The light was fading so the key collector lit the lanterns.
“It is lovely here,” the woman said. She began to look through the garden keys, keys held by statues and keys wound around topiaries. She stopped in front of a tree that was just starting to blossom, reaching out to a key, one of many hanging from red ribbons.
“Will that key suit your lock?” the key collector asked.
“More than that,” the woman answered. “This is my key. I lost it a very long time ago. I’m glad it found its way to you.”
“I am glad to return it,” the key collector said. He reached up to untie the ribbon for her, leaving it hanging from the key in her hand.
“I must find a way to repay you,” the woman said to the key collector.
“No need for that,” the key collector told her. “It is my pleasure to help reunite you with your locked-away thing.”
“Oh,” the woman said. “It is not a thing. It is a place.”
She held the key out in front of her at a height above her waist where a keyhole might have been if there was a door and part of the key vanished. The woman turned the key and an invisible door unlocked in the middle of the key collector’s garden. The woman pushed the door open.
The key and its ribbon remained hanging in midair.
The key collector looked through the door into a golden room with high arched windows. Dozens of candles stood on tables laid for a great feast. He heard music playing and laughter coming from out of sight. Through the windows he could see waterfalls and mountains, a sky brightly lit by two moons and countless stars reflected in a shimmering sea.
The woman walked through the door, her long cloak trailing over the golden tiles.
The key collector stood in his garden, staring.
The woman took the key on its ribbon from its lock.
She turned back to the key collector. She raised a hand in invitation, beckoning him forward.
The key collector followed.
The door closed behind him.
No one ever saw him again.
ZACHARY EZRA RAWLINS wakes up long ago and far away, or at least that’s what it feels like.
Disoriented and woozy, his mind a second behind his body, like pulling himself through crystal-clear mud. As though he’s still drunk but doing it wrong.
The only other time he felt similar was a night he would prefer to forget that involved too much chardonnay and he associates the feeling with that, a bright, crystalline white-wine sensation: tingling and sharp and a touch oaky. Getting up not remembering that he has fallen down.
He rubs his eyes, looking around at the blur of the room, confused because it is too large and remembering he is in a hotel and as the events of the night before find their way through the haze the room congeals in his blurry vision and he remembers that he is not in a hotel at all and he starts to panic.
Breathe, the voice in his head says and he listens, thankfully, and tries to keep his focus on inhale and exhale and repeat.
Zachary closes his eyes but reality seeps in through his other senses. The room smells of a formerly crackling fire and sandalwood and something dark and deep and unidentifiable. There is a far-off chiming noise that must have woken him. The bed and the pillows are marshmallow soft. His curiosity wages a silent war with his anxiety making it more difficult to breathe, but as he forces his lungs into taking slow, steady breaths, curiosity wins and he opens his eyes.
The room is brighter now, light comes through panels of amber glass set into the stone above the door, filtering in from the hall. It’s a light he associates more with late afternoon than morning. There is more stuff in the room than he remembers, even without his glasses he can make out the Victrola by the armchairs, the dripping candles on the mantel. The painting of a ship at sea hanging over the fireplace.
Zachary rubs his eyes but the room remains the same. Not knowing what else to do, he pulls himself reluctantly from the marshmallow bed and begins an approximation of his morning routine.
He finds his discarded clothes in the bathroom, stiff with paint and dirt, and wonders if this place has laundry services. For some reason laundry concerns drag him back to the reality of the situation, dreams or hallucinations probably don’t involve such mundane problems. He tries to recall a single dream that ever involved thinking “I might need new socks” and fails.
The bathroom is also full of more stuff than he remembered: a mirrored cabinet contains a toothbrush and toothpaste in a metal tube and several neatly labeled jars of creams and oils, one of them an aftershave that smells of cinnamon and bourbon.
There is a separate shower next to the tub and Zachary does his best to wash the gold paint out of his hair, to scrape the last of it from his skin. There are soaps in fancy dishes and all of them smell woodsy or resiny, as though everything has been tailored to his scent preferences.
Wrapped in a towel Zachary inspects the rest of the room, looking for something to wear that is not his sweaty, paint-stained suit.
A wardrobe looms over one wall next to a non-matching dresser. Not only is there something to wear, there are options. The drawers are filled with sweaters and socks and underwear, the wardrobe hung with shirts and trousers. Everything looks handmade, natural fibers and no tags. He puts on a pair of brown linen pants and a collarless moss green shirt with polished wood buttons. He takes out a grey cable-knit sweater that reminds him of one of his own favorites. In the bottom of the wardrobe there are several pairs of shoes and of course they fit, which bothers him more than the clothing since most of it is loose-fitting and adjustable, everything fits but that could be explained away by him being on the slim side of standard but the shoes are scary. He slides on a pair of brown suede shoes that could have been tailor-made (cobbler-made?) for him.
Maybe they have elves who measure feet and make shoes while you sleep, the voice in his head suggests.
I thought you were the practical voice of reason, head voice, Zachary thinks back, but receives no response.
