The Key of Lost Things

by Sean Easley

  I can’t take my eyes off the weird statue that Sana’s working on. “What kind of icon is that?”

  “Anteater,” she says. “Or . . . a termite-eater, considering that’s what she’ll be used for. Termineater? The doormen have been complaining about infestations on some doors, and this beauty should help.”

  “Oh.” Sev didn’t tell me anything about that—I hope this doesn’t mean he’s started taking his problems to Cass too. “So, have you seen Agapios? I’ve checked everywhere.”

  Sana shakes her head. “Maybe you should meet with the admiral on your own. I hear she’s super nice.”

  The thought makes my stomach hurt. “I doubt Agapios would want me going without him.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Did he say that?”

  “Well . . . not exactly. It was Admiral Dare who called the meeting.”

  “He probably expects you to handle it, then. I doubt he’s even in the Hotel.”

  Agapios not here? That would make sense, considering the fact that the map-boards didn’t know where he was either. “Where would he go? I didn’t think he ever left the Hotel.”

  Sana swivels the statue on its pedestal so that she can paint more of the shaping dye onto its snout. The liquid glistens as it soaks into the stone. “He’s been checking a lot of icons out of the Motor Pool lately. Very last-minute.”

  That’s strange. “Where’s he taking them?”

  “Pshh, I don’t know.” She gives a noncommittal head bobble. “It’s not my place to ask. Though, it has been more often. And most of them haven’t come back—a couple of warrior golems, a gorilla, the onyx rhino. I told Cass to make sure you knew about it.”

  Cass. I’ve barely seen her these past few days. Seems like every time I turn around, the map-boards say she’s sitting in her room, which of course means she’s left her coin behind and gone gallivanting through the knockers without permission again. Of course, maybe Dad’s right, and I shouldn’t worry about her. I’d apologize and tell her that, if I ever saw her around except at bedtime and awkward family dinners.

  “If you’re supposed to be meeting the admiral soon, you’d better get going.” Sana smirks. “It isn’t a good idea to keep someone like her waiting.”

  • • •

  The appointment with Admiral Dare was scheduled to start fifteen minutes ago, and to get to the meeting place, I have to go all the way to McMurdo Station in Antarctica, one of the most remote places on earth. For nearly nine months out of the year no planes can fly there, and very few ships can break through all that ice, which makes it a great base of operations for the Fleet Marines—or so Agapios says. Even if someone wanted to reach it, they couldn’t without a bound door. Perfect for anyone who wants to stay off the world’s radar.

  But its location also means it’s cold. Very cold. And there’s a gap between the Hotel and the station—a short, grueling jog through sub-zero temperatures and dry ice-desert winds that’ll chap your lips in a frozen second. For a Texas boy like me, that sounds like a death sentence.

  I make a quick stop to grab a parka and scarf from the coat closets, and pull on a pair of heavy gloves and goggles to ready myself for the Antarctic cold.

  “Go get ’em, Mistah Cam!” Elizabeth calls from the front desk.

  I give her a puffy-gloved thumbs-up and hurry through the door.

  My body stiffens as soon as I cross into the frigid night. Frozen winds bite through my many layers of clothing. Nearby, a waddle of penguins huddle together for warmth, too concerned with their own survival to notice me.

  I hurry across the icy ground, fighting back shivers. All I have to do is make it to the door. The Fleet Marines are expecting me, though I am late. I hope they didn’t give up on me and lock me out.

  When I reach the station door, my cheeks are burning cold, and I’m pretty sure ice crystals have started growing inside my lungs. Thankfully, the door opens and I collapse into the shelter of an eighty-degree paradise. I draw in deep, comforting breaths as I curl up in front of the nearby heater. I never want to move away from this heater. I’ll just stay here on this warm floor for the rest of eternity, with the heater as my bestest friend, and we’ll grow old together and I will never leave it. Never, never, nev—

  “You are late,” says a familiar voice.

  The Maid Commander looms over me, parka draped over one arm.

  “I’m . . . sorry . . . ,” I say, still catching my breath. “I was . . . looking for . . .”

