Hotel Magnifique(96)
Gently, I reached down and touched the bow of his lip. His lashes fluttered. He squinted and blinked away bits of frost. I hung motionless over him, not daring to move or breathe.
Do you remember me?
He winced and reached for a lock of my hair that hung in a tangle next to his cheek, marveling at it. His mouth curved in a half smile. “I’ve never seen you with your hair down,” he said, his throat rough. “It’s . . . nice.”
My face crumpled, and his smile fell away. Before I could choke out a sob, he sat up and gathered me into his lap. His fingers threaded through my hair as he looked me over.
I trembled when his hand smoothed down my back, then over my arms, my torso, and my neck, as if checking for cracks. “Hold still.”
“I’m all right, you fool,” I said, my voice thick.
Gently, he wiped tears from my cheeks. “I thought I’d never get to argue with you again.”
“You missed your chance at a boring life.”
He laughed. Then his warm arms wrapped so tightly around me, I could feel his heart thump against my own, like he was afraid I might vanish into air. We sat like that, tangled up together under the bar, until we were shivering from paper snow.
“My sister is herself,” I said, burrowing into his warmth. “And Béatrice is unharmed.”
He glanced to where the alchemist’s broken body lay crumpled. “Yrsa?”
“Dead. Her teacup shattered. And I haven’t seen Sido.”
He nodded and pushed a clump of sodden hair away from my neck. A tremor moved through me as he stroked the skin below my ear. “Alastair?”
Alastair had been standing beside Issig. I didn’t see him run, but I was trying to get away myself. “I don’t know,” I said.
“Then we should look.”
Wincing, Bel rose and pulled me up alongside him. Together, we picked our way out of the salon and into the wrecked lobby.
Glass had scattered everywhere. Chairs were cracked. A cluster of guests still huddled together underneath the ravaged top of the bright red piano. Paper snow covered every surface. But unlike the pillow feathers, the snow fell down. It dusted the chandeliers and arched alcoves. It clumped on waxy branches of marvelous orange trees. It snuffed out all the colored flames.
“It’s gone,” Bel said with wonder, eyes fixed to the spot where the great glass aviary once stood. Above us, birds flitted through the gusts of snow.
A cluster of staff stood in the center of the lobby. Issig stood with them, draped from head to toe in canvas from the aviary supplies. He whispered to Frigga. She smiled and touched his collarbone where my mother’s necklace still hung. Issig took Frigga’s hand, twining their fingers together. I looked away when he pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
“Incredible,” Bel said. “Someone finally freed Issig.”
“Must have been a foolish soup girl,” I said.
Bel’s brows shot up.
A moment later, someone cried out, joyful, and Issig wrapped his arms around a man in a cook’s uniform, like they were old friends. The contracts were destroyed. All the workers had their memories back.
Soon everyone clustered around a crumpled body on the floor.
Alastair.
His eyes were closed, his pale eyelids so blue-tinged they appeared translucent. A bit of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth and dribbled down his cheek.
Hellas toed his arm. “Is he dead?”
Bel checked his pulse. “His heart’s beating. He might have tried to run, but the blast must have knocked him out.”
I looked from worker to worker, people who Alastair imprisoned. Hurt. I half expected someone to dash Alastair’s head against the marble and end it. But no one moved. None of us wanted any more torture or pain today. Besides, without the hand mirror, Alastair didn’t have any time left once his stolen magic wore off.
“I have an idea,” Issig said. He stepped over Alastair’s prone form and hoisted him up by the shoulders. “I know of a room that’s no longer in use, where we can lock him up for a bit until we decide what to do.” A small smile slipped over the suminaire’s chiseled features. “Hellas, be a doll and take his feet. We’ll move him to the deep freeze.”
* * *
Over the next few hours we rounded up birds. A large flock had holed up near the moon window. Even more flew out from various hiding places around the hotel. Hundreds squawked. I stood beside Bel and touched wing after wing with the silver talon.
Two dozen or so came out whole. The rest appeared just as Céleste had described, their appearances leached of color, their limbs spotted with holes.
Most holes were covered by clothing. A few were not. One scrawny child, no older than ten, fingered a hole in her pale arm the width of her wrist. And a brown-skinned man walked around with a misshapen hole in his calf.
That must have been where the hand mirror touched down. It was sickening to know that Des Rêves and Alastair did this for years. I remembered the feel of Céleste’s hand, that wisp of tendon, and felt ill.
At least no one seemed to be in pain. Instead, all the trapped suminaires unfurled from birds into people too bewildered to do a thing but step out of the way.
The hotel was mostly empty of guests, but soon the freed suminaires took their places. Some were still dressed as performers in evening wear. Others were decked out in glittering frock coats, silken capes, and corseted gowns from another time. Some even wore stiff kitchen uniforms splotched with soup stains. But most were clothed in the garb they had arrived in.