The Continent (The Continent #1)(11)

“He’s awfully sure of himself for a boy his age. He thinks he has the whole world figured out.”

My mother laughs. “I remember another young man who had quite the same affliction. I found it so appealing, in fact, that I married him.”

“I was never smug,” my father says.

She smiles. “True.”

“He’s got an eye on Vaela. Mark my words.”

“That’s something we can add to his list of virtues, not his faults.”

My father makes a disagreeable sort of noise but doesn’t pursue the subject any further. We all wait in silence until the steward returns and extends an arm toward the hallway. “Shall we?”

“This building is lovely,” my mother says as we follow him down the hall. “Very warm and inviting.”

“Oh, yes, the facility is wonderful,” he says. “Everything you’ll need to enjoy yourselves has been built right into this complex. There’s a dining hall, of course, and a recreation room—plenty of books and other amenities in there—an exercise facility, a fully-equipped lounge…we hope to fulfill any need you could possibly have.”

“I’m quite interested in the island itself,” I say, “and I’d love the opportunity to take an excursion of some sort. Would that be possible?”

He stops walking. “You do know it’s quite…cold? Far colder out in the open than it was in the hangar.”

“I understand.”

He looks at me for a moment longer. “Weather permitting, I suppose something could be arranged. We do have a lovely indoor promenade, if you’re merely interested in the view?”

I smile. “I’d prefer to do a bit of exploring.”

He turns and continues walking. “Then I’ll see to it, Miss Sun. We want your stay to be as satisfying as possible. Will Mr. and Mrs. Sun be joining you?” he adds, glancing back at my parents.

“Oh, no thank you,” my mother says. “The promenade will do just fine for me.”

My father shakes his head. “I have no interest in the snow, sir.”

“Very well,” the steward says, and then stops before a door marked B4. “Here we are—your suite.” He opens the door and hands the key to my father. “Go ahead and make yourselves at home; I’ll be just down the hall in the lobby if you need anything. Dinner will be in…” He pauses for a moment to check his timepiece. “…about forty minutes. I’ll be along to call for you then.”

“Thank you kindly,” my mother says. “We’ll be ready.”

Mrs. Shaw was right: everything here at Ivanel seems to be of first-class quality. The accommodations are very fine; our suite is filled with elegant furniture, and possesses all of the luxury one might expect from a top-tier hotel back in the Spire. There are two bedrooms and a sitting room, all with floor-to-ceiling windows that provide extraordinary views of the island. There is also a spacious washroom that includes a sauna; the scent of warm cedar lingers like an almost tangible comfort.

By the time the steward returns to collect us for dinner, I’m famished. He is accompanied by the Shaws, who occupy the suite down the hall from our own. Aaden looks very handsome in a black suit and white bow tie, and I feel momentarily self-conscious in my simple gown of blue silk. But he smiles appreciatively when he sees me.

“You look lovely, Vaela,” he says. “I don’t know which suits you more: your traveling clothes, or your dinner finery.”

“Why, her dinner gown, of course,” says Mrs. Shaw, oblivious to the compliment behind his words. “Honestly, Aaden. It’s like you have no manners at all.”

As we head down the corridor to the dining hall, the steward extols the virtues of the Ivanel facility, telling us how well it functions with an incredibly small group of personnel—between twenty and thirty workers at any given time—and how it has served as a desirable holiday spot for the Spire’s most elite citizens for more than twenty-five years.

Aaden peppers him with questions about the island, and the steward is only too happy to oblige. About halfway through their conversation, it occurs to me that Aaden probably knows more about Ivanel than the steward, and is only posing questions because the steward is so delighted to be asked. It seems a kind thing to do.

When we reach the dining hall, the steward takes his leave and we sit down to a beautiful table. The dishes are exquisite: fine cream-colored porcelain edged in gold, with gleaming flatware and crystal goblets that have been polished to a shine. The servers enter without a word to set the first course on the table; it’s some sort of vegetable soup with a heady aroma. Mrs. Shaw looks very pleased.

“Wonderful to have a nice meal, isn’t it? After those foul refreshments on the plane.” She leans over and closes her eyes, inhaling deeply, then sighs. “There’s nothing like a bowl of warm soup. I believe I’m still frozen to the bone after that walk through the hangar.”

“You ought to try the sauna,” my father says. “I used one last year during a visit to the North. Very therapeutic.”

“I believe I will,” she says, a note of excitement in her voice. “Otherwise I shan’t sleep a wink.”

“How do you like the rooms?” Mr. Shaw says to my father.

“Very nice indeed. The view is exceptional.”