  “The Old Man has other matters to attend to.” She offers a hand to help me up. “Now, if you are quite done sullying the Hotel’s dignity, let us hurry. Admiral Dare has much to accomplish before this silly ‘celebration.’ ”

  The MC leads me through the station—full of people dressed in sharp, turquoise military uniforms—and to a door at the top of a spiraling metal staircase.

  As we climb, I can’t stop looking at her sword. It has always struck me as strange that the MC would wield a sword while the maids all carry wooden dusters. A weapon like hers feels out of place in the Hotel. Then again, she feels out of place.

  There’s something else today too. Something different about her appearance.

  “Is that a flower?” I ask, noticing the midnight-blue bud pinned to her lapel.

  She glances down, looking for all the world as though she’s just now realized that she spilled hot sauce all over her shirt. “Yes. I thought I’d try something new today.”

  When we cross the next threshold, the stuffy station air gives way to a pleasantly cool ocean breeze. The ground sways beneath us. It’s the deck of a ship. Position of the sun and the time on my watch suggest northern Pacific Ocean, early morning? Without landmarks it’s hard to tell.

  If this is where we were supposed to go from the beginning, why not go straight here? Of course, the answer is obvious: McMurdo is another buffer to keep the Embassy Fleet Service safe from intruders.

  A young man in uniform salutes the Maid Commander. “Welcome aboard the EFS Roanoke. The admiral is waiting for you on the bridge.”

  “Lead the way,” the MC says, and adjusts her flower.

  “This ship is gigantic,” I marvel as we follow the uniformed Fleet Marine.

  The Maid Commander’s face softens. “The Embassy Fleet is the crown of the oceans, and the Roanoke, her prize jewel. We have to have some way to fight back.”

  I’ve known about the Hotel’s mission to save kids since the beginning, but her statement feels like something else entirely. I gaze out over the ocean as we climb the stairs, and spy even more ships—everything from catamarans to battle cruisers—gathered into a flotilla on the shimmering sea.

  “Fight back against what?” I ask.

  “Our enemies.” She shoots me a side-eye. “Or have you bought into the Old Man’s naive chatter about changing the world, one vacationer at a time?”

  The way she says it almost stops me in my tracks. Yes, I think I have. “It was Mom’s vision too. To change the world by influencing the people in it.”

  The MC scoffs. “Your mother was also starry-eyed. Never saw the truth of our enemies, and it was her downfall.”

  I frown at her for talking about Mom’s death like that, as though it was Mom’s fault. I know the MC is a good person, but . . . I wish she didn’t have to be so nose-in-the-air all the time.

  When we arrive on the bridge, the crew stand at attention and salute the MC just like before. I wonder why they do that. She’s a hotelier, not a Fleet Marine.

  “Jehanna,” a woman says from behind a desk covered in maps. “I’d begun to wonder if you’d forgotten.”

  The woman looks to be around Dad’s age, though her shoulder- length hair is gray with a pale, almost yellow-green cast to it. The windows behind her are bound, showing views of other skies and oceans from ships around the world.

  As I stand face-to-face with Admiral Dare, I can’t help but picture her as a little girl on that island, her parents ushering her into the Nightvine, the veil dropping behind
her. Has she really seen it too? Does she dream about that emerald-green sky?

  The Maid Commander bows. “Apologies, Admiral. We had a minor miscommunication.” She scowls my way, and it suddenly strikes me that I should probably bow as well.

  “Ah, this must be Melissa’s son,” Admiral Dare says, straightening her coat. “Cameron, is it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Uh . . . I mean . . . Admiral.”

  The admiral laughs—an oddly musical sound. “ ‘Ma’am’ is fine,” she says. “So, I’m curious. How does it feel being such a young keybearer?”

  The MC gives me another severe look, then blinks as if to tell me it’s okay to discuss my key with the admiral.

  “It’s . . . different,” I say. “I feel strange carrying it sometimes, like I’m not supposed to have it.” Just like I’m not supposed to know where you went all those years ago. Though, I can’t be sure that’s where she went, can I? For all I know, the Nightvine was linked to Roanoke after she disappeared.

