by Sean Easley
“Where’s dinner tonight?” Cass asks.
“Someplace warm,” Oma replies in her usual, cryptic way. Family dinner nights always take us to some surprise location. Now that we’ve got the whole world at our feet, Oma says we ought to take advantage of it.
As soon as Oma drops the first clue, Cass starts throwing out wild guesses like “Zimbabwe!” and “Samoa!” Even though the destination is always a secret until we get there, Cass still asks. Every. Single. Time.
We hop onto the elevator, and my thoughts wander back to the gala. Agapios’s events are always grand. Last time, it was a parade of magical stone statues tromping through an Amazonian jungle. Before that, we had the Ice-&-Sands exhibit at the Hotel pool, where guests could walk through life-size sandcastles that opened into glistening snowy wonderlands. Then came the spectacle that was the International Fashion Show. I can’t possibly compete with stuff like that.
“Someplace wet,” Oma says, giving Cass another useless clue. I mean, come on. Two thirds of the earth is covered with water.
I wonder why Agapios would make my first event be one for the Embassy? Our last Embassy event was the biggest we’ve ever hosted—a huge celebration of our victory over the Competition and the return of the Greenhouse back in January. The doormen—hotel staff responsible for binding the magic doors—even set up a special venue by intertwining sections of different cities from each continent into one location.
“Cammy,” Oma says, “is something wrong?”
“No,” I lie.
“He’s just grumpy about his new assignment,” Cass adds.
I shoot her a particularly rancid stink-eye. “What would you know about it?”
“I’m a clerk, remember? What was it you said earlier? Oh right, it’s my job.”
“Yeah, because you always do what you’re supposed to.”
“Stop bickering.” Oma places one hand on my arm and the other on Cass’s back. “Family night means no fighting.”
Cass sticks her tongue out, and I bite my cheek to keep from returning fire.
“What assignment, Cammy?” Oma asks.
I replay my conversation with Agapios as we head out under the colorful banners of the African Lobby.
There are eight massive Hotel lobbies, all connected in succession to form the Lobby Ring, the outermost section of the Hotel. Each is decorated to reflect the part of the world that it’s connected to. On the outer wall of the Lobby Ring stands a row of doors that we call knockers, which lead outside the Hotel—not to be confused with turners, which connect the rooms and halls inside.
The lobby looks especially polished tonight. It’s thanks to all the input I’ve been giving the Housekeeping staff lately, I’m sure: upgrades like the expanded safety pamphlet display, and repositioning the icon statues that guard the entrances, and the little station I had Maintenance add so that Cass can see over the front desk.
Oma stops under the domed ceiling near the center of the lobby, relishing Cass’s frustration at not being able to guess our destination, while I finish explaining my gala predicament. “Cammy,” Oma says, “this sounds exactly like what you should be doing. Agapios is preparing you for your future.”
“I can barely keep my current responsibilities straight as it is,” I say, and cringe, realizing just how whiny it sounds.
“Are you going to decline, then?”
One of the terms of every staff member’s contract is that we can decline any task at any time. No one here can make us do anything, except maybe force us to leave if we ever endanger the mission of the Hotel.
“No,” I say, “I won’t decline.” I will prove to Agapios that I can handle whatever he throws at me. I don’t want to let him down.
“Well then, stop worrying. You’ll figure it out.” Oma scans the row of knockers, rubbing her chin. “Now . . . where was it? Chad? Nigeria? Oh, that’s right. It’s in Asia, not Africa. Silly me.”
Cass and I groan in unison.
Moments later we’re riding a cyclo—a three-wheeled bicycle taxi—through the streets of Cambodia. Our driver drops us off after a few blocks, and we enter a discreet door at the back of a building. Portals like these are hidden all over the world. The global door network is much bigger than the Hotel. Anyone can freely use the doors outside the Hotel’s knockers, but most never see them. People who’ve never bonded with a magic—the mundanes, we call them—don’t even realize that those secret doors are right under their noses.