Zachary puts the room key and his compass and, after a moment’s hesitation, Dorian’s sword back around his neck. He tries to push the worry about what has occurred up there while he has been down here to the back of his mind. He distracts himself by looking around the room, even though he can’t see it all that well. Up close things are clear enough, but it means exploring a few steps at a time, taking in the space in small gulps.
He takes a book from one of the shelves, recalling a story that was probably a Twilight Zone episode: so much to read and no eyeglasses.
He flips the book open to a random page anyway and the printed words are crisp and clear.
Zachary looks up. The bed, the paintings on the walls, the fireplace, everything has the distinct fuzziness his ophthalmological cocktail of nearsightedness and astigmatism casts on the world. He looks back at the book in his hands.
It’s a volume of poetry. Dickinson, he thinks. Perfectly legible, the type sharp even though the font is small, down to the pinprick periods and minuscule commas.
He puts the book down and picks up another. It’s the same, perfectly readable. He replaces it on the shelf. He goes to the desk where the brown leather book he procured from the Collector’s Club for Dorian rests. He attempts to see if whatever trick this is will focus the illustrations and the Arabic as well but when he opens the book to the title page not only are the curling illuminations clear, the title is in English.
Fortunes and Fables
it reads, clearly, obviously, in a fancy script but definitely in English. He wonders if it is printed in different languages and he didn’t notice before but as he flips through the pages each one shows the same familiar alphabet.
Zachary puts the book down, light-headed again. He can’t remember when he last ate. Was it at the party? Was that only the night before? He remembers the Keeper mentioning something
about the Kitchen near the fireplace.
By the still-fuzzy fireplace (though he can tell from this distance that the ship in the painting above is captained and crewed by rabbits in an otherwise realistic seascape) is a panel set into the wall, like a cabinet door fitted into the stone, with a small button next to it.
Zachary opens the door to find a space that could be a dumbwaiter, with a small thick book and a box inside, a folded note card perched on top. Zachary picks up the card.
Greetings, Mr. Rawlins. Welcome.
We hope you enjoy your stay.
Should you require or desire refreshment of any sort, please do not hesitate to use our service system. It is designed to be as convenient as possible.
· Inscribe your request upon a card. The book contains a selection of offerings but please do not let its listings dictate your choices, we will be happy to prepare anything you wish if it is within our means.
· Place your request card in the dumbwaiter. Close the door and press the button to send your request to the Kitchen.
· Your refreshment will be prepared and sent to you. A chime will indicate its arrival.
· Please return any unneeded or unused dishes, etcetera, via the same method when you are finished.
· Additional access is available throughout the Harbor in designated areas for use when you are not in your chamber.
If you have any questions feel free to include them with your requests and we shall do our best to answer them.
Thank you, and again, we hope you will enjoy your stay.
—The Kitchen
Inside the box there are a number of similar note cards and a fountain pen. Zachary flips through the book which contains the longest menu he has ever seen: chapters and lists of food and beverages organized and cross-referenced by style, taste, texture, temperature, and regional cuisines by continent.
He closes the book and picks up a card and after some consideration he writes down Hello and thanks for the welcome and requests coffee with cream and sugar and a muffin or a croissant, whatever they might have. He puts the card in the dumbwaiter and closes the door and presses the button. The button lights up and there is a soft mechanical noise, a miniature version of the elevator hum.
Zachary turns his attention back to the room and the books but a minute later there is a chime from the wall. As he opens the door he wonders if he did something incorrectly or if perhaps they are out of both muffins and croissants but inside he finds a silver tray containing a steaming pot of coffee, an empty mug, a bowl of sugar cubes and a tiny pitcher of (warmed) cream accompanied by a basket of warm pastries (three muffins of varying flavors, croissants of the butter and au chocolat variety, as well as a folded pastry that appears to involve apples and goat cheese). There is also a chilled bottle of sparkling water and a glass and a folded cloth napkin with a single yellow flower tucked inside.
Another card informs him that the lemon poppy seed muffin is gluten-free and if he has any dietary restrictions to please let them know. Also if he would like jam or honey.
Zachary stares at the pastry basket as he pours his coffee, adding a drop of cream and a single sugar cube. The coffee is a stronger blend than he is used to but smooth and excellent and so is everything he tries from the pastry basket of wonderment. Even the water is particularly nice, though he has always thought that sparkling water feels fancier because of the bubbles.
What is this place?
Zachary takes his pastries (which, though delicious, are blurry) and his coffee back to the desk, trying to clear his head with the aid of caffeine and carbohydrates. He opens Dorian’s book again. He turns the pages slowly. There are old-fashioned illustrations, lovely full-color pages sprinkled throughout, and the titles make it seem like a book of fairy tales. He reads a few lines of one called “The Girl and the Feather” before turning back to the beginning, but as he does a key falls from the space beneath the spine of the book and clatters onto the desk.
The key is long and thin, a skeleton key with a rounded head and small simple teeth. It is sticky, as though it had been glued into the spine of the book, behind the pages and underneath the leather.
