Jacaranda (The Clockwork Century 6)

“When no one is looking,” the padre added, agreeing with her in every way. And now, of course, he could neither look at the pattern nor look away from it—he could only watch, and not watch, and pretend that it wasn’t true.

Knowing it was true—and that whatever it was, it was hungry, and it had a voice.

Hours passed in the lobby and very little was said, very little was done.

From time to time, someone would borrow a candle to visit the water closet; once in a while, a window would crack somewhere off in the hotel’s distant corners, and a new shriek of wind would let itself inside, cutting itself on the glass and feeling around for some deeper entrance.

Every place where one small thing broke, the wind and the water got a greater foothold, and they picked, poked, and prodded at all the other seams in case there was more ground to be gained.

Once a broken window, then a broken door—banging back and forth against its shattered jamb, at the end of one wing on one floor. Then another door, and another window, the structural integrity failing a tiny piece at a time, one floor, one wing at a time. The rain prying open cracks, forcing itself between bricks, loosening stones and yanking at the drain-pipes.

One brick here, knocked from one corner and thrown into the maelstrom…two bricks behind it, and part of the east wing’s overhang—gone. Shutters ripped from their hinges, joining the clattering percussion of things half-affixed, and flailing, and slamming themselves against the hotel until they broke and blew away.

But the fire doors held.

The center held, and the men and women in the lobby held their breath with every new half-heard strike of lightning, and every rushing, train-like roar as the storm surge pushed past them—tearing up trees, scooping up fences, sloughing away roads. Swiping it all across the island, and into the ocean.

But for three hours the hotel held its ground.

Someone produced a pack of cards, and a game broke out between the McCoy brothers and Mr. Anderson. Frederick Vaughn was invited to join, but he only swigged from his bottle and declined to share or participate. Mrs. Alvarez comforted her daughter Valeria, though Violetta remained at her post—taking some strange peace from the position.

She, at least, was right where she was supposed to be.

“The hotel will stand,” Mrs. Anderson kept telling herself.

And the nun replied, with a friendly hand on her shoulder, “It will stand, yes. It doesn’t have to hold forever—just through the storm. It’ll pass over us before morning, or that’ll be the worst of it, I’m sure.”

“We only have to survive the night,” agreed Mr. Anderson. “And we can be on our way tomorrow. We can leave this miserable place behind, once the sun rises.”

A round of agreement rose and fell, for now it was accepted that whatever spell had kept them there, it was surely broken by the hurricane—and no one wanted anything more than to run away, and never look back.

Around eleven at night, according to the Ranger’s watch, the rain abruptly lessened and the thunder withdrew. The wind ceased its screaming and settled down to a moan, then a hum.

Then a breeze, barely enough to ruffle a curtain.

“It’s…it’s done. We did it…we weathered the goddamn storm!” cried Frederick Vaughn, setting his bottle aside. He didn’t need it anymore. It was empty, and he was only holding it like a child holds a doll.

But the nun warned him, “Patience, Mr. Vaughn. This isn’t the end—not yet.”

“But it’s stopped! Look, listen—all of you: no more rain, no more wind…”

“Patience,” she commanded. “At the center of these storms there is always an eye—a quiet place in the middle, but it will not last. The rest of the squall awaits on the other side. This is only a temporary respite.”

“Listen to the woman,” the Ranger urged, but Frederick did not sit down.

He stumbled, nearly knocked over a candle, and rallied himself to a standing position. “This is horseshit. It’s finished, and I’m leaving.”

The padre tried, “No, you can’t. Give it another hour and see if she’s right. We’ve lasted this long, another hour won’t be the end of us.”

“Speak for yourself. I can’t stand it in here, not another minute.” He rubbed at his eyes, and wiped his nose on the back of his shirt-sleeve. “I can’t do this anymore. Hell, I’m out of whiskey.”

“What if I got you some more?” Mrs. Alvarez asked. “There’s a bar, in the dining hall. I have the keys, and I can give you another bottle. Just stay here,” she begged him. “The sister is right, and I’ve been in storms like these. We’re not finished. We’re only halfway through, and we mustn’t open the hotel, not yet.”

He wavered, frowning around the room, glancing toward the dining hall—which had been locked since shortly after his arrival.

The padre looked at the main doors, with their oversized beam bracing them shut from within; and he looked at Frederick Vaughn, surely too weak to do much more than complain. Then he said to Mrs. Alvarez, “That’s a good idea. Bring in some spirits, and we can share. It will calm our nerves, and give us all a little distraction.”

He thought that Valeria and Mrs. Anderson in particular could use the distraction, but if Vaughn would drink enough to floor himself, that was fine too. A glass in moderation for everyone else, and then they would wait for the rest of the storm with a greater sense of calm, or at least a dulled sense of care.