We end up in a small building overlooking green, terraced hills that resemble misshapen thirty-layer cakes. “Rice fields,” Oma tells us. “Welcome to Vietnam.”
“It’s gorgeous!” Cass exclaims. “Is it morning-time here?”
Oma leans in. “Tonight’s dinner is actually a breakfast.”
A woman brings out several bowls and a big pot from the kitchen.
“Soup?” I ask.
“It’s phō,” Oma says. “Very common for breakfast here.”
I twist my lips in disappointment. I’ve never had soup for breakfast, nor have I ever wanted to. It’s warm outside too. I glance over to see my sister eyeing her phō hungrily. Does she always have to be excited about everything?
“You should have been at the front desk for your assignment,” I tell her. “What if we’d really needed you?”
Her expression dims. “I was busy.”
“Doing what? The front desk is your job. That’s what you should have been busy with.”
Cass shrugs. “An opportunity came up.”
I narrow my eyes at her, then look to Oma for assistance. “Will you please tell her she’s supposed to do her job?”
But Oma is motioning for the lady who brought us the phō. “We’ll discuss that later. First I want to introduce our host, Aijin.”
The woman brushes her long, straight hair out of her face to greet us with a warm smile.
“Aijin invited us to dine with her after I met her last week,” Oma tells us. “Agapios told me she could help with my class preparations. She’s an ambassador.”
“Really?” Cass says, excited.
Aijin smiles. “Really.”
An ambassador. I’ve only met a few. Some of the leaders of the Hotel double as Embassy ambassadors, though I’ve never really understood what that means. There’s so much about the Embassy—and the Hotel—that I still don’t know. Maybe that’s why Nico left; he hates not being in control, probably more than I do.
Cass’s eyes almost glow with interest. “What’s it like? Danger around every corner? Binding and contracts? Saving the world?”
The ambassador laughs. “It’s not quite so dramatic.”
“Aijin is not one of the members-in-permanent, like the Old Man or the Maid Commander,” Oma continues.
“What do you do for them?” Cass asks.
The ambassador raises an eyebrow at Oma. “I . . . write. I’m a journalist, of sorts. I make sure the right stories get told, so the right people can be helped.” She looks around. “Where is your fourth this morning?”
“It may be just the three of us after all,” Oma tells her. Dad doesn’t exactly have the best track record with making it to where he’s supposed to be at any given time.
“So,” I say, “an ambassador. What does that mean, exactly?”
Again, Aijin looks to Oma, as if seeking permission. “In order to be welcomed into the Embassy, one of the world’s . . . friendlier magics has to first reveal itself to you. Those magics make an agreement with individuals who then represent it to the world. As long as I don’t break the contract between the magic and myself, I can tap into its power.”
“Do all ambassadors have a magic they’re bound to?” I ask.
“It’s a requirement for ambassadorship, isn’t it?” Oma says, clarifying.
Aijin nods.
I stare at the pot of broth. “So, Admiral Dare—”
“Ah,” she says. “Admiral Dare is no mere ambassador. She is a member-in-permanent of the Embassy. Those ambassadors ha
ve bonded with some of the wilder magics. Admiral Dare doesn’t have a contract in the traditional sense. The bonds between members-in-permanent and their magics run much, much deeper.”
“Which magic are you connected to?” Cass asks.
Aijin doesn’t answer.
Instead Oma responds for her. “It’s rude to ask a person directly what magic they’re tied to. I only learned that recently too.”
“Magics are protective of themselves and their secrets,” Aijin says, arranging the dishes on the table. “They are very careful about who they choose to reveal themselves to, and often prevent those bound to them from sharing their secrets. It is a part of the contract we make to keep the magics safe.”
Cass blinks. “Safe from what?”
Again, Aijin doesn’t respond. She doesn’t have to, though. As she heads back into the kitchen for the ginger and onions, the implication is clear: the magics are trying to keep themselves safe from the likes of Mr. Stripe, and whatever war happened long, long ago. Which makes me wonder, where is Mr. Stripe now that we took his home away from him? What is he doing? And isn’t that something I should be worrying about, rather than planning parties?
