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Chapter Six: Housekeeping - Part Three
Lenten
What in the name of God was Flax doing in there! The kitchen was several yards away with two walls separating them and yet, still, Lenten could clearly hear the chaos happening inside it.
He clutched his pen and ground his teeth, gritting back a growl.
Flax was doing it on purpose, Lenten knew it.
Flax was still angry at him, so the Cordon Bleu bastard was banging about in his damned kitchen, clanging pots and crashing God-knew-what on the tiled floors.
He wanted to get a rise out of Lenten.
And Lenten knew it.
Well, he wasn’t going to give that pompous know-it-all the satisfaction. He would not let that arrogant, gin-soaked snoop know how much he and his banging bothered him.
Another loud smash sounded loud through the hotel walls.
That was it!
Lenten shoved his chair back with a snarl.
Try as he might, he simply couldn’t ignore that man and his noise. His loud, interfering, judgmental noise!
Normally, Lenten was a calm man. Calm, sedate, even—some might say—cold. He never had a temper and he never used obscenities—not even in his thoughts—finding the habit uncouth and vulgar. But, struggling with his last nerve, he slammed the book he was working on with a loud and particularly colorful curse.
If Flax had something to say to him, he could damn well say it to his face instead of pounding pans together from behind a wall like a toddler.
Sharply shutting his office door behind him, Lenten made his way through the dining room before pushing his way into the kitchen. “Flax!” he all but bellowed, surprising himself with the strange, gruffly animalistic sound growling up from his throat.
This time the crash was so loud Lenten stepped back in shock as he saw something vaguely body-shaped tumble off the counter.
“Flax?”
He heard a low, pain-filled moan.
“Dear God.” He rushed around the counter to kneel on the ground. “Are you all right?”
Grabbing the groaning figure crumpled on the tile, Lenten helped turn him over. “Rowan.” He blinked blankly at the boy now holding his bruised elbow. “What are you doing in here?” Lenten looked up, surprised to find the rest of the room empty. “Were you the one making all that noise?”
Rowan winced. “Yeah,” he said apologetically. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be so loud, but I can’t find anything in here. I should just ask Flax, but...” He trailed off with a self-deprecating shrug as a flush burned across his freckled cheeks. “I didn’t actually want anyone to know what I was doing,” he muttered, rubbing his shoulder.
“And what are you doing?”
“Right now?” the boy hedged. “Looking for some tea.”
“Tea?” the man asked incredulous. Why did he look so embarrassed and shifty about tea?
Rising, Lenten walked to one of the cupboards and opened it, revealing an impressive array of teas from all over the world.
Rowan didn’t look impressed despite the fact that the hotel boasted a wide array of flavors and types, from instant to gourmet, from Chamomile to Chai. “I already looked there,” the boy said. “I was hoping you might have more somewhere else.”
Lenten eyed the cupboard stocked and stuffed with shelves upon shelves of boxes, tins, cans, and bags piled atop each other. He wanted more? “Perhaps you should tell me exactly what you’re looking for and I can see if we have it in storage.”
The boy took his time pushing himself off his knees, only to shuffle his feet nervously underneath him with a muffled click on the tile, never quite meeting the man’s now very suspicious gaze.
“What are you really looking for, Rowan?” Lenten asked, his voice hardening with temper as his suspicions mounted. He studied the young man, well aware of the stupidity of youth. “We don’t keep controlled substances in the hotel, much less the kitchen, so if that’s what you’re looking for—”
“No,” the boy assured quickly. “Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
He turned away evasively. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any lemongrass anywhere?"
Lenten gave the boy a pointed look. “Lemongrass?” He shook his head. “That’s what you’re looking for?”
The boy shifted his weight again. He bit his lip. “It’s one of the things.”
“What are the other things?” The man planted his fists on his hips.
“Ginger.”
“And?”
“Honey.”
“And?”
“Purified water.”
“And?” His patience—which was already thin—was just about gone. “Out with it, Rowan.”
“Pennyroyal?”
“Poison?” Lenten gaped with disgust. “What would you possibly want with that?” And did he really think that they would—that Lenten would ever allow them—to keep such things in the kitchen?
“I need it,” the boy insisted.
Lenten looked the anxious, guilty-looking boy up and down. “What do you want to use it for?”
Rowan winced and mumbled, “Mei.”
“You want to give her poison?” Lenten’s fists curled against his rising anger. “You plan to poison her!”
“No!” Rowan held out his hands innocently. “No.” He cringed and tilted his head a bit. “Well, yes. Kind of.” His shoulders slumped slightly, causing the small boy to shrink further into himself. “Only a little.”
He shook his head when the man started to object. “I don’t think the damage to her liver is really a comparable concern right now.”
“What do you want it for?” Lenten demanded. “Exactly.” If he intended to harm Mei or in any way hasten her...predicament, Lenten didn’t know what he’d do. Biting back rage, he hid his tight fists behind his back even as he fought the urge to lash out.
Rowan jumped at the man’s harsh tone before scrambling back to the counter to grab a book he’d left open there. “Don’t be angry.” Rowan held out the book to him. “Mei asked me to do it.”
