by Sean Easley
“Well if you’re not, you won’t last long,” Her tone is piercing. “It is our tireless duty to ensure the security and pleasure of our guests, as well as the safety of the Hotel’s mission. Anything less will not be tolerated. Fail me, and I’ll be rid of you before the sun hits the east.”
I look up at the light streaming through North America. “But I thought my agreement was with Agapios,” I blurt. “He said he determines when I leave.”
Her nostrils flare. Nico’s eyes widen. Rahki shakes her head.
Stupid, stupid Cam. Why can’t I keep my mouth shut?
“The Old Man doesn’t have a say in this, boy.” Her voice snaps, and I picture her words flinging past and shattering the Pacific Ocean into a million pieces.
She snatches Rahki’s clipboard and flips through it.
“Ms. Rahkaiah,” the MC says, “take Mr. Cameron with you on the Hungary mission. See how he fares. And remember what we discussed.”
“Yes ma’am.” Rahki shoots me a scowl.
The MC turns to Nico. “It’s throne patrol for you.”
What? No! She can’t take Nico away from me.
“Toilet duty?” Nico crosses his arms. “I’m a bellman, ma’am. I don’t do dirties.”
“A thorn in my side is what you are.” She snorts. The Maid Commander would be a person who snorts. “We all pay our price for breaking the rules.”
Nico rolls his eyes and places a hand on my shoulder. “Looks like you’re on your own.”
“Wait,” I say, “you can’t leave.”
“He can, and must.” The MC’s posture stiffens, if that’s even possible. I imagine her raising her voice and bringing the whole glass ceiling down on our heads. Death by falling country.
“Don’t worry,” Nico says, flicking me his coin, which had been in my pocket only moments ago. “We’ll catch up later.” His smile falters when he looks toward Rahki. “Just don’t let this one get in your head.”
He marches out of the War Room grumbling about how his lot in life is to be abused by the system.
“Now,” the MC looks to Rahki, “you know what to do. Bring back the package for placement, and get the boy up to speed.” She curls her nose at me. “We’ll see what Mr. Cameron is really here for.”
10
The Lights of Budapest
Rahki takes me down to the Lobby Level, the outermost ring of the Hotel.
I breathe a sigh of relief as we step from the Elevator Bank ring into the North American Lobby. Finally, a place I recognize. The sputtering fountain, the crystal chandelier, the twisting marble staircase with its cascading scarlet carpet—this is the place that convinced me magic might be real.
Only now I’m at the back of the lobby, past the couches and cushy chairs, facing the row of polished doors that line the far wall. Each bears a shiny bronze sign: WASHINGTON, D.C.; CHICAGO, IL.; VANCOUVER, CA.
DALLAS, TX.
Rahki speeds off to one side toward a drawn velvet curtain under a two-story granite moose. I have to dodge a magically mobile luggage rack being led by a young porter just to keep up.
“Where are we going?”
“Eastern European Lobby,” Rahki barks. “Budapest.”
We pass through the curtain into a similar, yet different, lobby. The layout is the same, but this lobby features colorful stucco walls and potted trees trimmed with lights. An enormous stone bird spreads its red and yellow wings over the room. The statue seems to watch me as we pass beneath it.
What Nico said before skitters over my arms. The Hotel’s watching. It knows what’s in my heart. What does that even mean? Is it going to try and stop me?
“This is the South American Lobby,” Rahki says. “Next up: Western Europe.”
“How many lobbies does this place have?”
“Eight,” she says. “Though if you’d come in the way you were supposed to and gotten the tour, you’d know that, wouldn’t you?”
I suddenly understand Nico’s urge to stick his tongue out at her.
We pass through the next curtain and enter a vestibule decorated with wrought-iron statues, huge portraits, and lots and lots of gold.