Zachary wonders if it was the book or the key that Dorian was after. Or both.
He opens the book again and reads the first story, which includes within it a version of the same tale Dorian told him in the dark at the party. It does not, to his disappointment, elaborate as to what the mouse did with Fate’s heart. Reading the story brings back more complicated emotions than Zachary knows how to deal with this early in the morning so he closes the book and strings the key on the chain along with his room key and then pulls on the grey turtleneck sweater. It is such a heavy knit that the keys and the compass and the sword are camouflaged beneath the cables and it keeps them from clattering. He expects the sweater to smell like cedar but instead it smells faintly of pancakes.
On a whim he writes a note to the Kitchen and asks about laundry.
Do please send us anything that needs cleaning, Mr. Rawlins
comes the quick response.
Zachary piles his paint-splattered suit in the dumbwaiter as neatly as he can and sends it down.
A few seconds later the bell chimes, and at this point Zachary wouldn’t be surprised if his clothes were somehow clean already but instead he finds the forgotten contents of his pockets returned: his hotel key and his wallet and two pieces of paper, one the note from Dorian and the other a printed ticket with a scribbled word that was once a bourbon and is now a smudge. Zachary leaves everything on the mantel, beneath the bunny pirates.
He finds a messenger bag, an old military-type bag in a faded olive green with a number of buckles. He puts Fortunes and Fables inside along with a muffin carefully wrapped in his napkin and then, after half making the rumpled bed, leaves the room, locking the door behind him, and attempts to find his way back to the entrance. The Heart, the Keeper had called it.
He makes three turns before he resorts to consulting his compass. The halls look different, brighter than before, the light changed. There are lamps tucked between books, strings of bulbs hanging from the ceilings. Lights that look like gas lamps at intersections. There are stairs but he doesn’t remember stairs so he doesn’t take any of them. He passes through a large open room with long tables and green glass lamps that looks very library-like except for the fact that the entire floor is sunken into a reflecting pool, with paths left raised and dry to traverse the space or to reach the table islands. He passes a cat staring intently into the water and follows its gaze to a single orange koi swimming under the cat’s watchful eye.
This place is not what Zachary had pictured while reading Sweet Sorrows.
It is bigger, for a start. He can never see terribly far in one direction at any time but it feels like it goes on forever. He can’t even think how to describe it. It’s like an art museum and an overflowing library were relocated into a subway system.
More than anything it reminds Zachary of his university campus: the long stretches of walkways connecting different areas, the endless bookshelves, and something he can’t put his finger on, a feeling more than an architectural feature. A studiousness underlying a place of learning and stories and secrets.
Though he appears to be the only student. Or the only one who isn’t a cat.
After the reflecting-pool reading room and a hall full of books that all have blue covers Zachary takes a turn that leads him back to the tiled cathedral-esque entrance with its universe clock. The chandeliers are brighter, though some are slumped on the floor. They are suspended (or not) by long stringlike cords and chains, in blues and reds and greens. He hadn’t noticed that before. The tiles look more colorful but chipped and faded, parts seem like murals but there are not enough pieces left in place to make out any of the subjects. The pendulum sways in the middle of the room. The door to the elevator
is closed but the door to the Keeper’s office is open, widely now, the ginger cat visible on an armchair, staring at him.
“Good morning, Mister Rawlins,” the Keeper says without looking up from his desk before Zachary can knock on the open door. “I hope you slept well.”
“I did, thank you,” Zachary replies. He has too many questions but he has to start somewhere. “Where is everyone?”
“You are the only guest at the moment,” the Keeper answers but continues to write.
“But aren’t there…residents?”
“Not currently, no. Is there anything else you need?”
The Keeper hasn’t moved his eyes from his notebook so Zachary tries the most specific question he has.
“This is kind of random but do you happen to have spare eyeglasses around here somewhere?”
The Keeper looks up, putting down his pen.
“I am so sorry,” he says, getting up and crossing the room to reach one of the many-drawered cabinets. “I do wish you would have inquired last night, I should have something that will suit. Nearsighted or far?”
“Near with astigmatism in both eyes but a strong nearsighted should help.”
The Keeper opens a few different drawers and then hands Zachary a small box containing several pairs of eyeglasses, mostly wire-rimmed but a few with thicker frames and a single pair of horn-rimmed.
“Hopefully one of these should suffice,” the Keeper says. He returns to the desk and his writing while Zachary tries on different pairs of glasses, abandoning the first for being too tight but several fit fine and are surprisingly close to his prescription. He settles on a pair in a coppery color with rectangular lenses.
“These will be great, thank you,” he says, handing the box back to the Keeper.
“You are welcome to keep them for the duration of your stay. May I assist you with anything else this morning?”
“Is…is Mirabel back yet?” Zachary asks.
Again the Keeper’s face falters into something that could be mild annoyance but it passes so quickly Zachary can’t be sure. He guesses that the Keeper and Mirabel might not be on the best of terms.
The Starless Sea Page 14
