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Chapter Five: Room Service - Part One
Flax Plant: (Linum Usitatissimum) This plant is one of the oldest crops cultivated by man, dating as far back as the Stone Age. Practical and versatile, this plant has been used to manufacture such goods as fabric, dye, paper, medicines, hair gels, soap, kitty litter, car door panels, and even ancient Egyptian mummy wrappings.
Rowan
Rowan, never much of an early riser, rubbed his fists across his still sleepy eyes. Calla—on a whim—had come knocking on his door to check on him after her morning run. And somehow, she’d managed to wrangle him out of his bed to head up to her room—probably only by promising him breakfast as soon as she’d changed.
Already missing the warmth and comfort of his covers, Rowan groaned as he waited in her room with his back to her as she changed out of sweats and into some floral-type dress.
There had better be bacon involved to make this all worth it.
And to top it all off, Calla hadn’t stopped talking for a moment since she’d come tearing into his room like one of his nosy cousins.
Talking non-stop about the hotel and the guests and how interesting she found everything. How Mrs. K.—whatever her real name was, as Calla couldn’t be bothered to remember it—told the best stories about life as an opera singer. And how Flax would squawk like a plucked seagull if you touched anything in his kitchen. And how Lenten needed someone to shred all his suits or at least loosen his tie a bit now and again. And how Olive was just about the cutest thing she’d ever seen, like a large version of that porcelain doll she carried around with her everywhere—Daisy, she thought the toy’s name was.
Rowan sighed and shook his head. He looked out the hallway window to the burgeoning day and, again, thought of the splendid comfort of his bed.
Not the large, elaborate spread he’d just left, but the comfy, broken-in bed back home, covered in books and blankets—and more often than not a noisy cousin or two.
Lost in his musing, Rowan turned the corner with Calla, who was still prattling away beside him. He wondered what his family had thought at finding him gone. Did they think him kidnapped? Dead? Or maybe just a coward.
Had his mother cried for him? Had his father scoured the county? How long would they look for him, he wondered.
Could they maybe find him?
The idea seemed impossible—Mei had said as much—but he and his family were different, weren’t they?
They were Drurys, and that made all the difference.
“Rowan,” Calla said, stopping suddenly, cutting herself off in mid-sentence and him in mid-muse, “look.”
Jerked from his thoughts, he spun first to face her only to think it better to look where she gazed. He turned again quickly. A bit too quickly, as he hadn’t seen the streak of orange stretched in the sunlight on the carpet until it was far too late to avoid it.
Chia yowled—loudly and indignantly at having fumbling feet step all over his striped tail—shocking the not yet fully awake boy and causing Rowan to trip and fall.
As he crashed to the ground, Rowan tossed his weight to the side as quickly as he could so he slammed—head-first—into the cream-painted wall instead of the cat who now haughtily sashayed down the hall, displeased at having been awaken so rudely.
Rowan winced as he sat up a bit, but could only think to blink dully as he looked into the face of the tiny pixie curled up on one of the welcome mats.
“Smooth.” Calla laughed, kneeing down between him and Olive who lay with her legs tucked in and her arms wrapped around her doll, now yawning and stretching in the doorway.
Her brilliant blue eyes opened and focused. “Hello, Rowan. What are you doing on the floor?”
Feeling like an ass.
Rowan smiled wryly at the girl as he rubbed his now bruised and throbbing forehead. There had better be really crisp bacon—and eggs—for breakfast. He sighed and nodded hello to the girl. “What are you doing here?” He gestured to the floor before reaching out a hand to help her up.
“And have you been here all night?” Calla's brow furrowed worriedly.
“She said she was leaving.” Olive’s face scrunched up, still confused and tired, as she said in a scratchy, almost whining voice, “I couldn’t let her leave.”
Rowan had no idea what the little girl was talking about, thinking that it was just some weird remnant of some weird dream. But then Calla sighed heavily as she looked up at the door. Curious, Rowan’s gaze followed hers. Suite 206.
“Who lives in Suite 206?” Rowan looked from girl to girl.
“Mei,” a voice answered from behind them.
They all turned.
Flax was leaning against the stairwell rail, his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans. He sighed. “It’s Mei’s room.”
There was a silence, huge and awkward, filling the space between the four of them. Rowan could feel it—the tangibility of it—stretching from the patterned carpeted floor, up the smooth, tranquil-toned walls, and spreading itself across the lightly lit ceiling. But as to the cause of it, he hadn’t a clue what had brought it to being. “What does that mean?”
