by Kerstin Gier
I forced myself not to put a hand to my hair, and instead unrolled the banknote Mr. Bauer had given me. It was a hundred Swiss francs. I gasped.
“No way,” said Don.
Yes way. Ha! “Well, my first day as the worst babysitter in the world hasn’t turned out so badly after all,” I said. Although I knew it was stupid to take so much pleasure in this little moment of triumph, I couldn’t resist giving Don a patronizing pat on the head. “Don’t you agree, little Donny?”
Don pursed his lips (he made even that look cute) and smiled. “Luckily, the holidays are only just beginning,” he said, his lisp a little more pronounced than usual. Against my will, I felt goose bumps rising on my arms. Don’s smile broadened. “You know what? I’m going to tell my parents that starting tomorrow I want to come to day care, too. I’m sure you’re going to play some great games with us.” And then he fixed me with his best butter-wouldn’t-melt look and added: “Somehow I get the unmistakable feeling that something bad is about to happen to you, Sophie Spark.”
It was infuriating, but somehow I got that feeling, too.
3
I slipped through the ski cellar into the hotel and scurried up the back stairs to my room, hoping not to meet anyone who might take exception to my disheveled state. The last person I wanted to run into was Fräulein Müller. Her old-fashioned title—the German equivalent of Miss—didn’t fit with her imposing, angular, immaculate appearance at all, and being in her early forties she was much too young to remember a time when all unmarried women got called Fräulein. But she absolutely insisted on being addressed that way, and what you might have thought would sound ridiculously old-school actually inspired great respect and was even a little intimidating when applied to Fräulein Müller.
She’d once sent me back to the laundry just because the hair bands in my braids were different colors. “Whatever will the guests think?” she’d said with distaste. “This is a respectable establishment.”
I’d been overcome by a burning sense of shame, and so as not to sully the hotel’s honor and reputation any further, I’d immediately thrown out every hair band I owned apart from the black ones.
I guessed I must have lost one of those hair bands during my trip down the mountainside just now because my neat ponytail had come undone and my hair was loose over my shoulders, tangled and full of pine needles. I didn’t have to look in the mirror to know that even an easygoing type of person would probably have tutted disapprovingly at the sight of me.
But I was in luck. The only creature I came across was the Forbidden Cat, who stretched herself out on the floor in front of me so I could tickle her tummy. Pets in general were not allowed in the hotel, but cats in particular were forbidden—Gordon Montfort couldn’t stand them. Nobody knew where the Forbidden Cat had come from. Monsieur Rocher, the concierge, who knew all the hotel’s secrets, said she’d always lived there. And she acted like it, too, as if the whole hotel belonged to her. She herself, on the other hand, didn’t appear to belong to anybody. When she was hungry, she’d wander into the kitchen for some food, and when she wanted attention she’d go and find somebody to pet her, as she’d done with me just now. The rest of the time she spent sitting about or lying in a highly decorative fashion on windowsills, steps, and armchairs, harmonizing beautifully with her surroundings.
Oddly enough, even though she roamed freely around the hotel and often chose to sleep in some pretty public places, Gordon Montfort had never set eyes on her. Sometimes—as I’d seen to my astonishment—they missed each other by just a few seconds, as if the Forbidden Cat knew exactly when the hotelier was going to appear and when she needed to make her exit. Guests would occasionally mention something to Gordon about the pretty ginger cat they claimed to have petted on the third floor or seen sleeping on the grand piano in the ballroom, and this would reignite his suspicions that one of the staff might have flouted his ban and secretly acquired a pet cat. Whenever that happened, he’d turn up unannounced in the staff quarters and threaten whoever had dared to disobey his cat ban with “something much worse than being fired.” (There were numerous theories about what this might be.) But given that he’d never actually seen a cat anywhere in the hotel, he must also have felt slightly paranoid.
In his shoes, I’d definitely have thought my employees were leaving stuffed cats around the place just to annoy me and drive me insane. Either way, it was a miracle that in all these years none of the staff had ever thought to turn the Forbidden Cat in to their boss; they’d almost certainly have gotten a promotion for it.
