The Key of Lost Things Page 8

  “Something is on the horizon, Mr. Cameron. This House senses it, and wishes to be ready when it comes. But the magics of Houses are wild—they do not let us determine how they’re used. Often, they use us.”

  “That sounds dangerous.”

  He smiles. “The Hotel is bound by the magical bond of Law, as are all magics. So long as the power that enforces the bond of Law remains intact, the Hotel is required to honor its agreements with us. That keeps us safe.”

  Remains intact. He’s not talking about just violating some rules—he’s talking about keeping the power that created the rules safe. The binding created the treaty between magics and humans, and laid the fundamental bonds as a foundation. Is it possible to destroy the fundamental bonds altogether? To break the magic that the Hotel is founded on, and remove the restrictions that keep the other magics of the world in line?

  “And anyway,” Agapios continues, “ours is a kind House—it longs to provide the best for the people in its care. It would never do anything to harm us.”

  The way he says that makes my teeth clench. The Hotel would never do anything to harm us. We’ve seen that there are magics out there that would, and people who would take advantage of that. People like Stripe.

  “The Ledger of Ways knows our guests’ deepest desires and darkest fears. This is how you will learn to serve the people entrusted to our care.” He pauses. “Knowledge and truth are among the sharpest blades in the world. When used together they are a double-edged sword, able to cut deeper than any other.”

  He taps the Ledger’s cover, and I read those same words inscribed across the leather.

  “I will provide you with a list of attendees,” the Old Man says. “Learn what you can about them, and make haste with your preparations. Many of my Embassy peers do not understand the Hotel as we do—they see its dangers more than its strengths. They will close our doors for good if they sense weakness in these uncertain times.”

  “Wait, the Embassy can shut down the Hotel?”

  Agapios hums. “We are but one small piece in a larger machine. Your actions last year set events in motion that had been still for a very long time. Many of the ambassadors fear this new position we find ourselves in, now that Stripe no longer has a House to call his own. He has not been this desperate for a very long time, and the Hotel is still a merciful House. To the desperate, the merciful seem easy prey.”

  I haven’t heard Agapios talk about Stripe in months. “Do you know where Stripe is?”

  He leans back. “No, but he will make himself known eventually, and we must be ready. I recognize the weight of what I’m asking you to do. Remember, when little is expected of us, we become small. Challenges make us grow, and shape us into something grander than we could be otherwise.”

  With that, he stands to leave.

  “Tomorrow morning a Mr. Nagalla will be coming to examine the Hotel’s security,” he says. “Arrange a nice tour, won’t you?

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “To the Greenhouse.” He smiles. “Soon I think we should see a change in our poor tree. The Ledger is in your care now—please, give it and yourself a chance to learn the truth before you decide whether you are ready to be what the Hotel needs of you. You may be surprised by what it reveals.”

  As the Old Man turns the door handle, my biggest fear bubbles up into one huge burp of a question. “What if I’m not ready?”

  He stops, but doesn’t look back.

  I lick my lips. “What if the Hotel is wrong about me? What if I’ve changed my mind? What if I . . . decline?”

  “Then my search for a successor will continue,” he says. “Though, I don’t know if this picky old House will be able to choose one in time.”

  11

  Holes, Holes Everywhere

  I stand next to the front desk under the guardian dog-lion statues in the Asiatic Lobby, my feet wide, hands behind my back in parade rest, waiting for this so-called Mr. Nagalla to arrive. I should have tried to use The Ledger of Ways to learn what I could about this Embassy representative before he got here, but with my normal concierge duties and all my gala preparations, there wasn’t enough time.

  My talk with Agapios keeps replaying in my head. I never once considered why a several-hundred-year-old hotel manager would be searching for a successor after all this time. Sure, we call him the Old Man, but that doesn’t mean we really think he’s going anywhere. Agapios was running this place long before any of us were born—we assumed he’d be around long after we left.

  Did he do something wrong? Did the Hotel decide that if Agapios couldn’t protect it and the Greenhouse, he didn’t deserve to run it? If that’s the case, I can’t be the one who lets the Hotel down again. Rahki was right—I have to make sure the Hotel trusts me, especially if it no longer trusts Agapios.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to give the tour?” Rahki asks, pulling her headphones down to rest around her neck. “There are some things you might not know.”

