Alchemy of secrets, p.17
Alchemy of Secrets, page 17
“The Professor offered you an ability,” Holland supplied.
Eileen nodded.
“Can you tell me what it is?”
Eileen shook her head then she gave Holland a look that made her think her friend had been swindled. “It’s not as impressive as you might think.”
Holland thought back to what the Professor had said in her office. “Do you have the ability to always find a really good parking spot?”
Eileen’s eyes widened. “How did you guess that?” she asked, then she looked down at Holland’s wrist. Her eyes lingered for a second and she frowned, as if she hadn’t found what she’d been looking for.
All of a sudden, Holland understood what the tattoos represented. “Were you looking for an ancient eye with the symbol for sulfur and the symbol for tin?”
Eileen frowned, as if she wasn’t supposed to answer that question. Then she turned her wrist, which was normally covered in a watch or a sleeve, to reveal a tattoo exactly like January’s, Gabe’s, and Adam’s, except Eileen’s was an inky shade of green.
Holland must have been right. The tattoos meant that a person had an ability. “Why—”
Holland’s phone beeped with a text. For a second, she wondered if it was January, and if she’d made a terrible mistake about Gabe. But the text was not from her sister.
What have you done?
Suddenly, Holland did feel scared. There were just four words, but the fact that Gabe had sent them meant the Bank hadn’t apprehended him. And that he knew she had turned him in.
Holland anxiously looked out the window to see if Gabe was following them. There was nothing, just road and trees and …
A billboard appeared on the side of the road. One moment it wasn’t there, and then it just was.
The billboard pictured a couple riding in a convertible with the top down. He looked like Cary Grant. She looked like Grace Kelly, large sunglasses covering her eyes, Tiffany-blue scarf blowing in the wind as they rode toward a mansion.
During warmer months of the year, the Hollywood Forever Cemetery projected classic films on the side of one of their mausoleums after sunset. Holland wondered if maybe this billboard was an old ad for that, if perhaps this summer they’d shown To Catch a Thief.
But the writing on the billboard read:
THE REGAL HOTEL
Next Turn
.5 miles
“Oh. My. God.” Eileen’s voice jumped to a fevered pitch that Holland had never heard before. “You have a key.”
Eileen’s gaze volleyed excitedly from Holland to Cary and Grace and then back to Holland.
“What are you talking about?” Holland asked.
“That’s a billboard for the Regal. You can’t see it unless you have a key.”
Holland was about to say she didn’t, but then she hesitated. She opened her purse and pulled out her sister’s plastic Motor Hotel key chain. Her fingers sparked once again as she touched it. Then, right before her eyes, the key transformed into a gleaming gold skeleton key attached to a shimmering gold oval with two words etched into it: The Regal.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The next street was Hitchcock Way.
Eileen didn’t even hesitate before turning. Everything changed as she did.
It had been morning, but now it looked like the golden hour. The sky was all buttery glowing clouds and streams of melting colors. Palm trees with Technicolor-green fronds lined a curving road paved in the reddest bricks Holland had ever seen. Everything was perfect. Birds soared and bright butterflies floated above the palms.
“It’s magnificent.” Eileen glowed with awe as she drove up a hill. A Gilded Age mansion at least ten stories tall came into view. “You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to come here.”
“What makes this place so special?” Holland asked. Although, just from the magic of the key, she could already tell this hotel was out of the ordinary.
She knew the Professor had written about it in her journal, but it had been so late and Holland had been so tired when she read it that all she could recall was something about animals being required to wear clothing, which might have actually been a joke.
“The family who built this place is known for having abilities involving time and its manipulation,” said Eileen. “So every hour inside the Regal is only a minute outside. Right now, since we are on the Regal property, time has slowed to a crawl everywhere else. You could spend a month here, and only twelve hours would pass for the rest of the world.”
This was just what Holland needed. Time. She also liked the idea that a person couldn’t enter without a key, which hopefully meant Gabe couldn’t follow her.
Eileen briefly took her eyes off the road and looked directly at Holland. “How did you get your hands on a key?”