  Admiral Dare smiles. “This one seems like a good egg, Jehanna. Nice to see the Hotel hasn’t ruined him yet.”

  The MC picks a speck of dust from her sleeve. “Yet.”

  The admiral returns to her maps, shuffling papers as if searching for something. “I understand that you’re the one planning my party. I expect a grand affair. Something with balloons, maybe. Plenty of balloons. After all”—her eyes widen when she looks up—“four hundred doesn’t come very often.”

  “Neither does four hundred and one,” I blurt. The MC shoots me a foul, angry look.

  But the admiral laughs her tinkling laugh again. “True. I suspect my four hundred and second binding day will put them all to shame, then.” She traces a line across one of her maps for the officer next to her. “He’ll be there. I don’t know how long, but for the moment that’s what it tells me.”

  The officer rolls the map and rushes away to the upper deck.

  I catch a glimmer of something green and sparkly hanging from a chain at the admiral’s neck, just below the collar. A key. An ornate skeleton key, made entirely out of emerald gemstone.

  As soon as the admiral realizes that it has peeked out from under her collar, she pushes it down under her uniform. She sizes me up with her eyes. “I had a curious notion the other day and wondered if you could clear it up for me, young man.”

  “A notion?” I ask.

  “Yes. An intriguing thought. You see, ever since you kicked our infamous Curator out of his Museum, we’ve been scrambling to find him. It’s not easy. He’s quieter than he’s ever been, and that has everyone on edge. There are some who would rather he had stayed where he was.”

  “Do you suggest that Cam should have left him in that House?” the MC says.

  I give her a double take. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard her say something nice about what happened back at the Museum.

  “You know I don’t think that,” Admiral Dare says. “He never belonged there. And after all, it gives me the opportunity to use my skills.” She leans in and whispers, “I find things. And lose them. Though, lately it seems I spend a great deal more time losing than finding. Which brings me to my notion.” She rolls one of her maps, staring me down. “I have an itching feeling that he—or one of his agents—has been inside the Hotel recently.”

  My skin bristles. Stripe, inside the Hotel?

  “That’s not possible,” I say. “No one in the Hotel would invite him. And besides, we’d know.”

  “It’s strange,” she continues. “As I said, I’m very good at finding whatever treasure or scoundrel I set my sights on, and my gut keeps telling me that if I want to find the Curator, I need to start with your House. Are you certain one of his associates isn’t hiding among you?”

  I start to deny it, but I can’t be positive. Last year there were a few of Stripe’s “associates” working at the Hotel. I was unwittingly one of them. Then there’s the question of Nico. Everyone else seems to think he’s working with Stripe again. What if they’re right?

  “We will stay on the lookout,” I tell her, “but I really don’t think any of Stripe’s people have been there. If they are, I’ll find them.”

  “I should hope so.”

  “Admiral,” one of the marines says as he steps up next to her, “we need you to find . . .”

  And just like that, the admiral goes back to her maps, pointing and issuing orders to her marines as if she’s lost track and forgotten we exist.

  “Come along,” the MC says, ushering me toward the door and squeezing her temples as if this conversation has brought on a headache. “We won’t get any more out of her. This was a waste of time.”

  “I thought she wanted to talk about the party.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, boy,” she says. “There are more important things than—”

  “Mr. Cameron,” the admiral calls out.

  The MC and I stop and turn to face her.

  Admiral Dare removes her glasses and gives me a long stare. “I’m sure you’ll find what you’ve lost, soon enough,” she says finally. “And balloons, please. Yes, balloons would be lovely.”

  15

  The Bluestone Henge

  Admiral Dare wasn’t at all what I thought she’d be. I’m not sure what I expected, but I certainly don’t like this idea that an agent of Stripe might be in the Hotel. She couldn’t know whether someone like that was here. It had to be a guess, right? Then there was the way she hid that key, and the scribbles in the Ledger, and the arch to Roanoke. . . .

