Chapter Seven
“Good Lord, Maddie—what did you pack? I told you to bring stockings, not gold bullion,” said Hank, dragging one of my suitcases behind him and letting it bang against each step.
“Just some essentials,” I said.
I was at the top of the stairwell, holding the lamp as Hank and Ellis brought up our luggage. I was freezing and queasy, and the lamp swung accordingly. I was terrified I’d trip and set the carpet on fire.
“Along with anchors and anvils, apparently,” said Hank, dropping the suitcase and wiping his hands.
Ellis came up behind him with two hatboxes.
“That’s everything,” he said.
“Not really,” said Hank. “We still have to get it into the rooms. I don’t know why Maddie wouldn’t just let me rouse Paul Bunyan.”
“She doesn’t like to discomfit the staff,” said Ellis.
“Why ever not?” asked Hank, looking at me with surprise. “Isn’t that what staff is for?”
“Well, I would say so, yes,” said Ellis.
“It’s still not too late to get him, you know,” said Hank.
“Yes it is,” I said crossly. “He said we could take any of rooms two through six, so can we please just do that and go to bed?”
“All right, darling girl,” said Hank, glancing up the row of doors. “I was merely pointing out that it would be faster if we had help. No need to work up a lather.”
I wobbled toward a hall table so I could ditch the lamp. I was as dizzy as the moment I’d gotten off the ship. If I hadn’t known it was impossible, I’d have sworn the building itself was swaying.
“Why do you suppose room one is off limits?” said Hank.
I turned around to find him trying the locked door. “Hank, stop! For Heaven’s sake. Somebody’s probably asleep in there, and every other room is available.”
He continued to jiggle the knob. “But what if this is the room I want? What if it’s the only one with a decent bath—”
The door swung inward, tearing the knob from Hank’s hand. He took a long step backward as a striking young woman with red hair burst into the hallway wielding a fire iron.
“And what the hell are you wanting?” she shouted in a thick accent. Her hair was tied into curls with scraps of cloth, and she was wearing a heavy white nightgown. She planted herself in front of Hank, grasping the poker with both hands.
“Henry Winston Boyd,” Hank replied without missing a beat. He held out his hand. “The fourth. And you?”
She turned her head and bellowed down the hall. “Angus! ANGUS!”
Hank took a step backward, hands up in surrender. “No, wait. We’re fellow guests. We’ve just arrived. See?” He gestured toward our luggage, which was scattered up and down the hallway.
She assessed it, ran her eyes over Ellis and me, and finally settled back on Hank. She stepped right up to him, brandishing the iron in his face.
“I’m no guest,” she said, slanting her eyes accusingly. “I’m Meg, and I’m not on the clock until tomorrow evening. So I’ll not be doing anything for you until then—and that goes for all of you.” She returned to her room and slammed the door.
After a beat of silence, Hank said, “I think she likes me.”
“Just pick a room,” said Ellis.
“No, really. I think she does.”