Lenten looked into the boy’s apologetic green gaze before lowering his own to the yellowed pages. “I can’t read any of this.” Lenten stared at the foreign words in front of him. “What is this?” the man demanded, thinking it looked like a damned grimoire.
“In its original language, it’s literally translated as one of those books,” Rowan said in a voice that implied Lenten wasn’t far off his mark.
“A book of magic.” The practical 1950s man couldn’t keep the skepticism and distrust from his voice.
Rowan shrugged. “A book of spells and rituals, yes. At first, they were referred to as those books out of respect. One had to be studied and knowledgeable to even speak of such things. One had to be among the worthy.” He shrugged again. “Then it became dangerous to possess the knowledge of my people. We were hunted. Slaughtered. The knowledge destroyed.”
“You think you can help her with this?” Lenten’s fingers feathered over the book’s old but sturdy cover.
Even though he couldn’t be bothered with the lesson right now—not with Mei’s life on the line—Lenten felt oddly encouraged by the book’s history.
As if it somehow lent more credence to this insanity.
“This is what you need the pennyroyal for?”
The boy hesitated for a moment as if judging the decision of disclosure before coming up next to the man. He pointed to the page, the old paper crinkling beneath his fingertips. “This is a pennyroyal potion, used in certain rituals.”
“What kind would that be?” Lenten asked, not sure he wanted to know.
The boy looked uncomfortable.
“What is it, Rowan?”
“Rituals meant to simulate death.”
Lenten saw red as a harsh, angry sound slipped like a knife from his throat.
“Mei came to me yesterday,” the boy hurriedly explained. “She asked me to help her.”
“And a death ritual is supposed to do that?” Lenten raged.
“Not alone,” Rowan said. “Look.” He began flipping through pages. “I came across the pennyroyal potion before, but I didn’t think anything of it. But then Calla and I were looking at her notes about how time works in the hotel. We started thinking about her theories in relation to the rip in Suite 315.”
“What about it?” Lenten asked, impatient.
“Well, there’s a spell here,” he said, shoving the book toward him again, “the First Breath spell.”
Lenten looked at the page. There was a large-headed female figure crudely drawn in the top corner of the page, crouched with its hand between its knees, clutching at a large, gaping—
“Oh,” Lenten gasped at the lewd image. He dropped the book.
Catching it carefully, the boy nodded, understanding. He gave a small shrug. “It’s a fertility spell, meant for births and rebirths. New beginnings.”
“And this spell can do that? Give her a new start?” Lenten asked, his voice hoarse with reluctant hope. “It can cure her?”
Rowan frowned. “No,” he answered hesitantly. “Sorry,” he said, his voice cracked and sad, “I can’t do anything that big. I’m not nearly that powerful. I don’t even know if this will work—”
“What is it supposed to do then?” Lenten asked, hearing the frustration creeping back into his voice.
What good was his magic and books if they couldn’t save her?
“With the potion and the spell together—if it even works—” Rowan said, “I might be able to give her enough time to say goodbye.”
Lenten choked on a breath.
Goodbye.
Of course.
He shut the book as he squeezed his eyes shut, feeling his hope—that foolish, gullible emotion—fail.
“I know it’s not much,” he heard Rowan say from beside him as he felt the boy’s small hand on his shoulder, “but I’d give anything to see my family again—even if it was just to say a proper goodbye.”
Lenten nodded. Yes, he’d give anything to see Ash one more time, just for the chance to say everything he wished he had but hadn’t because he hadn’t had the courage or had thought there would be time.
But there hadn’t been time.
And, in truth, there would never be enough time—it just wasn’t possible—to say everything you wanted to say to a person. With a person you love, a little time was never enough.
Nothing short of forever would do.
How could he ever say goodbye to Mei? How could he be expected to condense everything he felt for her—their past, all their present, and everything they should have had in a future that could no longer be—into a single moment?
It was an impossible situation.
The Elysium had been a very good home to him for a very long time, but, yes, sometimes it could be a very cruel place.
Lenten swallowed hard as he shook his head absently.
Maybe saying goodbye would help Mei. Give her some small amount of comfort. Before she faded away forever. Right before his eyes.
But, God, where would that leave him?
He was the one that would have to carry the memories around with him. He was the one that would have to live here in the home he made—the home they made together—and remember.
Saying goodbye might make her feel better, but it might well kill him.
He couldn’t do it.
He just couldn’t.
It was selfish and weak and reprehensible. But it was also unforgivably true.
“Lenten?” Rowan asked in the kind of worried tone that implied this wasn’t the boy’s first attempt to get his attention.
The Elysium’s stiff-spined manager straightened and turned to him, his breathing sounding harsh and labored even to him.
Swallowing hard, he said, “Talk to Mrs. Kinofuji. She might have what you’re looking for in one of the gardens or in the greenhouse.” With his jaw clenched and his shoulders tense, he spun around and headed for the door to leave. “Do what you have to,” the manager told the amateur magician curtly, before adding, “just keep me informed.”
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