“So here’s the quick version,” she says. “Each lobby is dedicated to a particular region.” She points to the row of doors marked with the names of European places. “The knockers—doors that lead out of the Hotel—run along the outer wall of the lobby ring.” She nods to the grand staircase that leads to the upper level. “Up there, where we just came from, is the Elevator Bank, and beyond that is the Mezz, with—”
“Nico explained all that to me. But where’s the Shaft fit in?”
“Doesn’t work like that. The Shaft’s just the Shaft. It’s like . . . glue holding everything together. What’s important are the four main rings that make up the trunk—Lobby Level, Elevator Bank, Mezzanine, Courtyard. Everything else branches off those by way of turners, which is just what we call doors binding one part of the Hotel to another.”
“Like branches of a tree,” I say, picturing the recurring symbol.
She nods. “Turners and knockers are in all the great Houses. Just remember that the turners bind the insides, and the knockers connect to the outside.”
After a quick detour to grab fur-lined coats from a closet, Rahki heads for the Budapest Door.
“One more thing,” she says before opening the knocker. “If we get separated, don’t panic.”
My skin prickles. “Why would we get separated?” I’m not at all interested in getting lost forever in Hungary.
“It happens. But if something does go wrong, your coin will want to come back. The coin binds you to the Hotel—it always wants to bring you and the Hotel back together. As long as you have it, it will guide you to the door. Knock at the knocker, and someone will let you in. Here at the Hotel, a knocked door is always opened.”
She glances to the landing atop the grand staircase and purses her lips. Agapios stands above us, hands clasped behind him, staring down at me. The grave look in his eyes sends a chill straight up my spine.
“Come on,” Rahki says, opening the door and letting the snow billow through. “Welcome to Budapest.”
The Budapest Door leads us into a wide-open town square.
“Wow,” I say. It’s the only word I can form.
All around us, tall glass-and-stone buildings drip with light. Carved granite arches glow as the sun sets beyond them. Warm, yellow strings of incandescent bulbs drape from pop-up tents scattered throughout the square. Tree branches twist and curl, carrying the lights into the sky like the fiery breath of a dragon.
Rahki crouches down to retie her Chucks. “Vörösmarty tér,” she says, pulling the knot. “The Eastern Orthodox countries really make a splash this time of year.”
“It’s . . . ”
“Budapest at Christmastime is one of my favorites.”
I shoot her a confused look. “Don’t you . . . ?” I nod to her headscarf.
“Just because I don’t celebrate the holiday doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate its festivities. Beautiful things are always beautiful. It’s how we perceive them that makes us think they’re not.”
She turns to me, and I notice the long wooden baton hanging from her belt under her coat. It’s sanded as smooth as its satin holster, with a flared, splintery end at the top.
“It’s a duster,” she explains when she sees me looking. “Maid Service weapon of choice.”
She strikes a gloved finger up the wood.
“Maid Service gloves are rough, like sandpaper,” she says, rubbing her fingers together. “The gloves shave off the topmost layer of our dusters to give us binding dust.” She holds out her hand, her index finger glittering with powder from the baton.
“What’s it do?”
She smiles. “Give me your hand.”
I hesitate, but eventually give in.
Rahki runs her dusted fingertip along my index and middle fingers, then squeezes them together. “The dust binds. That’s all. Go ahead; pull them apart.”
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At first I’m not sure what she means, but when I try to wiggle my fingers, I can’t. At least, not the two she bound with the glitter-dust. “It’s like they’re superglued together.” I try to shake it off, but no matter what I do, I can’t separate my fingers. “How do you undo it?”
“It’ll wear off eventually.”
“Eventually?!”
“Calm down,” she says, still smiling. “You’re way better off than Nico was when I showed him.” She snickers. “Bound that stupid bowler hat to his face. Used a little too much dust, but it was worth it. He was pretty much blind for a whole day.” She narrows her eyes. “But you should know that if you get out of line, my dusting can get pretty creative.”
It’s totally a threat. She trusts me about as far as I trust her, which is pretty much not at all.
Rahki points to one of the glass buildings strung with lights wound in giant balls, and I can barely make out the head of a statue over the tents. “Our contact is meeting us behind the statue of Míhaly. Let’s hurry.”