  “I am glad you agreed to come to a shaping seminar,” Sev says as we head down to the Motor Pool. “Artificer training is useful for everyone who works in the Hotel.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “I hope so.” Oma’s near-daily field trips are already cutting into my gala preparations, but if I can figure out why the Nightvine is the way it is, maybe I’ll be able to learn more about the admiral too, and discover who connected the vine to the Hotel, and how they did it.

  “It’ll be fun,” Sana assures me. “Djhut is wonderful. You’ll like him.”

  “You think everyone’s wonderful.”

  “Well, it’s true. Mostly.”

  The head artificer is waiting at one of the arches at the far end of the Motor Pool garage, where we keep the Hotel’s vehicles and icon-bound statues. Djhut is dressed in his usual modern tunic and pants, a thick, gold necklace dangling from his neck.

  There’s a small crowd of around fifteen juvenile staffers gathered with him, including Cass. I still haven’t had the chance to properly apologize, but it seems we’ve fallen into the “polite awkwardness” zone over the past week. It’s a nice change from the “can’t stand each other” zone we were living in previously.

  “Your sister’s been coming to all our shaping seminars lately,” Sana says. “She’s becoming quite proficient.”

  This could be a good thing. I mean, if she’s happy down in the Motor Pool, who am I to argue? At least the artificers don’t flirt with danger like the maids do.

  Artificer Djhut raises his voice to grab our attention. “Looks as if we’ve got quite the turnout today, eh, Sana?” He gives her a wink.

  Sana’s eyes brighten. “Does that mean . . . ?”

  Djhut rubs his hands together. “You betcha,” he says, and redirects us to an arch different from the one it appeared we were going to take.

  We step into a moonlit field littered with rocks. Not just any rocks, though—these enormous, rugged pillars rise from the grassy earth in concentric circles like ancient stone sentinels. Some even lie on their sides, bridging the upright stones to form massive arches, around thirty feet tall. They’re so ancient and weathered that it’s a wonder they’re still standing.

  I check my pocket watch—one designed by the artificers to track the local time wherever we are in the world. A little after nine o’clock at night here, which puts us on the western edge of Europe. Rocky fields, slightly cool temperature. England?

  “Welcome to Stonehenge,” Djhut
says, holding his arms wide, “one of the oldest man-made structures on the planet. Older than I am, if you believe it.” He waggles his brow, eliciting a laugh. Djhut is one of the oldest staffers in the Hotel. He might even be the oldest, though he certainly doesn’t look it.

  “Since we have a larger group than usual today, I thought we might discuss something a little more interesting.” His eyes grow wide as he spreads his fingers and says in an eerie voice, “Let’s talk about the wild magics.”

  I stand a little straighter. Sev mentioned the wild magics when we went into the glowworm caves.

  “Before we begin,” Djhut continues, “can anyone tell me what the fundamental bonds are?”

  Cass pipes up right away. “The bond of Law, the bond of Nature, and the bond of Life. They’re each a special kind of magic that restricts how all the others work.”

  “Correct,” Djhut says, and Cass beams. “Magics are hard to define. The mundanes believe that everything supernatural comes from some mysterious universal cloud that sorcerers and witches use to make flames sprout from their fingertips and rabbits fall out of hats, but the truth is much simpler. Magics are individuals, like people. That’s why we call them “magics” plural, rather than just the singular “magic.” No two are the same. They are each born, just as we are born, and live like we live. They grow and change, and sometimes . . . they die. Each has a unique personality, desires, wants, even fears. It’s those distinctions—what we call their ‘nature’—that determine how they interact with humankind.”

  Just like the Hotel. It decides who it likes and who it doesn’t. It chooses when and how to communicate with us. From what I’ve been told, the Hotel itself even helped to determine what form the House would take. But if what Djhut’s saying is true, that means there was a time when the magic of the Hotel didn’t exist at all, and that the magic is still changing.

  Artificer Djhut places a hand on the pockmarked surface of one of the giant stone pillars. “We are only able to tap into these magics because they allow us to. Magics reveal themselves to us, and we bind to them in return. If there is any so-called universal force, like the mundanes believe, it would be in the binding.”