The Key of Lost Things

by Sean Easley

  Rahki takes the have-sack from me. “We’ll track down those last two while you report in. What should we do about your room?”

  “Nothing until Orban finds that shelter.” Oma’s so going to kill me.

  I head toward the elevators and the Old Man’s inevitable disappointment when he hears about the cat crisis.

  “Are you coming to dinner afterward?” Sev calls out.

  “Not tonight,” I holler back. “Family dinner night.”

  “Oh.” He and Rahki both give me knowing looks.

  Can this day get any worse?

  • • •

  The rickety, open-air platform of the staff elevator drops into the Shaft, and my stomach drops with it.

  Wind from the pit below whooshes through the metal cage, sending a shiver from my cuff links to my coattails. High above, the mouth of the dormant Shaft volcano opens up to a bright blue circle of sky, but precious little of that warm light makes it this deep. I guess the cold is better than having this whole chasm blow up and torch us to a crisp.

  Hanging metal cages and gold boxes travel along rails around the cylindrical chamber, stopping every once in a while at the hundreds of elevator doors carved into the rock to pick up or drop off their riders. It’s a strange mixture of binding magic and modern technology that carries our guests to the Hotel halls scattered all over the world. I don’t fully understand how the elevator system works, but even if I did, I doubt I could ever be comfortable in this creepy volcanic hole.

  I pull my arms in, resisting the urge to look down into the darkness. Whenever I do, I’m always reminded of things I never wanted to see: memories of my mom and that night long ago when we lost her.

  The cage creaks to a stop, and I draw the metal grill aside to leave the Shaft behind and enter the twilight Courtyard, in the central ring of the Hotel.

  The sparkling marble-and-gold tree statue rises from the pool before me, its gurgling boughs shading the ornate doors on the eastern side of the Courtyard. The Shadedial Fountain. Each of the doors arrayed around the fountain lead to different time zones scattered all over the world. The angle of the fountain tree’s shadow tells me which of those places are experiencing nighttime right now, like an enormous sundial. It’s a useful way to tell time when traveling from day to night as often as we do.

  I’m not headed through any of those doors right now, though. I go along a different path, past the fountain, to the double doors on the southern side of the yard.

  The new doorway curls up from the fresh-cut grass like tree roots, as if the double doors had grown from the land itself. More roots wind around the gnarled door and away from it in every direction, reaching out toward the frames on the outer Mezzanine wall to carry the Hotel’s magic to every hidden nook and alcove.

  I pull my pearl key from an inner pocket of my tailcoat, fingering it reverently. Mom’s topscrew—which gives me access to all areas of the Hotel. There is no keyhole in the door before me, but this key doesn’t need one. I insert the topscrew directly into the wood, enjoying the tissue-paper crackle of the binding as glittery foam expands to form a magic keyhole around it.

  The crisscrossing roots and branches retract, and the heavy doors creak open. I try not to gag as the hot garbage stench of the Greenhouse rushes through and curls down my throat. On the other side of the door, dusky yellow sky filters through the glass dome overhead, casting amber sunbeams across the massive tree before me.

  I follow the winding dirt path past tables of herbs and flowers that I can’t even begin to identify. Groundskeepers in paper masks tend to the plants—spraying and snipping and fertilizing—hoping to grow new sources of the magic that runs the Hotel.

  We all hope they find something soon. The Vesima tree is dying.

  Unlike the Shadedial Fountain tree, the Vesima is very real. It stands before me, several stories tall, so expansive that its branches obscure the sky. But despite its grandeur, the Vesima’s limbs droop like wilted celery, dripping with sickness ever since we took it back from the Hotel’s enemies. The fruits—like rotten, oversize pears—dangle loosely from the branches.

  An image flashes through me—memories of a man in a pin-striped suit biting into one of the tree’s nasty fruits just inches from my face, black goop dribbling from his mouth, his teeth gummy with tar, the rancid smell of his breath as he tries to make me his indentured servant.

  Mr. Stripe’s not here, I remind myself. The Hotel’s magic prevents him from entering through its doors uninvited.

