The bitter east wind blew harder, causing the few falling snowflakes to whirl and eddy. Brynn clapped one hand on her hat to keep it from flying away as she peered up at the hulking building, its gables black against the setting sun. She could see a small sign: THE CASTLE HOTEL FOR WOMEN: TEMPORARY LODGING FOR LADIES. Her heart sank. Although it was called a castle, the hotel looked drab and hopelessly dilapidated. She rang the buzzer and then pushed open the etched-glass doors.
Inside, the lobby was hushed. There was a mahogany hat-and-umbrella stand to the right of the door, and a long dark-red drugget runner, which matched the velvet flock paper on the walls. The shabby Victorian button-back parlor chairs turned to the fireplace were empty. The fire itself had burned down to a bed of glowing coals behind the cast-iron andirons, decorated with goblin talons with sharp claws.
“It’s not safe to leave doors open in London.”
Brynn looked up. She saw a dour young woman behind the reception desk, an open book in front of her. For a moment, their eyes locked.
“Please close them behind you. It’s far too easy for anyone to slip in.” The receptionist was no more than twenty, sallow and sickly, with limp hair and too much lipstick, sitting behind an ornate desk. “May I help you?”
Brynn crossed the black-and-white marble chessboard floor. “I rang earlier, but there was no answer. I need a room, please. Do you have any vacancies?”
The girl pushed aside her novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray. Brynn noticed she had a maroon port-wine stain on her right cheek. “How many nights?”
“Just one.”
She looked through a binder. “We happen to have an opening for tonight.”
“Fantastic,” Brynn said. “I’ll take it.”
“How did you hear of us?”
“I was given one of your business cards.”
“Where?”
“Special Operations Executive offices—on Baker Street.”
“Ah, yes—the SOE. I dropped those cards off myself. Now, we do have a few rules here at the Castle Hotel.” She spoke by rote: “No smoking, no drinking, no swearing, and, most importantly, no men beyond the lobby.”
“That’s fine,” Brynn said, staring up at the immense ebony clock mounted on the wall behind the desk. Its black pendulum swung back and forth with a weighty click and clack; when it chimed the hour, both women startled.
The girl gave a short laugh at her own nervousness. “You’d think I’d get used to it by now—but no. My fiancé loves it, though—says it makes him think of Edgar Allan Poe.”
As the girl pushed forward a large leather registry book to sign, Brynn caught the twinkle of a diamond and gold ring on the girl’s left hand. “Congratulations on your engagement.” Brynn smiled as she wrote, the nib of the pen scratching at the thin paper. “Or is it best wishes? I’m never sure.”
“Thank you.” The girl flushed. She gestured to a silver-framed photo of an ordinary-looking man, short, with medium-brown hair and small eyes. His features were undefined, as though the cartilage had never hardened properly. “That’s my fiancé, Nicholas Reitter. He studied engineering and architecture—and helped redesign and renovate this place, for my father. He’s going to be sent to the Mideast soon. War work, you know.” She turned to grasp a key from the rack behind her. “All right then, Miss—”
“Brynn is fine.”
“Brynn. My name is May, May Frank.” She smiled, revealing a dead front tooth turned gray. “My father’s in charge of the hotel. He’s a practicing psychoanalyst—trained in Vienna and everything—his office is over there.” She jutted her chin at glossy black double doors adorned with an engraved bronze nameplate, then came around the desk and picked up Brynn’s suitcase. “Let me show you to your room.”
“Oh, I can manage—”
“Nonsense! I’m delighted to help! Plus, I get to stretch my legs a bit.” Suitcase in hand, May led the way to the birdcage elevator. She pressed an ivory button and they waited as gears and levers began to click and grind. When the ornate cage arrived, they stepped in—and it sank noticeably under their weight.
“Safe as houses,” May stated with confidence. “Nick assures me, and he’d know—he’s an architect and he’s done all of the repairs and new additions to my father’s buildings.” She slid the rickety gate shut with a bang. “Back in the old days, there were men in white gloves to open and close the doors and press the buttons.” She jabbed at the scratched knob marked 5. “Now they’re all off fighting—and we’re left to do it ourselves.”
For a long moment there was no movement. The elevator was frozen. “?‘Abandon hope all ye who enter,’?” Brynn joked. “Maybe we should take the stairs?”
But with a jolt and a whine, the lift began to rise, shaking and shuddering. Brynn bit her lip and stared up at the wavering hand of the indicator, with a vision of being trapped between floors without anyone finding them for days. Finally, the elevator screeched to a stop. May retracted the gate and opened the door.
The birdcage was still six inches below floor level. “You can make the step, yes?” she asked, hoisting Brynn’s valise out first.
“Of—of course.”
“This way, please!” Scrambling up and following May on the faded Persian runner, Brynn surveyed the shadowy hall. It was awkward and narrow, and smelled of new construction and something vaguely chemical. The air was freezing, even colder than outside. The wallpaper was a faded red silk, while lights contrived to look like Victorian gas lamps lined the corridor. As the two women walked the twisting and turning halls in the gloom, Brynn had the sudden image of the Minotaur’s labyrinth.
May stopped. “Ta-da!” she announced, opening one of the doors.
Except the door opened onto a brick wall. “Oops,” she apologized. “Er, not that one.”
Brynn was confused. “What is—?”
“Oh, they’re always building and rebuilding here, especially after the Blitz took out so much.” May shrugged. “I can scarcely find my way around these days. Only Nicholas has the master plan.”
Across the hall was the correct room. May fumbled with the heavy key, but eventually forced the door open. It was small, with a high water-stained ceiling. The walls were covered in faded wallpaper with blowsy blue roses against a crimson background, the pockmarked floor mostly hidden beneath a fussy floral rug. The room itself was outfitted with mismatched furniture—a twin bed, a washbasin, a chest of drawers, a chair, and a tiny desk with a gooseneck reading lamp. From the walls, a series of engravings, portraits of early Victorian belles clad in lace and tarlatan gowns, frowned down at them.
Like the hallway, the room was freezing.
May set down Brynn’s bag. “I’ll let you get settled.”
Brynn closed the door firmly, then twisted the dead-bolt lock. The loose windows rattled in the wind, and she walked over to cover them with the heavy blackout curtains. She hesitated.
A man in the building directly across the darkening street stared at her, lit by his desk lamp. Slim and dark-haired, he held a paper and pencil, and gazed at her intently, as though she were a specimen under a microscope.
Brynn yanked the blackout curtains closed, her hands shaking, then flipped on the overhead light. She took a book from her bag and curled herself up on the bed under the covers, shivering. It’s only one night, she thought, trying to reassure herself. Just one night.
—
Maggie Hope was blindfolded.
“I don’t like this, you know, not one little bit,” she told David, leaning on his arm as he helped her up a short flight of steps. Her heart was beating fast, and the freezing wind whipped hard, icy snowflakes against her face. She knew they were still in Marylebone, but that was all. She thought back to her training in Arisaig and how she’d learned to rely on all her senses, not just sight. Listening for any ambient noise, she heard only branches tossed in the wind, a creaky bicycle going by, and a dog’s howl in the distance.
“Oh, just you wait, Mags!”
There was the sound of a doorknob turning and then the exhaling squeak of hinges as a door opened and he led her forward. It sounded familiar. It smelled familiar.
And, best of all, it was blessedly warm.
“Surprise!”