Behind Closed Doors (Rochester Trilogy 3.50)

One Thousand and One Dark Nights

Once upon a time, in the future…

I was a student fascinated with stories and learning.

I studied philosophy, poetry, history, the occult, and

the art and science of love and magic. I had a vast

library at my father’s home and collected thousands

of volumes of fantastic tales.

I learned all about ancient races and bygone

times. About myths and legends and dreams of all

people through the millennium. And the more I read

the stronger my imagination grew until I discovered

that I was able to travel into the stories... to actually

become part of them.

I wish I could say that I listened to my teacher

and respected my gift, as I ought to have. If I had, I

would not be telling you this tale now.

But I was foolhardy and confused, showing off

with bravery.

One afternoon, curious about the myth of the

Arabian Nights, I traveled back to ancient Persia to

see for myself if it was true that every day Shahryar

(Persian: ??????, “king”) married a new virgin, and then

sent yesterday's wife to be beheaded. It was written

and I had read that by the time he met Scheherazade,

the vizier's daughter, he’d killed one thousand

women.

Something went wrong with my efforts. I arrived

in the midst of the story and somehow exchanged

places with Scheherazade – a phenomena that had

never occurred before and that still to this day, I

cannot explain.

Now I am trapped in that ancient past. I have

taken on Scheherazade’s life and the only way I can

protect myself and stay alive is to do what she did to

protect herself and stay alive.

Every night the King calls for me and listens as I spin tales.

And when the evening ends and dawn breaks, I stop at a

point that leaves him breathless and yearning for more.

And so the King spares my life for one more day, so that

he might hear the rest of my dark tale.

As soon as I finish a story... I begin a new

one... like the one that you, dear reader, have before

you now.

Chapter One

Marjorie

The scent of warm leather fills me with a deep-rooted peace.

I place the stitched vellum into place between the marbled endpapers. My heartbeat is slow, my breathing steady. Bookbinding is a meditative work. It’s about ritual and care more than efficiency. It started as a way to fill the hours when the inn had no guests, a way to make money during Maine’s off season. It’s become so much more than that.

The last of my guests left two weeks ago. An adorable couple looking for shelter from the cold front. They live in a converted Airstream, going from city to city. National park to national park. They enjoy the nomadic lifestyle, but even they wanted central heating for a few nights.

Some inns close down during the winter months, but I don’t see the point. This is my home. I’m here anyway, so I may as well leave the door unlocked for someone who needs a room.

Lighthouse Inn is not only my personal safe haven. It’s a place where anyone can stop and rest for the night. I know how lonely life on the road can be. I offer them a warm bed and a smile before they continue on with their journey.

Shadows lurk in the corners of my mind. Memories from when I needed a safe place.

I couldn’t find a haven then, but I made it for myself.

The bone folder. A cutting blade. Archival quality glue. My tools line up beside me, clean and sharp. This, too, is part of my ritual. I enjoy the ritual of it.

And mostly, the sense that I’m building something permanent.

The bell rings.

It’s the bell over the front door, heralding the arrival of someone. A guest? No. There are no reservations on the books for weeks. And the weather has turned stormy. No one would be out at a time like this. I get deliveries, but not at this hour.

I put away the book and head into the lobby, already smiling in anticipation of greeting someone.

A man stands in the entryway, raindrops sliding down a black trench coat.

My smile fades.

The lobby is comfortably small, only big enough for guests to check in with their luggage in tow. It feels even smaller now with the dark, imposing figure looming. The air feels thick, as if he’s filling it with his presence. Dark eyes and black hair. He holds a utilitarian black duffel bag that feels incongruous against the homey backdrop walls.

Dangerous.

It’s the first word that springs to mind as I stare at him.

But also handsome.

I swallow around the knot in my throat. “Welcome to the Lighthouse Inn. Do you have a reservation?” I ask while I tap the keyboard to pull up the calendar. I know he doesn’t have one. I ask anyway because it sets the tone between us.

I’m the owner of the inn.

He’s a guest. Nothing more, nothing less.

“No reservation.” The low gravel of his voice runs over my spine.