Jacaranda (The Clockwork Century 6)

Sarah looked at Sister Eileen, seeking some kind of permission. The sister nodded, and Sarah asked the padre, “She’s told you about the deaths, is that why you’re here? Do you think you can help us?”

“I promise to try. So you should not treat me like a guest. You can tell me the truth: Why do you remain, if you know the danger—and if you are so afraid?”

Tears welled up in her eyes, but they did not fall and she did not wipe them away. “Whatever is here, running wouldn’t leave it behind. Not even if I went to New York or Africa or China. There’s nowhere far enough to run. So I stay. And I serve.”

“But what of Tim? Your brother?” he used the nun’s best guess.

“Tim is my cousin. He was orphaned as a child and raised by my father, alongside me. Tim…” she glanced toward the windows, as if she could see him out there, working. But here, too, the curtains were closed, and she saw no sign of him or anything else. “Tim is the only one, I think—the only one it doesn’t speak to. Maybe he can’t hear it.”

“An interesting thought,” the padre granted. “But you imply the hotel has spoken to you? How?”

She whispered, lest her voice’s volume shake the tears loose. “In dreams. The waking kind, when I’m not in bed but I’ve stared off at nothing, and lost my train of thought. It talks to me in those empty places, when I’ve nothing to read and no one to talk to.”

“What does the hotel sound like?” he asked.

She withdrew a handkerchief from a pocket, and dabbed her eyes in surrender. More tears rose to take the place of those she’d banished. “It sounds like my mother, sometimes. Other times, it sounds like my uncle, or my grandfather. It steals the voices of the dead, if it thinks we’ll listen best, that way. But it’s worse,” she took a deeper breath, and sniffled. “It’s always the worst when it sounds like nothing at all, and just shows me what it wants. I’m sorry, I don’t know how else to say it, but sometimes it has no sound, no shape of its own. It’s not

even a ghost, not even some demon out of my father’s Holy Bible with the old family tree and my mother’s letters from France. It’s not even Pastor Williams, not even a creature from a penny dreadful.”

“I don’t understand,” he said quietly.

“That’s what I mean. Not understanding, that’s the worst.”

He didn’t agree. He’d known plenty of things that were worse in fact, than in theory. But then again, understanding a monster was usually the key to fighting it—and it wouldn’t do to argue with the poor girl. She didn’t want to fight anything.

She said, “I’m trapped here. Same as Mrs. Alvarez and her daughters. I don’t know what it says to them, or how it talks to them, but I know it does. They belong here, too. They belong to the hotel, just like me.”

“Such despair,” he said with sympathy, and as much kindness as he could offer. “It does not suit you. We will solve this yet. There is hope.”

“How do you know?”

“Because there is always hope. There is hope, and between myself and Sister Eileen, there may be answers. But you must trust us,” he told her. “And you must help us. You are in a fine position to observe all the guests, all the mysteries. You must watch, and tell us everything, no matter how awful. You must give us the truth—as much of it as you can. Any detail may prove to be the cornerstone of our defense.”

“Any detail,” she echoed, swallowing hard. “I’ll try. I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will.”

Very fast, almost so fast she surprised him, she seized his hands and gave them a heartfelt squeeze. “Thank you,” she said.

“But I haven’t done anything.”

“You came,” she said. “You and Sister Eileen, both. You came, even though you knew…”

He squeezed her hands back, and released them. “We came because we knew, and don’t forget that. Stay strong, and remember to pray. I’ve read your King James, and it holds many fine passages for strength. I’m fond of the one Psalm in particular—the twenty-third. Do you know it?”

Her voice quivered. “The valley of the shadow of death.”

“There’s more to it than that.”

“But it’s a song, isn’t it? Not a prayer.”

He shrugged. “Sing to your God…pray to Him. The cadence doesn’t matter. The message finds its way to Heaven, all the same.”

The padre and the nun wished Sarah good evening, and promised to visit with her again before they turned in for the night—but first, they would watch.

“Before we begin,” the padre said, “I should gather some things. If you’ll excuse me.”

“I understand. I have my own tools—rudimentary as they are, in the face of something like this. But I’d rather not fight empty-handed.”