As an innkeeper, I’d seen that the most important guests are often accompanied by large entourages. A lady of status would not travel alone. She would at the very least have a maid or a chaperone attending to her. Perhaps a princess in exile lost her chaperone during her escape. Quite tragically. Captured. Or killed.
Gold certainly speaks the loudest of someone’s status. That and an abundance of things. Her luggage should be a porter’s worst nightmare—trunks, crates and valises. Racks of gowns and luxury goods.
“Fancy letter might do the trick,” Kodiak offers.
Of course. The Astral Society would send letters in advance of their visit, explaining why doctor so-and-so should be treated with the utmost respect and receive the best suite available.
“Yes, Her Highness Princess Callista of Mizarra is traveling abroad under the protection of her family crown. In secret. It is of the utmost importance her presence there not be announced.”
He nods in agreement. “Know a fella that could make somethin’ like that look real official.”
An effervescence bubbles up inside me. This plan seems to be coming together nicely.
Over the next week, we map it all out—from our telegram announcing the Princess’s arrival in advance, to our escape plan, down to the local events calendar to pick a date where we’d expect the hotel to be most busy. Kodiak takes care to leave the thievery to him. When I request to visit with my beloved country’s precious artifact, I will be just as surprised as their poor clerk that an armed man has taken this opportunity to empty the vault.
When I arrive at the Sherman Hotel New Orleans, I join the end of a long queue snaking through the grand lobby—all gilded trim and high ceilings, with chandeliers dripping crystal like champagne caught mid-fall. Velvet armchairs line the edges, and a massive oil painting of some bewhiskered general looms above the fireplace, judging us all with eternal discontent.
I wait alone, weighed down by gold, sapphires—jewels Kodiak assured me he secured by legal means—and the smothering embrace of silk and velvet, my bodice pinched so tight I feel faint. The heat of the day clings to the marble floors, and sweet tobacco smoke lingers in the air.
At the front desk, a man in linen pleads his case while a flustered gentleman in a waistcoat and spectacles fumbles through papers. I shift my weight, corset biting deeper with each breath.
“My apologies, sir,” the clerk stammers. “We seem to have misplaced your luggage. However, I assure you I have our best porters searching for it, and I’m quite confident it has not left the hotel.”
The man barks back, his voice loud enough to make several heads turn. The clerk shrinks further, his composure unraveling with each syllable.
I scan the room and catch sight of an elderly watchman leaning against a polished pillar near the entrance, absently jingling his keys, gazing out at the carriages passing along CanalStreet. I clear my throat delicately and raise my hand in a subtle wave. He perks up at once, his smile warm, posture stiffening as he approaches slowly.
“What can I do for you, Madame?”
I tilt my chin toward the front desk. “Sir, it seems there may be trouble there. Perhaps you could assist so that this queue might move along?”
He listens for half a moment, frowns, then hurries toward the scene, the brass buttons of his uniform gleaming under the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass transom overhead.
Behind me, porters strain under the weight of trunks filled with carefully selected river rocks, sweat beading along their brows. Crates groan on creaky carts, and racks of velvet gowns—all of which Kodiak promised were paid for—sway with each step.
The line inches forward. I take one elegant step.
“Madame!” a voice rings out, urgent and reverent.
I turn, heart fluttering. A man in formal dress hurries toward me, breathless. “You must be Her Majesty, Princess Callista of Mizarra.”
I cast a glance around the glittering lobby. “Shhh,” I murmur, leaning close. “You mustn’t announce my presence here.”
He recoils with theatrical guilt. “Forgive me, Your Highness.” He bows deeply, the seams of his coat straining. “Please, Madame, come with me.”
We abandon the line of commoners and glide across the marble floors toward the elevator, passing a gilded staircase wrapped in red carpet like a tongue, curling toward a mezzanine of stained-glass windows and heavy drapes.
“Wait,” I say, stopping short. “There’s a very important item with me. I need to ensure?—”
“The artifact, Madame. We’ve arranged for it to rest secure in our vault.”
“Wonderful. It is one of the few heirlooms the Meraki people did not destroy during the war of Cassiopeia,” I say, drifting off script. “You see, my great-great-grandpapa commissioned the Bear Throne. Ebony, imported from Madagascar. Inlaid with sapphires. Priceless.”
It’s as if I’ve recited scripture. “Goodness, Madame. We are so honored to protect it.” His voice lowers. “Forgive me, but…are you traveling alone?”
Footsteps echo behind us. I inhale sharply—planned, but jarring nonetheless. “No, monsieur. I mean…yes. My lady maid was”—I reach for my kerchief and blot away nothing from the corner of my eye—“captured.”
“Oh my,” he gasps, one hand to his chest. “Shall we send someone to assist with your luggage?”