Flax smiled as he leaned over the rail and looked at Olive. “Hey there, chickpea, I’m feeling about five kinds of lazy this morning. Why don’t you go on to the kitchen and get out all the fixings for pancakes?”
Olive bit her bottom lip and looked up at the door, obviously reluctant to leave her post.
Flax nodded his head. “Or maybe cinnamon toast? With sausage—”
“Bacon,” Rowan mumbled under his breath.
“Bacon?” Olive piped up, her anxious eyes getting the slightest glint of interest.
“Bacon it is,” Flax pronounced as he pounded his fist on the rail like a gavel. “Now why don’t you go get things all set up in the kitchen for me?”
Olive shifted her weight from foot to foot, clutching her doll in her arm and worrying her lip between her teeth.
“Go ahead,” Calla prompted. “We’ll watch over Mei.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” Olive agreed, before skipping down the hallway and the stairs.
Calla turned to the lounging man. “What the hell—”
Flax held up his hand, silencing Calla as he watched Olive traipse out of earshot. “All right, children,” Flax said, turning back to Rowan and Calla, “I’m only gonna say this once. This ain’t none of your business, so do yourselves a favor and stay away from that door. Keep Olive away from it too.” Flax moved to continue down the stairs.
“Wait,” Calla called as she hurried after him, “why?” She reached out and grabbed his arm. “What the hell just happened here? Is something wrong with Mei? Olive said she’s leaving.”
“She did, didn’t she?” Rowan rushed up behind Calla. His mind began to not just wake up, but race. “Mei’s leaving? She can? How?”
Maybe there was a way back. Home.
Lenten had said that there wasn’t, but if Mei was leaving that meant Rowan could too.
He pushed past Calla and stopped Flax. “Why is she allowed to leave?”
“Hey,” Flax roared, swiveling so fast Rowan stumbled back into Calla, “you have no idea what you are talking about, boy.”
Rowan’s eyes focused in on the finger shoved millimeters from his face and all the directionless anger behind it just begging for an outlet. And, in that moment, Rowan decided that the only time an honest apology seemed truly wrong was during those times when nothing seemed the better thing to say.
“We just want to know what’s going on with Mei.” Calla moved to stand between Flax and Rowan. “Is she really leaving?”
Flax sighed and stepped back. “Yes, ma’am.” He turned to finish the last few stairs. “Just not the way anyone would ever want to.”
“Is she,” Rowan asked hesitantly as they followed the man, “dying?”
“No.” Flax shoved a hand through his dark hair. “Not dying. She’s,” he took a deep breath before finishing, “checking out.” He shivered.
Rowan shook his head, confused. “Checking out? What does that mean?”
“She’s disappearing.” He shook his head too, still rushing down the hall. “She’s fading away. Going Faceless. Checking out.”
“Faceless,” Calla murmured, her brown eyes glazing over with understanding. “The servants.”
“Yeah,” Flax said sardonically as he cocked his head and slowed, “never thought about where they came from, did you?” He scoffed as Rowan and Calla looked over their shoulder at a Faceless servant dusting a hallway vase.
Rowan had never really seen one of them up close before. He’d never taken the time to really look, figuring them no more interesting than the people his family hired to help about the castle. Indispensable yet invisible.
But, at second sight, Rowan almost couldn’t bear to look at the featureless figure. The lack—that smooth, empty expanse of eerie blank—was mesmeric, compelling you to stare when all you wanted to do was turn away. A blatant reminder of what should be there—nose, lips, eyes, a face...a person, whole and complete—but wasn’t.
“Well, every hotel has its price. Can’t get something for nothing, you know.” Flax laughed humorlessly and began to walk again, while Rowan and Calla both shuddered and turned from the servant to follow the other man. “Folks could stay here lifetimes and never want for a thing, but come time to settle that bill…” Flax clucked his tongue. “It costs nothing less than your soul. The very core of its guests, their being, that’s what makes this place run.”
Calla stopped and gasped, covering her open mouth. Rowan laid a hand on her arm. “So we’re all going to end up like them?”
Flax just turned away with a shrug of his shoulders.
“That’s not fair,” he roared. “Not all of us asked to be here.”
“None of us did,” Calla added.
“You wanted to come here.” Flax's face split into a vicious smirk curling his thin lips. “A part of you wants to be here or you would never have been brought. Something chased you to these doors. An abusive parent. A murderous stalker. Mind-bending grief.” Flax fixed the other two with a hard stare. “Don’t kid yourselves, children, you’re complicit. You checked in of your own accord.”
Rowan was a little tired of this guy acting so high and superior. Damn Yank. Kept calling them children or kids. He couldn’t have been more than a few years older than he and Calla—definitely not yet thirty.