4
Stealing Time in China
She went where?”
Elizabeth gives me a sour expression from behind the front desk. “You heard me. Your sister went with Rahki.”
“On a mission,” I clarify. “To China.”
“It’s no big deal,” Elizabeth says. “They’ve got the Maid Service with them. They’ll be fine.”
“Which door?”
• • •
Minutes later I’m sweating in southern China, stomping through the woods outside an expansive villa that serves as the target for today’s Maid Service mission. I haven’t been on one of these excursions since my first few trial weeks on staff, and for good reason—they’re dangerous. I’m not trained for the kind of perilous antics the maids get up to, and neither is Cass.
Rahki should know better. The Maid Service—of which Rahki serves as the Maid-Commander-in-Training—isn’t safe at all. It’s more a military battalion than a cleaning force, people who’ve signed service contracts to support and trust the mission of the Hotel above all else. But Cass hasn’t signed a Maid Service contract, because her safety comes before the Hotel’s, always. At least it does in my mind.
I spy the two of them up ahead, creeping behind a hedgerow, and my stomach clenches.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
They both turn—Rahki crouching behind the privets, my sister leaning forward beside her. Cass touches a finger to her lips, warning me to be quiet.
I narrow my eyes at her. “You’re supposed to be at the front desk,” I whisper.
“The front desk is covered,” she says. “Elizabeth actually likes working the desk, and Rahki said she wouldn’t mind if I tagged along on an easy mission.”
My anger switches its focus. “You encouraged her?” I say to Rahki.
Rahki shrugs. “I could use the help.”
“I wanted to try out being a maid,” Cass says. “I think I’m better suited to it.”
“You’re better suited to staying inside,” I snap. I know it’s not fair—that I’m wrong for treating her like something that’s breakable—but this is what I do. I worry about her. If she stays in the Hotel, it will keep her safe, always.
Cass scowls. “I can take care of myself.”
“And yet you don’t.”
“Keep your voice down,” Rahki says, and strikes her gloved hand along the length of her wooden duster. “They’ll hear you.”
Rahki’s baton is made entirely of wood from the Vesima, with one flared, splintered end that gives it that feather-duster shape. She sands off a handful of binding dust and, fingers sparkling, pulls the branches in front of us aside. Leaves and wood stick together, giving a better view of the villa.
“Go back to the Hotel.” Cass folds her arms. “We’ve got this.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say. “Just . . . tell me what we’re doing.”
“Fine.” Rahki passes me Sev’s have-sack from her shoulder. “You can carry my bag.”
She lays out a rushed overview of the plan as we peek through the hole in the hedgerow. The prize we’re here to claim is in the building on the other side of the rock garden. Our enemy is the Competition’s docents—servants tasked with protecting Mr. Stripe’s “property.” If everything goes according to plan, the maids around front will draw the docents out, allowing us to sneak in the rear door and take back what should never have belonged to him, or to anyone, in the first place.
“Any questions?” she asks.
I motion to Cass, who’s rolling along the hedgerow with a glass bottle in hand, drizzling a bright blue liquid on the ground beside the privets. “What is she doing?”
Cass’s eyes shimmer as she stoppers the half-empty bottle. “You’ll see.”
I hate surprises.
As we sneak into position, I’m painfully aware of how much I don’t belong here. Rahki’s Chucks make no sound. Cass’s chair is silent too—I guess sound dampening was one of the features Sana had the artificers add to it. My shoes, on the other hand, crunch the grass like I’m marching on plastic grocery bags.
I’m going to have to tell Oma about this when we get home. Maybe then she’ll finally realize I’m right about keeping Cass from running off whenever she feels like it.
The charge of the frontline maids echoes across the villa grounds. More shouts—in Mandarin, I think—respond from inside the villa as the docents spill out of the front doors to fight off the intruders.