“So, you fight with those duster things?” I ask, still struggling to force my fingers apart as she marches ahead of me.
“Dusters are good for fighting, but they have lots of other uses too. Binding people’s hands, setting traps, mending doors—you can do a lot with a good duster, as long as you’re willing to spend the dust.”
I try spitting on my hand and using the spittle to rub my fingers free, but it doesn’t work. I already wasn’t a fan of Rahki after she turned us in, but this is downright insulting.
As we weave through the crowded square, I turn my attention to the cedar-posted tents that line the street. Each kiosk is wrapped in green garland and twinkling lights. The smell of smoked meats and honey and fir trees and cinnamon makes me feel like I’m inside the very essence of Christmas. Rahki’s right. This is cool. I have to stay focused, though. We don’t like her. She turned us in, bound my fingers. She’s a maid, and Nico said maids are the enemy.
But she doesn’t seem like an enemy.
Rahki passes a bill to a vendor and takes a jelly-filled donut in return.
“You just happen to have their kind of money?”
“Hotel bills are bound,” she says. “Our money’s universal, tailored to pass as whatever kind of cash we need it to be.”
“Won’t they notice it’s . . . different?”
“They don’t notice the doors, do they?” She shrugs. “There’s a different kind of magic involved—one that distorts the reality of what people see. But no, those we give Hotel bills to don’t notice right away. Before they figure out the money’s not real, our Business Office calls it back and replaces it with whatever it should be.”
“I’d think you’d be able to just . . . magically . . . you know?”
She looks confused.
“You know. Change it to whatever you want.”
“You’re talking about shaping, and it doesn’t work like that. There are rules to this stuff.” She takes a bite and looks me up and down. “All right, your turn. What’s the deal with you? Why are you here?”
“Why does it matter?”
Rahki eyes me suspiciously. “Fine. Don’t tell me. But I know you want something.” She sinks her teeth into the pastry and continues down the row.
I struggle to keep up, pressing through the crowd. Coin or no coin, I do not want to get lost. “How do you know I want something? What if I just want to see the world?”
She stops, and I almost run into her. “See the world? Really? Because you look absolutely terrified out here.”
My hands clench into fists. Truth is, I am terrified. My brain has already conjured fifteen different ways this trip could get me killed—everything from catching a Hungarian virus to getting mugged in a back alley. But I can’t let her know that.
“The Hotel doesn’t appear for just anyone,” she says. “It invites those who are searching. People who need something they can’t get anywhere else. So spill it.”
I don’t answer.
She glances up at a clock on one of the buildings and groans. “We need to pick up the pace. Got a schedule to keep to. But if you want to stick around, you’re going to have to give me something.”
We pass a heavenly smelling tent with cooked meats hanging from the supports. The barbecue smell reminds me of home: of Oma, and Cass, and backyard dinners. I miss them, especially Oma. Her not knowing where I went is probably worrying her to death. And I haven’t been in touch with them yet; I’m a terrible brother and grandson.
I spy a rack of postcards at one of the vendors, and remember Oma’s stacks and stacks of cards from Dad. “If I wanted to send someone something . . . ”
Rahki understands right away, and passes me one of the bound bills. “Go get a postcard, and you can send it through the mail room.”
She watches carefully as I purchase a card with the words “Üdvözöljük Magyarország” written in flourishing letters over a building dotted with domes and spires. I don’t like the way she looks at me as I make my purchase. It’s like she already knows the secret fears boiling inside me.
“Our contact will be over here,” she says when I come back, then disappears through a group of laughing teens.
I start to follow, but something catches my eye. A man, dressed in a pinstriped suit and squatty straw hat, ordering a cone of candied nuts.
Mr. Stripe glances over, tips his boater hat with his cane, and winks.
Why’s he here?
“Cam?” Rahki calls from the other side of the lane. “Where’d you go?”
Stripe waves me on and turns back to the vendor. I swallow the questions gurgling in my throat and hurry to join her.