  Standing right where Stripe stood the last time I saw him, I instead find the frail, twiggy figure of Agapios Panotierri tending to the weeds at the foot of the tree. The Old Man—as the junior hoteliers affectionately call him—has exchanged his Grand Concierge coattails and formal gloves for a pair of jean overalls and gardening gloves.

  Agapios removes his sunhat and wipes the sweat from his forehead. Everything about him—from his sharp cheekbones to his pale complexion and knobby frame—always looks so grave.

  “Mr. Cameron,” he says in his crisp accent, “I believe you have news.”

  I tell him about the angry guests, and about the cats and how we’re still missing two of them. I leave out the part about the one that disappeared, though. Maybe I did imagine it after all.

  Agapios eases himself up and brushes the dirt from his gloves. “It appears your friend has been very busy. Tell me, why do you think Mr. Nico insists on disrupting the peace of our Hotel?”

  I almost laugh. The Hotel is a lot of things, but I’d never consider it peaceful.

  “It’s who he is,” I say, clasping my hands behind my back in parade rest, like Agapios taught me. He says it’s a proper stance, but it makes me feel itchy. “Nico likes mischief.”

  Of course, that’s the understatement of the year. If Nico were still on staff, he’d surely win Most Likely to Burn the Hotel Down to Get a Laugh.

  Agapios carries a pail to an old spigot and pumps the lever. A squeal of water pours from the spout. “What did he say he intended to do with Stripe’s Museum after he took control of it?”

  Back to this. It doesn’t matter that Nico came through for us in the end—all anyone cares about is that he betrayed us in the first place. He never came back to clear his name like Orban and Sev did, and that makes it hard for those in the Hotel to believe he ever had our best interests at heart. If he had returned, I wonder whether they would still distrust him.

  “Nico said he was going to build his ‘empire,’ ” I tell Agapios, again, like I have a thousand times before. I should get stickers made.

  “Ah, right. His own, personal empire . . .”

  I wince against the screech of the water pump as Agapios fills the bucket. “Nico believes in our mission, sir,” I say. “He just . . .” What? Doesn’t belong here? Isn’t like the rest of us? It’s hard to think with the pump shrieking like that.

  “Nico has led you to believe many things, but I wonder how you can be so sure that he is not our enemy.” Agapios glances up at the dying tree. “Much has happened since you saw him last. His disposition may have changed.”

  “He gave us back the Greenhouse, remember? He saved me, and Cass, and all those kids. Nico just . . . he is who he is.”

  Agapios carries the pail to the foot of the tree and pours the water onto a section of the roots that isn’t darkened with the tree’s sickness. The roots soak up the water hungrily, and an unseen wind whispers through the wilted leaves above.

  I gaze up into those sickly branches. The Vesima is the heart of the Hotel’s magic. Without it, the whole place would fall apart. Without her . . .

  I’m not sure how to think of my mom these days. She’s not dead, exactly. Years ago Dad made an agreement with Mr. Stripe that threatened the Hotel and everyone in it, and Mom entangled her spirit with the Hotel and the tree, to save me and my sister and everyone else. She sacrificed herself to fix Dad’s mistakes, and now she’s all around us. Guarding the Hotel’s secrets. She’s in the tree that holds it all
together. In a way, she is the tree, and the Hotel, and the magic itself.

  Which scares me. If the groundskeepers aren’t able to cure the tree’s sickness, will she die along with it? If the Hotel falls apart, do I lose her forever?

  The Old Man waves to one of the groundskeepers across the Greenhouse. Not just any groundskeeper, though. It’s Reinhart. My dad. The man who’s at least partially responsible for what happened to Mom.

  My chest tightens as Dad sets down his pallet of herbs and rushes over to join us.

  “Mr. Kuhn,” Agapios says, handing him the empty pail. “Return this to the toolshed for me, please.”

  Dad responds with a bow, and glances over at me.

  I look away.

