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I’ve never cared about clothes before. Never spared them a passing thought. Well, I’m paying for that attitude now.
Because Arthur dresses so nicely—like a sexy professor or something. With that wine-red shirt and those dark pants and those deliciously dorky wire-framed glasses… What would he like best out of this sorry pile?
Wait. No.
I want him to like me. For how I actually am—including my fashion-backwards side. For that to happen, I can’t try too hard now, can I?
Biting my lip, I fish out a baggy dark green t-shirt I got for taking part in a fun run last year, holding it up by the shoulders for inspection. It’s faded and the cotton’s gone bobbly, but… it’s the color of Arthur’s eyes. Like a pine forest.
Oh god, I’m so tragic. Still, I sling it over my shoulder to wear tonight, then start digging for a pair of comfy leggings. I’m going for freedom of movement, so that I can clamber and sneak and slither around the hotel to my heart’s content. Plus something I can sleep in afterward.
Sleep. In.
In Arthur Carstair’s hotel bed.
Gah! Okay nope, I can’t think about that. I’ll get too weird about it and put him off.
It’s getting dark already when I set out from home, pedaling my bike across the crooked, winding streets of Belladonna Bay. The shadowed windows of townhouses watch me go, and dark, heavy clouds press close to the roofs, threatening rain.
It’s colder out here, away from the hotel. Hennigin Hall has always had its own micro climate up on that hill, seemingly unbound from the natural seasons. It can be a hot, sticky summer in town while there’s frost on the windows of the Hennigin ballroom; crisp, red leaves can drop from the town trees at the same time that new spring flowers bud in the hotel grounds.
So it’s cool right now in town, with whipping winds and spitting rain, but as soon as I cycle through the wrought iron gate on the edge of the hotel property, the air turns balmy and still. The air feels wet somehow, and heavy—like a damp washcloth held over my mouth and nose.
My thighs burn as I pedal up the slope toward the front entrance, and my t-shirt sticks to my back from sweat. So much for that shower.
Hennigin Hall looms against the darkening sky, all pale stone and climbing ivy; carved screaming faces and mini turrets. It’s hideous and beautiful, all at the same time. Gloomy and enticing.
I love it.
My bike squeaks as I hop off and push it for the final stretch, all the way to the modern metal bike racks tucked tastefully behind an ornamental hedge.
The hotel waits for me, silent and staring, as I lock my bike up with trembling hands, then sling my backpack over my shoulders and fluff up my heat-frizzed hair.
Room thirteen. Arthur Carstairs. Gah!
He won’t have changed his mind, will he?
No, he wouldn’t do that. Arthur is my lucky charm too, remember?
My sneakers crunch over gravel toward the front steps, and it’s weird being on these grounds after hours. A few security guards work night shifts, and there’s usually a housekeeper on call, but as a maid I’ve never been here past six. The hotel looks bigger at night, and meaner with those glaring, lit-up windows. Restless.
Tonight will be my night—I can feel it. I skip through the open maw of a doorway, my footsteps suddenly softened by the lobby rug.
Room thirteen is up a creaky flight of carved wooden stairs, past a glittering, cobwebbed chandelier. I tried to clean that thing once, but Mrs Garfunkel shooed me away. Said the cobwebs added to the mystique, and that tourists loved pictures beneath them.
Hey, I get it. We all need some romance in our lives, right? And some of us have gothic hearts.
The door to room thirteen is closed when I get there. I hold my breath and listen for sounds behind the wood, but there’s nothing. The only clue that Arthur is in there is the faint glow of light around the door frame.
I bite my lip and knock. “Coming,” a deep voice calls, and I fidget in my sneakers. Why am I suddenly so shy?
The door swings open, and my heart slams against my ribs. Arthur Carstairs, my favorite writer in the whole world and the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, smiles down at me, looking so pleased to see me. Like I’m not bothering him at all. Like he doesn’t regret his invitation one bit.
“Good, you’re here.” He takes my elbow and tugs me gently into the room. It’s much neater than earlier, and different when lit only by lamplight. Cozier, and more intimate. “The desk lamp has been flickering for the past hour or so, and making these whispering sounds. It’s not much, but… I was worried you’d miss it.”
Heart in my throat, I step up to the desk.
The lamp glows beside Arthur’s laptop, the light steady and warm. I strain my ears to hear something, anything, but… no whispers. Nothing.