Rahki hops the railing onto the porch. “Cass,” she says coolly, as if we’re totally not breaking into an enemy hideout, “want to show him your upgrades?”
“You bet,” Cass says, and flips her brake. Though she twists it the opposite way from what she usually does. Her seat rises from the back wheels, lifting her up and pushing the front end over the railing to deposit her chair on the porch next to Rahki. The rear axle draws up and over the rail behind it to catch up with the front end of the chair in an almost elastic way, snapping the wheels home where they belong, like magic. No, not like magic—that was magic.
Cass giggles when she sees the dumbfounded look on my face.
“What was that?” I ask.
“Mobility upgrades,” she says. “The artificers are really good at the shaping. I’ve been learning a lot.”
I smirk. “You think you’re so cool.”
She holds her head high. “I think therefore I am,” she says, and blows a raspberry before continuing through the door.
The shaping—that’s another of the magics that built a relationship with humans. A magic that I don’t know much about. I know that the binding is like an invisible force that draws power from the connections between things, but is that how the shaping works too?
I glance over to Rahki. “A few magical upgrades to her chair don’t make this a good idea.”
“That’s not up to you,” Rahki says, and runs her hand along the stem of her duster to shave another shimmer of binding dust over the floor just inside the door. A trap. Anyone who steps in that will be stuck like a fly in honey. “Stay close. I don’t want to have to save you. Again.”
The villa’s interior is ultra-modern. Sleek sliding doors, polished wood and slate surfaces, and TVs in every room, featuring Chinese celebrities playing party games. It’s all everyday things that everyday people would have, and watch. You’d never guess that the people staying here are enemies of the Hotel, doing nefarious deeds for Mr. Stripe.
We creep down the paper-paneled hall, listening to the fighting out front. If those maids can’t keep the docents occupied until we complete our task, there’ll be no one to stop them from coming for us next. And while Rahki’s a prime candidate for Most Likely to Beat Any Obstacle into Submission, a single Maid-Commander- in-Training is no match for a bunch of zombie-like docents armed with slivers.
“I know that look,” Rahki says as she and Cass slide open door after door, searching for the package. “Stop worrying.”
“I’m not worrying.”
“Yes, you are. You’re not in control, so you’re worrying. We’ll be out of here sooner than you think. With Stripe evicted from his Museum, his hold over the docents is weaker than ever. We’ll be fine.”
Stripe. It’s been seven months since he lost his Museum, and we’re still cleaning up the messes he left behind. Or are these new messes?
We find our prize tucked off the main hallway—eight small cribs, each cradling a sleeping baby.
“Watch the hall,” Rahki tells Cass. “Raise the alarm if trouble starts heading our way.”
Cass spins to face the corridor, squaring her shoulders with a look of determination.
I move to enter the room—ready to get this over with—but Rahki throws out a protective hand to stop me and points inside.
There’s a girl in there. A girl our age—dressed in tweed pants and a leather vest, peering into the corner crib. Her shirtsleeves are rolled up, and there’s a flat cap situated over her frizzy braids. It’s not your typical Competition getup, but I guess enemies don’t always look the same.
The girl turns and flashes a smile. “Oi, what do we have ’ere?”
Rahki raises her duster in a defensive stance. Cass peeks around the corner to see.
The girl at the crib stretches her back. “Relax, doll. The name’s Beatrice. Bee, if you like.”
“She could be a docent,” I murmur.
Bee laughs. “Me, a dosie? Mate, I wouldn’t sign one of those contracts for the world. And believe me, it’s been offered.” She turns her attention to the shelves along the far wall. “That’s a difference between us Hoppers and you hoteliers: there’s nobody can get me under terms of indenture.”
Terms of indenture. That’s what gave Stripe the power to control Dad all those years when he was missing, and what Stripe uses to force the docents to obey him.
This girl knows about binding contracts.
Bee makes her way around the edge of the room, picking at the items on the shelves. “Besides, I was the one who tipped you off ’bout these kids. Would a dosie do that?”