  He doesn’t seem to know how to act around me sometimes, but I don’t know how to act around him either. I mean, I’ve only known my dad for a few months. After a lifetime of longing to meet him, I expected that this whole “being a family” thing would be easier. I thought I would know what to do. Sometimes I regret asking Agapios to take him in, because now that he’s here it feels like we’re farther apart than we were when he was missing. Then I regret regretting, because what kind of person finds what they’ve wanted all their lives and then wishes it would go away?

  “You coming to dinner tonight?” I ask him.

  “Of course,” Dad says.

  Of course? He’s only remembered to come to a couple of our family nights, and he was late both times. Even though we’re living in the same house, I don’t really see him all that often. It’s like after years away, he still doesn’t want to be around us.

  “Just don’t forget again,” I tell him. “Please. Oma really wants you there.”

  He grimaces and heads off toward the shed.

  Agapios watches me for a moment, but at least this time he doesn’t offer all his sage wisdom about “giving him time” and how Dad “went through a lot” during those missing years. Maybe he’s realizing too that after a lifetime of not knowing each other, Dad and I might just be . . . incompatible.

  The Old Man clears his voice. “I have a new task for you, Mr. Cameron.”

  I perk up at the prospect of anything that’ll take my mind off this heavy feeling in my gut.

  “The Hotel has been in need of an event coordinator for a few years now,” he says. “I have done my best to fill this gap, but,”—he looks up at the tree—“the Greenhouse and my other duties consume my attention as of late.”

  “You want me to find a new event coordinator?” Piece of cake. There should be plenty of staffers who know what it takes to plan parties. I just have to pick someone, like with the assignment Agapios gave me to pick the awards. Best Event Coordinator goes to . . .

  But he’s shaking his head. “No, I want you to serve as event coordinator.”

  I don’t like where this is going. “I thought I was Concierge-in- Training. I can’t be both, can I?”

  “I have been performing event coordinator duties along with my other responsibilities for quite some time. As future concierge, you will need to fill many roles. This will give you opportunity and experience.”

  “But . . . what do I do?” I’m only now starting to get this concierge thing under control, and now he’s changing the rules.

  “You’ll start by planning our upcoming Embassy gala,” he says. “Think of it as a big party to end the summer season. We’ll be celebrating the binding day of one of the Embassy’s ambassadors—Admiral Dare, of the Fleet Marines. She has done much for the Hotel over the years, and deserves the recognition. You’ll need to speak with Chef Silva about food, coordinate security with the Maid Commander, arrange entertainment, organize arriving guests—”

  “I don’t know how to do all that! I’m not even sure what the Embassy is.”

  Agapios draws his lips into a thin line. “This is precisely my point. The most important job a leader has is to open the door for others to succeed. You are surrounded by very talented people. You must learn who they are, and how to work with them.”

  I can’t hold in my groan. Everybody wants me to learn. Why can’t I just master what I already know?

  He answers my unspoken question. “When I brought you on staff, I told you that this position would challenge you. Challenges shape us into who we are meant to be.” He turns his attention back to the tools on the table at the foot of the tree. “You have two months to prepare. Please take this task seriously if you wish to continue your path toward becoming concierge. You will not get a second chance to make a good impression on the Embassy. I will provide more details at our next session.”

  And with that, the discussion is over.

  3

  Dinner Plans

  The Embassy Gala—a giant party for a bunch of big, important people I don’t know. They’ll need places to stay—that’s easy at least. They’ll have to eat, too. Do I need to make up a menu to give to the kitchen staff? I’ll have to plan security, send out invitations, make sure everyone knows the program, entertain the guests while they’re here, and somehow prevent Nico from spoiling it all.

  Oh yeah. This is going to go very badly.

  There’s a bright side, though—after seven long months on staff, I might finally start getting answers to all my questions about the Hotel, and the Embassy, and the magics that make it all possible. Maybe then I’ll understand why Nico chose not to come back with us.

  By the time I get back to my bedroom on the seventeenth floor, this gala thing has made me forget all about the cats, which was definitely a mistake.