Rowan had never been treated like this, as if he didn’t even matter. As if nothing he had to say were important. Rowan hurriedly followed after the guy, huffing. “So you’re saying that it’s Mei’s fault too?” Rowan asked daringly. He pulled up short a bit when Flax whipped around, his expression livid, but he kept on. “Well, she’s here, isn’t she? She checked in same as we did. Is this fair to her?”
Rowan watched the fire behind Flax’s eyes die and his shoulders slump, but, instead of feeling better for taking the piss out of the Yank, Rowan wished he’d just shut his mouth. “Sorry.” Rowan winced, wishing he sounded more convincing.
“You’re right,” Flax said.
“No,” Rowan insisted, “no, I’m not. It was a stupid thing to say. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“Maybe.” Flax shrugged. “But you’re still right. We all came here to still life for a while, to make the world go away, even Mei. Why should we be upset when the world goes on without us? We wanted to forget and in doing so were forgotten. Erased so completely that even the great cosmic consciousness can’t remember.”
“But we remember,” Calla said. “We know Mei. We’re part of the whole collective whos-it and we remember her.”
Flax scoffed. “Some lost, little soul stuck in the unused gray matter of the world thinks it knows anything at all.” Rowan saw Calla flinch a bit. Flax shook his head dejectedly. “No, she’ll fade. She’ll lose her memories. Lose her mind. Lose her…”
His voice gave out, unable or unwilling to state the final and most obvious loss every Faceless faced.
“Everything that makes her Mei will disappear, leaving only a shell as anonymous and empty as the rest of the Faceless. And it’ll happen to you someday,” he said, gazing at Calla. “And you,” he said, turning to Rowan.
And to Flax himself. He didn’t say it. It went without saying. And that, Rowan knew, was what had to scare and sadden Flax most. As much as losing Mei seemed to trouble him, it was his own approaching erasure—that creeping, unseen threat behind him—that spurred his fears. It was a reasonable fear. The man would have to be inhuman for him not to be afraid.
“What if it didn’t?” Rowan asked slowly.
“What?”
“What if it didn’t have to happen?” Rowan repeated.
“Yeah.” Calla straightened excitedly. “We could stop it.”
“Whoa, now,” Flax tried to interject.
“You said that she’ll first lose her memories, then her mind, and then…” Calla gulped. “But if we could stop it before then...”
“And just how do you expect to do that?” Flax asked skeptically.
Rowan only wished he knew the answer to that question as he and Calla stared at each other blankly.
“Well,” Rowan started, not even sure whether he had an end in mind much less where it would be, “we haven’t all the facts, have we?”
“No,” Calla exclaimed, clapping him hard on the back, “no, we don’t.” She gave him several more successive, congratulatory smacks.
Ow.
“We need more facts,” she continued excitedly. “We’ll follow her and record everything she does, right? Maybe if we can track this Faceless thing, we can figure out how to stop it, yeah? Come on,” she ordered as she began to rush down the hallway.
Flax shook his head. “You can’t stop it;” he called after her, “no one can.” He grunted, frustrated. “It’s been tried.”
“Oi, Rowan,” Calla said impatiently at the end of the hall. “Do you want breakfast or not?”
Rowan looked at Flax, unsure of what to do. He sensed that this moment was a lot bigger than it seemed. It was a feeling he couldn’t explain and never would have had to if he’d been home.
For a Drury, there were always signs.
Rowan looked around for an omen to confirm his thoughts. He gazed out the window at the sun climbing high in the sky. It was a cloudless day, the blue of the heavens endless and beautiful.
And there on the windowsill was a small bird with bright red feathers the same color as Rowan’s own hair. One of its wings was broken—just a crooked, sad clump of feathers at its side—but there it was on the second floor window, pattering slowly onto the tree limb just outside the sill. The sad, broken thing, against all odds and without thought to the consequences, was going home.
A sign in an in-between.
Rowan, tapping a finger to his own bandaged limb, screwed-up his courage and took the first step down the hallway.
“You’ll never do it,” Flax said. “Waste of time.”
“And, if we do nothing,” Rowan wondered aloud, “what does that do?”
Flax’s lips thinned thoughtfully as he rubbed the stubble still on his chin. He clucked his tongue and nodded.
“Oi, boys, we getting some brekkie or not?” Calla shouted from the bottom of the stairwell, reminding both guys that—whatever their future plans were for the moment—right now, they both had more pressing matters.
And so together they made their way toward the kitchen, hoping little Olive hadn’t made too much of a mess.
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