sense if it altered them more with each demotion. But only Alastair would know the truth.

Sometimes I would ask the other workers leading questions to test boundaries. There were a few subjects they avoided altogether: any talk of pay, changing positions, or going outside. Removing memories made workers more docile, more apt to not question anyone or anything. And yet I was spared, twice now.

The first time, because of Bel.

A swift image of him fluttered up: that last day in Durc when I met him at the door of the hotel, his mouth against my neck as he whispered in my ear that I should go home. He’d tried to protect me and Zosa from the beginning, but I was too stubborn to take him seriously.

That first day here played in my mind. Zosa’s smile. How preoccupied I was. How envious. I’d thought we were safe inside, so I let my guard down—something I never allowed myself to do in Durc. I should have known better than to do it here.

“Hurry, Mol,” Béatrice said near an enormous steel freezer door. Weeks ago, I learned one thing quick: never to go near it. Yrsa and Chef were the only two allowed inside.

In Durc, ice was harvested from ice fields during winter months and buried in underground cellars below many of the fancier establishments. The ice never lasted past June. No way to keep it cold when the world turned warm. But the deep freeze of Hotel Magnifique produced perfect blocks of ice year-round. I had thought it was an enchantment until one morning Chef shouted at something behind that door. I didn’t know what was inside, and I wasn’t eager to find out. Thankfully, we headed to the dry storage rooms.

Béatrice went in and brought out fistfuls of lavender. We began stuffing it in satchels. Our hands stilled at a clatter of metal.

Yrsa wheeled her drink cart toward the deep freeze. Her artéfact, the teacup full of milk that wasn’t milk, sat on top. She eyed Béatrice. “What are you doing in the kitchens?”

“Satchels.” Béatrice raised her basket, backing away when the not-milk swirled.

Reaching out, the alchemist ran her pinkie in a slow circle around Béatrice’s right eye. “Ma?tre’s been too lenient on you, Mechanique. I could tell him not to be.”

Béatrice’s gears rattled. The head of housekeeping was nervous, as she should be. If she ever stepped out of line, I was sure Yrsa wouldn’t hesitate to cut out Béatrice’s eye and dip it in her teacup, like she’d done to Red’s. I’d come to realize that all suminaires were fearful of the threat.

“Get back to work,” Yrsa barked, then disappeared inside the deep freeze. The steel door slammed shut. We both jerked when something thumped from within.

“Let’s find another shelf to stuff these.” Béatrice hugged the basket of satchels, her fingers trembling.



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