After a couple of minutes petting the Forbidden Cat, I went around the back way and made it to the staff quarters in the south wing without encountering Fräulein Müller.
There were all sorts of back ways and back stairs—even hidden elevators—in Castle in the Clouds. It had taken me weeks to discover them all, and although I knew my way around very well now, I was sure there was still plenty of uncharted territory in the hotel—particularly in the basement, which was built into the rock like a multistory labyrinth. Legend had it that the hotel was haunted, and I could well believe it. I’d listened with bated breath to every ghost story I’d been told since I’d arrived there. As well as a questionable “moontin ghoarst” that Old Stucky claimed to have seen whenever he’d drunk too much of his brother-in-law’s homemade pear brandy, there was the Lady in White, who was said to float around the hotel at night in search of a kindred soul, making the chandeliers tinkle as she passed. The Lady in White had been a guest at the hotel, or so the story went—an unhappily married young woman who’d thrown herself out the window of the highest turret with a broken heart. And now there were two versions of the legend: One said the Lady in White would never be at peace until she’d lured another unhappy soul into jumping off the turret just like her; the other (much nicer) version had it that she simply wanted to comfort anyone else who was lovesick and to dry their tears. No one is worth jumping out a window for, after all.
Denise from Reception swore that once, just after she’d had an argument with her boyfriend, she’d seen something white and translucent floating through the lobby in the middle of the night, and it had waved at her. But she admitted she’d dozed off shortly before it happened. Other people only ever said they knew somebody who knew somebody who’d seen the Lady in White.
Only Monsieur Rocher maintained that the legend was complete nonsense. Nobody had ever jumped out of a turret window in this hotel or any other window for that matter. Broken heart or no broken heart.
He was probably right (Monsieur Rocher was usually right), but it was a bit of a shame, if you asked me. I’d have preferred to run into a real ghost than some of the living inhabitants of this place.
The corridor leading to the staff quarters was deserted. Relieved, I pulled the door marked PRIVÉE, STAFF ONLY, and NO ENTRY shut behind me and hurried through to my room. Officially I now had three hours off before I had to be back for my evening shift in the spa. If I was quick getting changed, I could run down to the laundry and take Pavel a slice of his favorite apple and cinnamon cake, then be back in the lobby in time for an afternoon coffee with Monsieur Rocher in the concierge’s lodge. This would also be a good opportunity to find out as much as possible about the various guests who were due to arrive. I spent my breaks with Monsieur Rocher whenever I could. Not only did he keep me supplied with a constant stream of wonderful anecdotes and useful information, but I also always came away from our meetings feeling full of confidence and the joys of life. I have no idea how he did it.
To me, Monsieur Rocher was the heart and soul of Castle in the Clouds. On my very first day, he’d comforted me, treated the burn on my hand, and reassured me that I wasn’t a failure and that Pavel and I would soon be best of friends. Anything he said in his soft, quiet voice you couldn’t help but believe. And I was more than happy to take advantage of his seemingly boundless knowledge of the hotel and the guests.
The guests I was most curious about were the aging British ac
tor (everyone but me, on hearing his name, had exclaimed “Oh, him!”) and the family of a business mogul from South Carolina who’d booked six rooms and suites with a total of twelve beds (or thirteen if you counted the cot in Room 210). That evening we were also expecting a famous figure skater, a gold medalist who’d been invited to host the hotel’s annual New Year’s Ball. It was her first time at Castle in the Clouds, and she’d insisted on bringing her two toy poodles with her.
“Oh, there you are, Work Experience!” a shrill voice rang out. I’d celebrated too soon. True, it wasn’t Fräulein Müller who now came charging out of the bathroom, blocking my path before I could get to my bedroom door, but Hortensia was almost as bad. Probably worse, in fact. She’d only been here two days, but she’d clearly made up her mind to hate me from the moment she’d arrived, for reasons I couldn’t fathom. She and her friends Camilla, Ava, and Whatsername were students at the hotel-management college in Lausanne. Fräulein Müller had taken them on as extra chambermaids over the holidays. So far, I hadn’t been able to work out whether their work counted toward their studies or whether they were simply being well paid for this temporary job. They seemed to think they stood way above me in the hotel pecking order, at any rate, and that this entitled them to push me around.
