Jacaranda (The Clockwork Century 6)

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she mumbled toward the padre, as she drew up a chair next to the nun. Even while seated, she seemed quite tall—and the narrow fit of her pale yellow dress emphasized the long lines that made up her shape. She was perhaps seventy, with bright blue eyes and hair as gray as a nickel, twisted into a bun atop her head.

He raised an eyebrow. “Three whole days? You must find this place agreeable.”

“I’m waiting,” she replied—neither confirming nor denying anything. “My husband is returning to Texas, from Barbados.”

“Then I trust he has been delayed by the weather.”

“As likely as not.” She folded a napkin onto her lap, and lifted her eyes when a doe-eyed young man chose the seat next to hers. “William,” she said in acknowledgment.

Sister Eileen smiled. “Good afternoon, dear. I hope you’ve gotten a goodly amount of work done today.”

“Yes ma’am,” he answered. He was a soft lad, not quite fat but leaning toward heavy—and the roundness of his face made him seem young. A fine gold watch chain peeked out of his pocket in a pretty, glimmering arc. It cost easily more than the rest of his wardrobe, which was (in every stitch) the uniform of a very poor man dressing upward, aspiring toward respectability if not taste. The padre suspected an academic.

“Father Rios,” the nun offered, “this is William Brewer. He’s a botanist, researching the unique plant life on the island.”

“Good to meet you,” the young man replied with a wide, if uncertain, smile.

“Likewise, of course.” He was pleased to learn that his guess had been close, if not spot-on.

“William joined us last night,” Sister Eileen added.

“That’s right, I did. This is a beautiful hotel, isn’t it?”

“Lovely,” Rios agreed. Then it occurred to him to ask, “Sister Eileen, how long have you been here?”

“Not quite three weeks,” she said crisply, and a coal-haired serving girl with a tray full of glasses paused, closed her eyes, and mouthed a silent prayer in Spanish. If the nun noticed, she said nothing to call attention to it. “I believe that makes me the guest who’s been here longest.”

“By quite a bit,” William added quickly. “And what keeps you here, all this time? I’ve heard others sometimes complain of drafty rooms and rattling pipes. They gripe that there’s too much noise, even if the place is full of wonderful technology.” He waved a fork toward the ceiling, and the creeping fans that slipped back and forth, slowly circulating the damp air. “There’s always something clattering around, day and night.”

“I’ve come here to pray, that is all. This is a good place to pray.”

“The gas pipes, the fans, the little machines that pull the dumbwaiters and manage the bells…” Constance muttered. “Making a ruckus at all hours. It’s enough to stop a woman’s heart.”

“Well, I’ve scarcely noticed it,” William declared. “This place is a marvel, with all its advancements built right into its bones. I may specialize in living organisms, but I can appreciate the mechanical, too. And what of you, Father? How is your visit, thus far?”

“I’m pleased to say, so far I am quite happy with the accommodations—though I have only been here an hour or so.”

Constance glowered down at her plate, as a second serving girl delivered a serving of roasted potatoes and baked chicken. “Give this place another hour,” she said. “Maybe two.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Or less than that. It won’t take long. It never does.” She stabbed a bite of meat onto her fork, and pushed it into her mouth as if she was angry at it.

Though three tables were provided, the remaining guests all gathered together at the same one, for it was the largest. Even the most recent arrivals appeared to sense some unseen peril about the place…even in late afternoon, when the sun would not fully set for another sixty minutes and the sitting area was bright and comfortable. It didn’t matter. The Jacaranda still felt cold, empty, and unfriendly; so everyone ate elbow-to-elbow, around a centerpiece made of rich blue blossoms and fresh fruit. They huddled like it was a campfire, and it might keep the wolves at bay.

The remaining six hotel guests included a married couple on their honeymoon by the last name of Anderson; a traveling tool salesman, Frederick Vaughn; two McCoy brothers, passing through on their way to a funeral; and a pretty young schoolteacher called Emily Nowell. They had all arrived earlier that day, and had spent their time thus far exploring the island—and then the hotel grounds before the weather was wild enough to prohibit it. Now that the day was coming to a close and the final meal was served, they all planned to settle in for the night, enjoying the modern conveniences offered by the extraordinary hotel.

Though Constance Fields remained insistently dour, William Brewer stayed insistently cheerful—and while the nun made small talk, the padre observed each of his fellow guests in turn.

He did not have to look very hard to learn most of what he wished to know.

The lovely but cool-natured Mrs. Anderson was not as thrilled with her recent marriage as was Mr. Anderson, who had a great deal of money and a lesser measure of personality. Frederick Vaughn was a very good salesman, and a very quick talker—he and William Brewer struck up an immediate rapport, surprising the padre not in the slightest. David and George McCoy were not so much mourning their dearly departed grandfather, as much as they were wondering about the contents of his will. Emily Nowell was a woman of better means than she presented herself, but an education had given her ideas about securing the vote for women, and other dangerous thoughts that made her suspect to the men in the group—and to Constance Fields, too.

(Though in fairness, Rios would’ve admitted that the older woman viewed everyone through such an unfavorable lens…not merely young women with unladylike aspirations.)

In addition to the hotel guests, there were three servicewomen—a mother and two of her daughters—who cooked, managed the meals, and cleaned the rooms. When the desk worker Sarah stopped by to collect a cup of coffee, she referred t

o the mother as “Mrs. Alvarez,” and sent the girls on separate errands: one to tend the furnace, one to address the laundry. The oldest daughter, Violetta, was willowy and plain; the younger, Valeria, was shorter and plumper, and prettier as well. The Alvarez women spoke Spanish amongst themselves, but understood plenty of English.