  I crack my bedroom door and am instantly greeted by a chorus of yowls and hisses. I’ve never seen so many hateful creatures in such a small, confined space. They’ve already shredded the bedclothes and the curtains, and have even started turning the legs of my desk into scratching posts.

  The stench of cat waste crawls up into my nose and forces a sneeze.

  “What is that racket?” Oma shouts down the hall.

  I shut the bedroom door and lock it with my topscrew. “Nothing!” I call back as the silvery foam recedes and the noise of the cats is whisked far, far away. The key turns cold. Using the topscrew will hide the mess from Oma for at least a little while. Hopefully Orban can deal with this cat problem soon.

  Oma huffs from the other room. “Always nothing with you. Your father was the same. Always nothing. Always up to trouble, I think. As if we don’t . . .”

  I hold back a smile as she rounds the corner. It’s a good sign when Oma jabbers like this. It means that for once she’s not worried. Though, I’m pretty sure that fifty balls of destructive fluff using your bedroom as a communal toilet is a good reason to worry.

  “I keep saying, ‘Don’t look for trouble,’ ” she continues as she marches past without a glance at me, “but no one listens. Where is your father?”

  “Last I saw, he was in the Greenhouse.”

  She bangs on Dad’s door at the end of the hall. “Reinhart! Are you in there?” It’s strange hearing her talk to our dad like she talks to us. It’s as if all three of us are her kids that she’s trying to keep in line, especially now that we’re all living under one roof.

  “Maybe he’s still there?” Cass offers, rolling out of her room in her sleek black wheelchair.

  Oma hoists her hands to her hips, staring at his door as if it’s going to open by the sheer power of her indomitable will. Then she stomps back to the living room in a hurry.

  Cass and I follow. Cass is dressed in her usual Hotel-formal getup, coattails hanging out the back of her wheelchair. The suit’s been her outfit of choice ever since she started hopping through the Hotel doors, exploring all the places where she was never allowed to go before. It’s amazing how clean her suit stays, considering all her traipsing around.

  “Oma’s gonna fry you like a fish when she finds out what you’re hiding in there,” she whispers as her magic-propelled wheelchair rolls past me.

  “What about when she finds out that you skipped duties, again?” I warn, drawi
ng a finger across my throat.

  She bobbles her head—a South Asian gesture she picked up from her new best friend, Sana. “She already knows.”

  “Pick up the pace,” Oma calls. “We’re late!”

  I hurry to the living room, catching a glimpse of myself in the wall mirror as I pass—scratches all over my face, a bit of dried blood at the collar of my button-down shirt, another stain from who-knows-what sprinkled on my tie.

  Cass pulls a small comb out of the hidden space next to her seat cushion and runs it through her ponytail. It’s a secret message to me that says, You better fix your hair before Oma sees.

  I scramble to flatten my cowlick, but it’s too late.

  “Oh, Cammy,” Oma says, finally looking me over when we reach the door. “You look a mess. Go change.”

  I picture the zoo that is my room right now and shudder at the thought of braving a trip inside. “All my other clothes are with the Laundry Service.”

  “Meow,” Cass says, lifting a mischievous eyebrow. I shoot her a Don’t you dare glare. Cass’s love of torturing me borders on being a sport. I’m dreading the day when she finally organizes an Annoy-Cam Olympics so that she can win all the medals. First place in Making Cam’s Life Miserable goes to . . .

  Oma sighs. “It’ll have to do, then. Come on. I’ve left your father a note.”

  I roll my eyes. “Did you tell him not to bother?”

  She furrows her brow—the Oma-brow is her signature warning to shut my mouth before I get Oma-chopped—and uses her key on the front door to activate the binding to the Hotel. One of her conditions in allowing us to join the Hotel staff was that we keep the Texas house as our primary residence. She said she went through too much trouble making this place a home to “abandon it willy-nilly,” though I’m pretty sure she just didn’t want to move all her junk. The end result was that the doormen bound the front door of our house directly to the Hotel itself so we could have our home and the Hotel too.

  The familiar crackle of the binding zips us from our house in Texas to a hall in the Netherlands.