“See this, Work Experience?” Hortensia thrust a long copper-colored hair in my face. “I just found this in the sink. It’s disgusting.” She pronounced it dizgusting. “It’s bad enough having to stay in this horrible old dump, in these appalling conditions. So if you want to carry on sharing this prehistoric bathroom with us, then please clean up after yourself! Understood?”
I gulped. Nobody else around here had long red hair, so it must be one of mine. I didn’t like finding hairs in the sink, either, and I always tried not to leave any behind. But there was a reason I hadn’t managed it this time.
I took a deep breath. “You actually threw me out of the bathroom this morning, remember, so that you four could all come in and brush your teeth together? So I didn’t get a chance to—”
“Blah blah blah! I never want to have to pick another one of your dizgusting hairs out of the sink again, all right, skank?” Hortensia flicked the hair off her finger and gave me a revolted look. “Oh my god, are those pine needles in your hair?”
I gulped again. It was the first time anyone had ever called me a skank and really meant it, and for a moment it floored me. My friend Delia and I had made up a game to be used in difficult situations. It was called “What would Jesus do?” but the idea was that you could replace Jesus (we’d gotten the idea for the game during a very boring religious-studies lesson) with anyone you liked. Jesus wasn’t ideal as a practical example, because it was pretty difficult to emulate him—not only could he walk on water and turn water into wine, but in this instance he’d probably also have just laid his hand upon Hortensia and miraculously cured her of her bitchiness. I could give that a go, of course. She’d probably be a bit taken aback if I laid a hand on her head and murmured something like Pass out of her, demon! She’d probably also give me a slap. And then, of course, I’d have to turn the other cheek.
“What’s wrong, Work Experience? Cat got your tongue?”
I pondered. What would … er … Mahatma Gandhi do in my situation? Oh, damn it. I really wasn’t very good at this today. On the other hand, wasn’t it Gandhi who’d said “Let us never negotiate out of fear. But let us never fear to negotiate”?
All right then. Smiling benignly, I straightened an imaginary pair of Gandhi-style glasses on my nose. “Let’s talk about this like adults, my dear Hortensia. If you want me to clean up after myself, all you have to do is not throw me out of the bathroom until I’m finished. Can we try that tomorrow?”
But I could see straightaway that Hortensia was not impressed; on the contrary, Gandhi seemed to have put her in a more aggressive mood than ever.
Perhaps I should just do what she would have done, I thought, as she said it again: “Blah blah blah!” I knew mirroring people’s behavior was supposed to be a good way of defusing tension. So I put my hands on my hips, narrowed my eyes menacingly, and said, in an unpleasantly nasal voice: “Blah blah blah yourself! And don’t you dare call me a ‘skank’ again. Or ‘Work Experience.’ Got it?”
“Or else what?” Hortensia stuck her chin out even farther than mine. “You’ll go and rat us out to Müller? You’re welcome to try, but I’m afraid she likes us more than she likes you, Work Experience.” With a triumphant smile, she added, “Camilla happens to be Müller’s niece. Her favorite niece!”
Ah. That certainly explained a few things.
It was definitely a sign that I’d been spending too much time around the little brat, but at that moment I actually wondered what Don Burkhardt Jr. would have done in my situation. And then I heard myself say: “For your information, Hortensia Haughtypants, temporary cleaner from Lausanne, I’ve been here longer than you and I have quite a few friends in this hotel.” Oh, that was good! I sounded just as ominously friendly as Don when he mentioned his dad’s relationship with Gordon Montfort. But without the Swiss accent and cute lisp, of course. “Friends who would be very unhappy to see me being treated unkindly,” I went on, “or to hear someone referring to this venerable building as a ‘horrible old dump.’”
Hortensia opened her mouth to retort, but at that moment a gust of wind swept along the corridor and the bathroom door fell shut with a loud bang.
We both jumped, but as Hortensia looked around, startled, I felt in some strange way that my words had been borne out.
