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Chapter Three: The Guided Tour - Part Four
Flax
Flax Yew—or at least the man now calling himself Flax Yew—wiped his hands with a fluffy, unnecessarily luxurious dishtowel as he looked outside the kitchen window at the two girls fluttering around.
He watched as the new girl, Calla, played at being Betty Crocker, tucking an auburn strand of hair behind her ear as she sliced cold strips of his honeyed ham into a large bowl of fresh greens before tossing the whole thing with some of his homemade honey mustard vinaigrette.
He grinned remembering how the pair had burst into his kitchen grabbing armloads of food, chatting away about tempting 113 out of his room. He hoped that their efforts wouldn’t be wasted as he watched little Olive set her ever-present little doll down in a chair before reaching up to grab a cookie-laden tray from one of the Faceless servants, murmuring a reflexive yet dismissive thanks.
His smile widened when he noticed that, unlike the child next to her, the seemingly unflappable Calla flinched whenever one of the smooth, featureless servants came too close as she set the table.
Yeah, well, the Faceless took some getting used to.
In the periphery, they seemed perfectly normal. Uniformed maids and butlers bustling about the hotel, silently performing the innumerable odd jobs every hotel needed done in order to function. But on closer examination, there was nothing normal about the Faceless.
Even while tucked away in the kitchen far from them, Flax felt his skin prickle as the wind blew one of the maid’s black bob free from her lacy cap across the undisrupted skin stretched over the flat planes of the servant’s face. Flax tried to imagine that face with big, watery blue eyes, a nose pert and French, and lips that would curl as prettily in disgust as they did in delight. But the image wouldn’t stick.
So instead he shook his head and turned his attention to the giggling girls again as they snuck fudge from the cookie trays, laughing conspiratorially as they worked together to shift the pastries to hide their theft.
Though he’d often been accused of being a heartless bastard—quite justifiably, too—he just couldn’t stand to see that poor child’s heart broken when she and her new friend realized that their brilliant plan wasn’t enough to coax the new tenant out from his tear-blurred state. If 113 had locked himself in his room for three days, leftover dinner was not the way to let loose the bolt.
So Flax sighed and dipped out of his apron, hanging it on its hook before heading out into the hotel hallway.
He nodded to Mrs. Kinofuji who sat in the lobby’s cushy recliner, knitting happily with Chia, the hotel’s large tabby, stretched out on her lap. She shook her head disapprovingly as he pulled up the lobby bar’s countertop flap and passed through.
Normally, he’d agree with her. Even for a lush like Flax, lunchtime wasn’t usually the preferred cocktail hour, but these were desperate times.
So, grabbing a couple of glasses and the still fairly full bottle of whiskey from beneath the bar, Flax bowed his head again to the frowning knitter before heading to Suite 113.
Without so much as a knock, Flax entered the room, stopping only when he saw the bed stripped of its covers. He turned to see the boy curled, red-eyed and haggard, beneath mounds of linens piled atop the cushioned arm chair in front of the shuttered balcony windows.
Feeling most of his determination leave him when faced with such pathetic wretchedness, Flax set the glasses on the room’s desk with a quiet clink. He grabbed the high-backed writing chair and, twisting it around, straddled it, resting his elbow on the sleek wood back. Still gripping the bottle in his hands, he peered out the thin slots of the shutters at the girls still organizing their impromptu feast. “Third plate’s for you, you know,” Flax said casually as he rolled the bottle’s thin neck between his palms. “Case you’re interested.”
Rowan turned and looked at Flax, his first acknowledgment of the uninvited guest’s presence. First and only, apparently, as the redheaded boy rolled his bloodshot, wet eyes back to the window. The room was so dark the boy’s crying eyes were almost all deep green pupil, like a forest of evergreens after the rain.
They sat silently for a long moment, just watching those busy girls.
“I want to go back,” Rowan finally croaked out.
“No one’s keeping you here.” Flax shrugged.
“Then why can’t I go back?” He whipped around, the blankets swirling around him. His fists clutched the cloth bunched around him as he sniffled. He sighed and sat back. “I have to go back. I have to.”
As if wanting it—even needing it—was ever as easy as getting it.
Flax sucked in a deep breath. He wasn’t one for doling out comfort—unless it was of the Southern kind—so, doing what he did best, he reached over to the desk and grabbed the glasses, expertly opening the bottle still clutched in his other hand with a practiced flick of his thumb and forefinger.
“Those girls down there have worked the better part of the morning to do something awful nice for you.” He sloshed a bit of the whiskey into both glasses before setting the bottle down by his foot and holding one glass out to the boy. “Be a pity if you went and missed it all.”
Rowan just stared at the glass, obviously wanting the warm oblivion it promised while still doubting the source.
Flax shook the drink. “Take it, kid,” Flax said with a smile before taking a sip from his own. “After a healthy dose of this, I swear, this’ll all look a lot less strange.”
Rowan sighed and reached a shaky hand out to the glass.
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