Hotel Magnifique(51)

Des Rêves grumbled then pulled a small cage from offstage. I blinked away fresh tears when she touched her talon to each chanteuse’s shoulder.

Alastair burst into the room. “Who let the library bird loose?”

I dropped to my knees and scrambled under a café table.

“I don’t know,” Des Rêves said. “One moment, it was just there.”

The salon door was close, but they’d see me if I left. I’d have to wait here until I could make my way out unnoticed—calling attention to myself now would be fatal.

The bird snapped at a guest. An angry vein bulged in Alastair’s forehead. He plucked the silver mirror from Des Rêves’s hand, just as he’d done at the first soirée. He ran a finger over it as if checking for cracks.

It seemed an odd thing to do, given the circumstances. Clearly the artéfact was precious to him, even though the inkwell was Alastair’s main artéfact, the talon Des Rêves’s. They must both be using the mirror for something. I wondered what. Another question I didn’t have the answer to.

The bird shrieked.

“Enough!” Alastair mumbled something softly and stomped the ground with a resounding crack. A wave of marble moved out from where Alastair’s heel hit, toppling café chairs, sending crystal crashing. The bird stilled.

Alastair leveled his glare at Des Rêves, at the three birds hopping around next to the gilded cage. “Where is Frigga?”

“Probably in her room. She isn’t due for another hour,” Des Rêves said.

“Probably? She’s responsible for the birds,” Alastair said, incensed. “Get her down here now. Have her put those songbirds away then remove that thing.” He pointed to the black bird as it chomped on a slice of mangled cake.

Responsible for the birds.

My mind reeled. “Frigga,” I muttered to myself, memorizing the name. If she were responsible for the birds, she might know where Zosa was kept, how to get inside the aviary. Alastair and Hellas had keys, but there could easily be more.

Alastair’s boots crunched over broken glass. Before he turned around, I darted toward the salon door, looking back once to see Madame des Rêves shooing Zosa toward the cage.



* * *





“Are you alive?”

I opened my eyes. I’d fallen asleep hunched next to Bel’s bed. He stood over me. His fresh shirt hung open, exposing his clean, muscled chest. He caught me looking and I forced my eyes down to his wound. This morning, it was nothing but a bright red scar.

Relief shot through me. I had an urge to spring up and wrap my arms around his neck, but I stifled it at the memory of his ramblings last night. I touched my mouth, remembering the feel of his thumb running across my lips.

“Do you . . . remember when I brought you up here?”

“I remember my door opening. The rest is a bit fuzzy.” Bel skewered me with a wry look. “Why? Did I say something I should apologize for?”

“No, nothing,” I said. My voice sounded too high. Bel tilted his chin, skeptical. “At least you’re healed,” I added quickly.

“You do realize I’m a powerful suminaire, don’t you? On top of it, you used an entire jar of Morvayan Sacred Salve. The paste costs more than renting the Ode to a Fabled Forest Suite for a year.” He wiped a thick streak from under my ear.

It made little difference. The gold paste was matted in my hair and smeared over his bed. I couldn’t help it, I laughed.

“I’m glad you find this funny,” he said, but he grinned, too. After his smile died, his eyes remained on me, his expression unreadable.

Warmth spread up my neck.

“I like your room,” I said, reaching for something to fill the silence. Except I hadn’t actually looked at his room.

Slowly, I took it in. It was lined with books. The titles I could read were all geographies, the floor littered with stacks of maps and atlases. A collection of little globes sat across one shelf, along with a few old compasses, a small brass telescope, and other worldly knickknacks.

My fingers twitched, wanting to inspect every shelf. It wasn’t fair that he got to surround himself with all this treasure. I could easily spend days here.

I always thought Bel’s room would be modern and spare. Not this. His room reminded me of Bézier’s third-floor sitting room that I’d loved so much. Bel had professed to not care about a single destination, and yet this room was an altar to them.

The rest of the space was nice. Folded blankets, a worn leather chair. It even smelled like him: brass polish and orange oil. I inhaled a lungful.

Bel untied something at his neck—the cape he wore when he used his key.

“You got up and moved the hotel?”

“A midnight passed.” He shrugged. “It’s my job.”

I nodded as everything came crashing back: Café Margot, the salon, Zosa. My sister had looked right at me, mouthed my name. Another name came to mind. “Who’s Frigga?”

Bel stilled as if he knew something. “I think she helps Des Rêves, but I could be wrong.”

My fingers balled into fists. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Of course not.” He took my wrist, smoothing out my hand with his palm. “Would you relax?”