“I’m glad we understand each other,” I said, and strode past Hortensia to my room at the end of the corridor. It was a little worrying (and I felt bad for Jesus and Gandhi) that I’d adopted the questionable tactics of a nine-year-old delinquent, but you had to admit they worked like a charm.
I closed the bedroom door behind me emphatically, took off my coat, and started picking the pine needles out of my hair.
When I’d arrived at Castle in the Clouds that September, I’d had my pick of the free beds—for most of the year, the staff accommodation wasn’t even half full. There were no single rooms, and certainly none with en suite bathrooms, but the little bedroom I’d chosen was so small it could almost have been classed as a single. Nobody had wanted it because the radiator was broken and there was an old water pipe in the wall that, I’d been told, emitted a spooky moaning sound. (Or perhaps, said Denise from Reception, it wasn’t the pipe at all but the Lady in White, trying to lure souls up into the turret.) I didn’t care; the main thing was that I had my own room. And I still thought I’d made a good choice. I liked the faded lilac striped carpet and the dormer window in the pitched roof that looked out over Obergabelhorn, Dent Blanche, and Zinalrothorn, the mountains that could be seen from the hotel. It was exactly the same view for which the guests staying in the Panorama Suite on the floor below had to pay a small fortune. (Although they did get a panoramic window for their money, along with a panorama terrace.)
Even though there was no heat in my room, I still liked to sleep with the window open. Snuggled up under a thick down comforter and two woolly blankets, I hadn’t felt the cold yet even on the chilliest of nights. And as far as the spooky moaning noises were concerned, I’d only been woken up twice in the night by a sort of gentle sighing, and both times I’d been having a bad dream anyway and was positively grateful for the interruption.
I used the second bed under the pitched ceiling as extra shelf space, and I’d been afraid I’d have to clear it over the Christmas holidays to make room for one of the temps. That really would have been a tight squeeze, because apart from the beds there was no space for any other furniture in the room, and there were only two shelves on the walls. I’d piled up a few of my clothes on these shelves, but the rest of my stuff was still in my suitcase under the bed (including a bathing suit that I’d packed in the misguided—and very naive—belief that hotel staff would be allowed to use the pool during their time off).
&nbs
p; So far, though, it looked as if I’d be allowed to keep my little room all to myself. There were a lot more male temps than female, so it must have been even more crowded in the men’s quarters than it was here.
As I stripped down to my underwear to try to get rid of all the pine needles, I checked my phone for messages.
My mum, as she did every day, had sent me a smiley face. “Dad, Finn, Leon, and I hope you have a lovely day in the mountains. Hopefully you’ll get some time to relax and enjoy the great outdoors.”
Sure, Mum—scrubbing skid marks off toilets, working your way through mountains of dirty laundry, running after naughty children, and getting harassed by snooty chambermaids from Lausanne is the perfect way to relax. It’s practically like being on holiday.
The message from my friend Delia wasn’t much better, though. “Holidays at last! I’m not even going to pick up a textbook or think about finals for at least a week. I’m going to binge Netflix all day and drink and go out dancing—that’s the plan anyway.” I couldn’t help thinking of Ben’s bitter words about his friends’ vacation plans and grinning. “How are things at your fancy hotel?” Delia went on. “What are the cocktails like? And have any cute guys checked in yet? Perhaps a couple of young millionaires looking for a lovely intern to marry? I get first dibs on the brother, remember. Thanks. Hugs and kisses, D.”
I sighed. Delia and I had been best friends since kindergarten; we’d always done everything together, and we’d even picked the same classes at school so we could spend all day every day in each other’s company. When I’d failed junior year and gotten held back, being separated from Delia was the worst thing about the whole situation. She said it didn’t make any difference because I’d still be sitting next to her in spirit and it really didn’t matter whether I did my college entrance exams a year earlier or a year later. But that simply wasn’t true. I’d never felt lonelier than when I had to repeat junior year. Just the thought of being stuck in town with another bleak year ahead of me, after all my friends had left school and gone out into the world, was too depressing for words. So I’d beaten them to it.