  “Like your ‘security enhancements’?” She has refused to tell me any of the work she and Cass have been doing to protect the Hotel against Nico. “No, the Old Man asked me to do this, so I’ll take care of it on my own.” Which isn’t entirely true. Agapios asked me to arrange a tour, and yeah, Rahki could lead that, but surely what he meant was for me to. I am CiT, after all.

  Rahki sighs “Okay” and motions for Sana to go with her. “Come on, habibi. Cam says he doesn’t need us.”

  Sana gives me a wave as they make for the Pacific Lobby.

  “Who is this Nagalla person in the first place?” Sev asks as he returns from double-checking the knockers. “Why is he coming here now?”

  “Agapios said the Embassy has the power to shut the Hotel down if we pose a risk,” I tell him. “So we have to make a good impression.”

  A knock comes at the Shanghai Door. Sev moves to answer it, but I grab his arm.

  “This is on me,” I say. “I’ll catch you later.”

  He shrugs and heads off to talk to Elizabeth. Now it’s time to show the Hotel exactly how responsible I can be.

  When I answer, I’m met by a short, round man with exaggerated features and a pair of really big aviator sunglasses. “Mr. Nagalla?”

  The man pushes past me and slams the door behind him with a loud bang!

  “So,” he snaps, whirling to face me, “merely anyone can knock at a door, and you just open it right up? Could you see who stood behind the door before you opened it? No, I think you could not. What if I were the Competition? You would just let the Competition fox-trot in as if they owned the place, hmm?”

  He spins and strides away from me—faster than I’d expect from someone of his stature—and heads straight for the front desk.

  I trail behind, trying to explain. “Sir, we have cameras that monitor everyone who passes through the knockers, and the Competition couldn’t enter without an invitation, so—”

  “Is an open door not an invitation? It seems like an open door is exactly that. An open door says, ‘Come right on in. Take all my secrets.’ That’s what it seems to me.”

  “We have the icons too.” I motion to the giant stone statues that the staff can control, should an intruder decide to make trouble. “If anyone were to get in, the icons can keep us safe.”

  “Safe.” Nagalla snorts. “There is no safe. Everyone resting their hopes on bonds and rules and magical treaties that can be broken and bent. It’s laughable. Downright laughable.” He leans over the desk and shouts at Elizabeth, who’s talking to Sev. “Girl? Girl!”

  Elizabeth’s glare could burn a hole through Nagalla’s face. No one calls her “girl” and gets away with it. “Yes, Mr. Very Important Person? What can I do for you?”

  Nagalla doesn’t appear to notice her sarcasm, but I shake my head, silently begging her not to make this guy any angrier than he already is.

  Spittle flies from his mouth with every other word. “I need to see a list of all the people who have entered the Hotel toda
y, along with the names of each and every staff member who answered their knock.”

  “Maybe if you ask nicely,” Elizabeth mumbles.

  Mr. Nagalla ignores her, pacing the lobby and examining the lions, the swooping sashes of fabric, every little detail as if looking for something. “I understand you had an infestation recently. Cats, was it? Little monsters snuck in, caused havoc everywhere?”

  A fake meow comes from behind the front desk window. It’s Cass, taunting me like only a sister can.

  My insides shrivel. “Yes, sir. We did have a . . . minor incident.”

  “A fiasco, from what I hear.” His voice is sharp, each syllable a mini firecracker.

  “Oh yeah,” Cass says, joining us in the lobby. “You should have seen it. Cat hair everywhere, hairballs, cat scratch fever.”

  I shoot her a dirty look. She must be getting back at me for Catatumbo. It’s the one time she’s where I asked her to be, and I wish she were anywhere else.

  Nagalla curls his lip. “And who was responsible for the cleanup of said fiasco?”

  “I was, sir,” I tell him.