A large stone man rises over us, glowing under the lit trees. He sits confidently on his bench as chiseled children peek out from under his feet. The statue almost reminds me of the Old Man, with his stern face and dark, empty eyes. Is that what the concierge feels like, with all those kids serving under him?
But the kids in the statue don’t look scared. They look safe, as if the man’s protecting them. I’ve always yearned for that. To feel safe. Protected. To be just as carefree as all the other kids I know. Oma takes good care of us, but it seems like it’s different for the kids with parents. They all seem so . . . confident.
I glance back to where I saw Stripe, but he’s not there. Maybe he has something to tell me. Maybe we can get Dad back a different way. But how’d he find me?
Rahki scans the crowd. “Where is he?”
“I’m here.”
A pale-faced boy walks around the statue, wearing a heavy, navy trenchcoat with silver buttons. Curly black hair poofs out from under a rounded bowler like mine, and furry patches stick out on his face.
It takes a moment to figure out why he looks so familiar.
“Szia, Orban,” Rahki says.
“Szia.” He shakes her hand.
It’s Orban . . . the one who was with Stripe in the Corridor. He looks so loose and casual. Back with Stripe, he’d been formal and deadpan.
Our eyes meet, and Orban smiles. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Wait . . . but he has met me! I want to correct him, but then I understand. He’s only pretending not to know me.
“Cameron’s new,” Rahki says. “I’m showing him around.”
“Good to meet you, Mr. Cameron,” Orban says, rolling his Rs. He gives me a subtle bow. I shake his meaty hand, trying not to stare at the patches of fur on his face. The one under his eye looks like a boot, and another along his jaw could easily be a map of California. An extremely hairy map.
“Orban’s one of our suppliers,” Rahki says. “Not exactly staff, but he might as well be.”
“Suppliers?” I ask.
“The Hotel traffics in very particular goods and services.” Orban levels his gaze at me. “As long as everyone does their job, everything will be fine.”
It’s a message especially for me. Stripe, telling me this whole situation’s under control.
“Always to business, this Rahki.” Orban motions to the festivities, and pulls a cookie from his coat. “Have you enjoyed our treats? Vörösmarty has the very best.”
Rahki’s eyes widen. “Are those honey cookies?”
“Indeed. And they are halal!” Orban follows with an exclamation—something in Hungarian—and Rahki laughs. They seem so casual, as if this whole thing is no big deal. Maybe it’s not. Maybe this “mission” thing is something they do all the time.
Their conversation continues without me, and I take in the twisting metal lampposts and snow-topped stonework. I’m in Hungary. And it’s not as bad as I thought it’d be. Traveling. Being somewhere that’s not home. It’s almost . . . exciting.
Almost.
My attention turns back to the crowd, and the man in the pinstriped suit standing at the edge of the square. Stripe dips his fingers into the bag of candied nuts, watching us out of the corner of his eye. I need to talk to him, to get him to tell me what to do now that the Hotel knows I’m there, and with my Dad’s coin, no less. I start to break away—Rahki and Orban are so deep in conversation that they probably wouldn’t notice—but Stripe shakes his head. A serious look in his eye tells me to wait.
Orban leads us down an alley off the main square. Whereas Vörösmarty tér was clear and clean for the festival, the side streets are blanketed in dirty, gray snow. Long shadows from the coach lights grope down the alley. The noise of the festival dwindles to a dreadful silence.
Rahki and Orban continue their conversation as I trail behind them. Orban talks fast—too fast, I think, like he’s nervous—but Rahki fills me in with a translation here and there.
“ . . . he says they were in a sweatshop upriver . . . ”
“ . . . hadn’t been fed well . . . ”
“ . . . they’ll need some care before placement . . . ”
I stop her. “Wait, are you talking about people?”
Rahki screws up her face. “Not just people. The mission.”
Orban stops at a door behind a building just off the Danube River. Huge barges full of lit windows creak in the waves. I can smell the wet rocks from here.