Jacaranda (The Clockwork Century 6)

“Very good!” she exclaimed. She was surprised, but glad. And something else, but he wasn’t listening hard anymore, so he couldn’t tease it out. “How long will you be staying with us? A few days at least, I should think—until the storm has passed. I don’t think it will be too bad, but you never do know.”

“I hope you are right. And yes, I will stay a few days.”

All of this in English, for nothing about the woman suggested she knew a word of Spanish. His words vibrated softly with an

accent, but he was easy enough to understand. Only the occasional fool pretended otherwise.

When he gave the girl his name, she made another small exclamation: “Oh! I have a message for you. It’s from Sister Eileen. She said you’d be joining us.” From under the desk she retrieved an envelope, folded but not sealed. It said “Father Rios” in handwriting he now found familiar.

He thanked her, but he did not open it yet.

The woman, whose name was Sarah, gave him a room key in exchange for three days’ worth of board. She retrieved a paper sign that said, “Back in 5 minutes.” She took him to the elevator and drew back its cage. She stepped inside, inviting him to do likewise.

“It’s a new addition,” she explained. “The owners had it installed a month ago. It’s lovely, don’t you think?”

“A fine device,” he agreed. Its buttons were glass, and indicated the three visible floors as well as a basement. The floor was tiled with large black and white squares of linoleum that felt firm but spongy when he bounced slightly on his heels. A glass bulb in a metal cage cast out light from a vivid yellow filament; it flickered when the girl pulled a lever, and the lift began to rise.

“You’ll be on the third floor on the north wing. Same wing as Sister Eileen, though she’s on the second floor. Shall I tell her you’ve arrived?”

“No, do not bother her.”

The elevator climbed smoothly, and when the third level landing presented itself, Sarah pulled the lever again—lining up the floors for a seamless exit. “As you like. Please, make yourself comfortable. If you need anything, I’ll be downstairs. Or you can ring from your room,” she told him. “The bell will bring me or one of the Alvarez ladies, right away.”

“Thank you, but I have had a long week’s journey. I will need some rest, and to refresh myself.”

He did not intend to rest, but he did not want the young woman’s company, either.

The padre put his satchel on the foot of the bed, and sat down beside it. The envelope from the nun was crisp and insistent in his pocket, so he opened it with his thumb and extracted the contents: a single sheet of plain paper. It read, “You can find me in room 203. We have so much to talk about.”

Though his travels had been uneventful, they were tiring all the same…but she was right, they had much to talk about. And below his feet he could feel (without even listening) the rumbling churn of something that was not very happy to have him here. That was fine with him. He wasn’t happy to be there, but he knew where he was needed. It could fuss and grumble all it wanted.

He went to the basin and splashed some water on his face, toweled himself off, and left his bag sitting on the bed.

Room 203 was downstairs, but he preferred to skip the elevator.

He walked a long carpet runner that went the length of the hallway, and noted gaslamp fixtures at regular intervals, keeping the area bright despite the lack of windows. At the end of the wing, closest to the elevator, he also spied a heavy, enormous fire door on a great hinge—a feature that was quite common, even in buildings as forward-thinking as this one. Fire does not care for architecture. It hungers for whatever it can find, and when there isn’t enough water to douse it, there’s nothing to be done except contain it and hope it dies. Close the great metal doors and seal off the flames. Let the fire consume all its own air, and suffocate.

Just beyond these doors, he found a set of stairs.

Down them he climbed, and on the second floor he strolled until he found number 203. He knocked, and within the room he heard the shuffling sound of someone roused from a seated position, as well as brief, hurried footsteps.

Sister Eileen Callahan opened the door with caution.

And then a smile.

The nun with precise, pretty handwriting was a full head smaller than the padre; her hair was mostly hidden by her gray and white head covering, but a ginger curl escaped—accompanied by a wisp of gray—and her eyes were the color of burnt caramel, gold and brown. She could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty years old, and Rios was far too polite to speculate. Hers was an ageless sort of face, and neither pretty nor plain, narrow nor plump. She stood before him with the competent air of a woman who is very often expected to know things and do things—immediately, and correctly.

“Hello, Father Rios.” Her accent cemented his suspicions. Irish, though she’d been in the Americas for quite some time, he guessed. He guessed something else, too…even though he wasn’t looking or listening. There was something else about her, some other foreign thing, distant and perhaps quite dark, but leashed for the time being.

It intrigued him, but didn’t bother him. If there was something strange about her, that was just one more thing they had in common. It might even be why she summoned him. “Hello, Sister Eileen.”

“I hope your trip was safe and pleasant.”

“Safe enough. Pleasant enough.”

“Good, because your time here at the hotel will not be.” She stepped into the hall, and closed the door behind herself. “Here, won’t you come with me? Let us walk together.”

He welcomed the suggestion. The hotel was growing darker inside—maybe because the day was growing long, or the storm was coming closer, or he wasn’t wanted there. He was careful not to listen, and not to look. He deliberately put those senses away, lest he intrude by accident on the wrong party.