  He finally stops moving to look me over. “I will never understand Agapios’s insistence on putting children in a position of power,” he says, clutching a dramatic fist. “Seems to me this House should be run by someone strong. Someone who knows what they’re doing. A general. Someone like the Maid Commander, not”—he looks me over again—“you.”

  Dignified and gracious, dignified and gracious. “Sir, the Hotel has plenty of security measures that I’m sure you’ll appreciate,” I tell him, stuffing down all the things I really want to say. Maybe Rahki should have handled the tour after all. “And which I’m happy to tell you about. Are you ready for the tour?”

  “Indeed.” He turns and heads straight for the Elevator Bank. Cass follows, talking his ear off about dusty mantels and squeaky hinges. Please tell me she’s not tagging along.

  “Aajh,” Elizabeth mumbles, “what a jerk.”

  “She sure can be,” I say, and follow Nagalla the Terrible and Cass the Vengeful to start this parade of awfulness.

  • • •

  Mr. Nagalla might as well be leading his own tour, given how well he knows the Hotel already. The portly man marches ahead of me, commenting on the sorry state of everything from the Elevator Bank to the guest rooms. Cass points out every out-of-place thing she can, adding more fuel to his fire.

  “You absolutely should change the layout more often,” Nagalla muses. “It seems to me a House that can change shape should do so, and regularly. Anyone who’s been here in the past thirty years could easily find their way to its vulnerabilities. All it would take is the right coin. Wide open to attack, it is.”

  “So true,” Cass says, smirking impishly. “Cam, you should be taking notes.”

  I don’t indulge Cass and Mr. Nagalla any more than I need to, and decide to let them do the talking instead. I can’t exactly confront Cass in front of him. For what feels like hours Nagalla grumbles about how easy it would be to steal icons from the Motor Pool, and how giving a topscrew to a child is “Agapios’s biggest mistake since the Château.” Staff dormitories shouldn’t be all the way up on the top levels, in case of emergency. He even complains that assigning a cruise ship to be the main dining hall is a terrible idea, because “what if guests get seasick?” (I tend to agree on that last point.) All the while Cass confirms his complaints one after another. What a great opportunity for her to enact her revenge.

  Finally we end up at the War Room.

  “This is where I leave you, Mr. Nagalla,” Cass says, offering a hand.

  He shakes it eagerly. “A pleasure, Ms. Cassia. Maybe with staff like you around, this place won’t end up too bad.” And he heads through the metal door.

  “That was plain awful,” I say once he’s through.

  “Lighten up.” Cass pats my biceps as she passes. “Consider justice delivered, for the time being. Now excuse me while I return to my cage. Have fun!”

  I take a deep breath and follow Mr. Nagalla inside.

  The sun-shaped light behind the War Room’s stained glass globe-dome is high over North America now, and the maids are hard at work. Most of what the maids do is entirely separate from the Hotel’s normal operations—as if they were a completely different House. I’ve never understood why they’re so different from the rest of the hotel staff.

  Mr. Nagalla marches across the Map Floor, aimed directly at the Maid Commander. “Jehanna!”

  The MC is dressed in full regalia—buttoned-up jacket dripping with medals and commendations, gray hair pulled back to accent her frown. Her sword hangs at her side, the silver pommel shining.

  She turns to face Nagalla. “Venkat.” Her tone is almost . . . welcoming? “I hope you’re finding your destination satisfactory today.”

  “You know exactly how I find my destination,” Nagalla replies. “This place is a disaster. Holes! Holes everywhere! It’s a wonder the Competition isn’t running this place already.”

  “Please.” The MC turns to monitor the screens ahead. “Agapios and I have been keeping this House safe and in action since long before you were even a thought. I assure you that we know quite well what the Hotel wants.”

  He throws his hands into the air. “It doesn’t matter what the Hotel wants! We have to keep the mission safe, and from what I can see, it’s never been in more danger. With the Curator loosed from his Museum, we have no idea what he’s up to. He could be anywhere!” Nagalla eyes me warily, and adds in what I can only assume is his failed attempt at a whisper, “It was different when we had Melissa.”

  Did this man know my mom? I really should have consulted the Ledger before all this.

