My stomach tightens. I imagine a porter prying open a trunk to find nothing but stones. “No, thank you. I must learn to carry on alone.”
The elevator opens with a soft chime, its golden grate folding aside like a curtain before a royal entrance.
“Very well then,” he says. “Please allow me to help you to your suite.”
Chapter 23
KODIAK
Imake it to the Sherman hotel on foot, damn near walking in circles, taking a path twice as long just to keep eyes off me. Sherman informants prowl the alleys, but their own hotel? What kind of fool would cross them then step through their gilded doors?
Turns out, I’m that fool.
Got on my Sunday best—shirt, waistcoat, trousers, derby pulled low. I whistle a tune like I own the place and stroll in under the glare of that damn painting in the lobby—some mean old general staring down from a gold frame big as a coffin. The marble under my boots is polished to a mirror shine. Whole damn lobby looks like the inside of a jewelry box, all velvet chairs and carved columns, every corner reeking of perfume and money.
Place like this, you’d never guess Alice was once a Sherman wife—least not the way they had her slaving in that country inn. I’m starting to think Joseph was the black sheep of the family, and his brother Virgil’s the one wearing the trousers. I tip my hatto the watchman half asleep by the pillar and head straight for the elevator—brass gates, slow as honey. Ride it to the top.
Alice left her door open a crack. Inside, she’s twisting like she’s caught in a snare, hands behind her back.
“Oh, thank goodness. Could you please help me out of this corset?”
“Of course, your majesty.”
Hooks, buttons, ribbons—fortress tighter than a vault. I’ve broken into banks with less trouble. Once I get her loose, she near melts, breathing like she’s just remembered how.
After, I haul the trunk into the washroom and dump it quiet, stacking those river rocks in the tub one by one. We gathered ’em ourselves, days back—boots in the mud, laughing like we weren’t planning a crime.
We wait for nightfall, when the hustle downstairs dies down. I go first, dressed in black from crown to cuff, hat pulled low, bandana in place. I move quiet, sticking to shadows.
The lobby’s different at night—same chandeliers, but now they burn low and gold, casting soft shadows across all that polished stone. Piano drifts in from the parlor, mixed with clinks of glass and low laughter from the bar.
I wedge myself in a stairwell, keeping to the dark, hand on my Colt, knife strapped tight. I pray I don’t need either. Not for my sake—for Alice’s.
And then she comes.
She don’t walk—she glides, floating across that marble like some temptress made of magic. Her satin robe clings to every sinful curve, the slip beneath near see-through, shadows drawing maps of what should stay hidden. Her slippers whisper against the stone, hem swinging high enough to flash pale ankle and a promise of more.
I swallow hard. God help me.
She approaches the front desk like a vision, voice all soft and trembly. “Monsieur, forgive me for troubling you at such an hour.”
The night clerk damn near falls over himself. Middle-aged, balding, probably hasn’t seen a woman like her outside a dime novel. “Not at all, Madame. How may I assist you?” he asks, all nerves and sweat, Adam’s apple bobbing like he swallowed wrong.
Alice lowers her lashes, eyes glistening like she’s been crying. “It is only that I cannot sleep. My nerves, you see. My family’s treasure is here, under your care, and the thought—” She dabs her cheek with her kerchief, just so. “The thought of it locked away, beyond my reach…”
We’d talked about her being distressed, but I could do without watching the damn flirtation.
“Oh, Madame,” the clerk blurts, leaning in closer. Too close. “You mustn’t distress yourself. The hotel vault is secure. Nothing could happen here.”
She sniffles pretty. “You are kind, monsieur. Truly. But my grandpapa—before the Merak assassinated him—told me to keep it always in sight. And now I am so far from home, with so few comforts. If I might only look upon it, just for a moment, I should rest easier.”
The clerk hesitates, fingers twitching atop the counter, sizing her up her like he’s weighing more than just hotel policy. Alice presses her kerchief to her chest, eyes big and glistening, voice all sugar and sorrow. He nods.
“Oh, monsieur, you are as generous as starlight on a dark night.”
Starlight. That’s the signal.
His smile spreads slow, like varnish on pine. “I’d consider it my honor to be of personal assistance, should Your Grace require anything else…later this evening,” he says, leaningforward. “Perhaps a nightcap?” He sways back and his tongue wets his lip like he’s savoring the thought.