  “Honestly,” he continues, “how Agapios could make this boy Concierge-in-Training . . . It’s irresponsible and careless, and it will be the end of us.”

  “Venkat, you know that in many areas I’m inclined to agree with you,” she says, “but in this House we are and have always been beholden to our contracts. The House decides on matters like these. You should know that better than anyone else.”

  He snorts. “Maybe it’s time we forgot the will of the Hotel. It is just a place, after all.”

  “It’s not just a place,” I mumble, though I’m not sure either of them notice. Hearing someone talk badly about the Hotel feels wrong, as if he’s bad-mouthing my mom.

  The MC sighs. “Just because the Hotel didn’t choose you doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

  Nagalla huffs loudly. “I know the truth about the Château, Jehanna. The Hotel isn’t where you belong. With Stripe removed, it’s time you reclaimed your home. The Maid should be strong again.”

  Stripe removed? Reclaim your home? What does he mean? And what’s this Château place he keeps mentioning?

  She waves her hand dismissively. “The ‘Maid’ should remain right where she is,” she says. “Mr. Cameron, please show Venkat to his room.” She eyes him carefully. “We will discuss this later.”

  He scrunches his face. “Indeed we will.”

  • • •

  Getting Mr. Nagalla settled into his room feels like inviting a skunk to family dinner night. After I leave, all I want to do is be alone to wash off the smell. So I stop off at home to grab a few things and head for my spot.

  When I still lived in a normal town full of normal things, it was easy to find a good alone spot. Bathrooms did the trick pretty well, an empty classroom at lunchtime, a dressing room at the mall, the occasional locker, but that changed when I was granted the whole world to choose from. Suddenly, hiding in random corners felt like I was doing it wrong.

  Then I found Socotra.

  Socotra Island off the coast of Yemen is both beautiful and almost completely, blissfully uninhabited. It’s my own desert island, complete with dust and scrubland brush and no one saddling expectations onto me. There are cacti, too—alien-looking tendrils topped with little red flowers. The trees are my favorite part. Most of them look more like mushroo
ms, which always makes me smile. They understand me. It’s as if we’re both expected to be like all the other trees in the world, but nature made us look like a fungus instead.

  I clear away rocks at the base of a particularly fungus-looking tree and sit in the shade, retrieving the Ledger from my bag. I pause to feel the carved and cured leather of the cover, the brittle endpapers. A dry wind blows across the hills, causing the ancient pages to flutter.

  “Now what?” I ask it. “How do I—”

  A swirl of gold and black ink creeps across the page, sketching the outline of a handprint.

  Well, that answers that question.

  I press my hand to the image, and the ink sparkles to life around my fingers. It’s working. The Hotel is communicating with me. Not Agapios or anybody else. Me. Glittering currents zigzag to the opposing page and begin sketching out familiar scenes from my life once again—family, friends, hospitals, Stripe. The process takes longer than I remember from the first time. I hope we don’t have to repeat this every time I use it, or else—

  The ink fades. Uh-oh. Did my thoughts offend it?

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know how this works.”

  A smiling face surfaces on the page, sending a spark up my spine. Mom’s face. I’ve only ever seen it in pictures. But Agapios said that the Ledger fixates on the reader’s desires—the book could just be using her image to communicate with me.

  “There are so many things I want to tell you,” I say.

  Frame by frame the drawing of my mother places a hand to her chest, and then like all the others, her image begins to fade.

  “No! Wait! Don’t leave.”

  The inky lines darken, and she slides to the bottom corner with a gentle bow. She extends a long hand upward, and the ink spools out from her fingertips, drawing dozens of portraits. A crosshatched banner across the top reads The Embassy Charter: Members-in-Permanent in flowing cursive.

  I scan the ambassadors in the Ledger’s pages, each wrapped in a small banner that bears their name. One by one their inky color deepens as I focus on them. Agapios Panotierri with his sharp features and kind eyes, the Maid Commander with her severe brow. But there are many more whom I don’t know. Like Fusu, who serves as head banker for the Bank of Qin, and someone named Odi the Discoverer. The “Master of Locomotion” Babajide seems interesting. And there’s Jim the Outlier.