Holland didn’t want to lie, not after so many people had been dishonest with her. But her sister had hidden the key, made it a secret. And Holland still wasn’t entirely sure how much she could trust Eileen.
Holland wanted to believe Eileen was a good friend. But Eileen was also an employee of the Bank, run by the Professor, who knew that Holland was the sort of sappy sentimentalist likely to trust her friends.
“I wish I could tell you,” Holland said, “but the key isn’t actually mine.”
This only made Eileen appear more intrigued. “Did you steal it? Is that why the Bank wanted to detain you?”
“You don’t know why they wanted to detain me?”
“I only know that this morning, everyone seemed to be talking about you.” Eileen looked at Holland as if trying to figure out why.
They now were getting close enough to see the wide curving driveway lined in immaculate hedges and buzzing with crisp valets and perky bellhops, all dressed in cardinal-red coats with polished brass buttons that matched the gold stripes on their pants.
There are places that look like magic, and places that feel like magic, but the Regal was magic. Holland could feel it from the tips of her fingers down to her toes. This was big magic. Rabbit hole magic. The other side of the wardrobe magic. The world Holland had always felt deep down in her bones had to exist magic.
“Can you stop the car and drop me off just up there?” Holland asked. “Where the road briefly bends and the valets won’t see?”
“You can’t be serious.” Eileen’s smile vanished.
“Trust me, you’re better off not knowing.”
Eileen looked at Holland as if she couldn’t believe she’d just used such a trite line. Eileen hated triteness with the same disdain she had for people who spoke on speakerphone in public.
“It’s for your own good,” Holland said.
Eileen shook her head. “You’re getting worse.”
“You’ll thank me later.”
“No, I won’t.”
“I’d tell you, but I’d have to kill you.”
Eileen cringed. “I can’t believe you said that.” Then she was pulling over to the side of the road. “Get out. That’s it, I’m sick of you and your overused lines.” But then she looked at Holland as if she really didn’t want to let her go and do this alone.
No one could be sincere like Eileen. Just like no one could be warm like Cat or charismatic like Chance. Holland loved her friends, which was another reason she couldn’t let any of them get properly involved in this.
“I’m sorry I can’t tell you everything,” said Holland, “but here’s what I can say. I opened a safety deposit box at the Bank today. The Manager and a number of other people all thought it contained something valuable that they wanted, but it didn’t. It was just something sentimental.” Holland placed one hand over her satchel. “If you really want to help me, you can go back to the Bank and tell them that.”
Eileen met Holland’s gaze. “I’m in a very junior position. But I’ll try my best.”
“Thank you.” Holland opened the car door and stepped outside. She wanted to give Eileen a better goodbye, but as soon as her feet touched the ground, Holland sensed the magic. It was in the birdsong. For one moment, every bird in the sky hit the same bright note. It sounded like a chime, welcoming her as Eileen and her cherry-red car disappeared.
* * *
The Regal possessed the kind of glamour that existed only in black-and-white movies.
As Holland approached the rotunda, full of bustling valets and candy-apple-shiny cars, even the air felt different. Cleaner. Crisper. The kind of air that reminded her how good it was to breathe—to live.
The guests who entered ahead of her were all beautiful, of course, dressed in suits and furs and strings of pearls she knew were real. This was the sort of place where she believed everything was real. And yet it felt entirely unreal as she reached the velvet carpet leading up to the gilded entrance.
A girl in a smart red cap and polka-dot dress worked a glass popcorn machine, filling the air with a slightly sweeter version of the nostalgic scent as she handed out cheery red-and-white-striped boxes of it to arriving guests.
“Hello, Miss St. James,” said an older attendant, who reached for the Regal’s double doors with hands gloved in pristine white. “Welcome ba—” A frown line formed between his brows. “You’re not January.” He said it like an accusation. She wanted to ask how he could tell; no one could ever tell her and January apart.
But the attendant looked ready to throw her out of the hotel before she’d even entered. She half expected him to yell, “Impostor twin!”
Holland wondered if that was why he was at the door—if he had an ability to detect guests who didn’t belong.
“I’m January’s sister, Holland,” she said quickly. “I have her key.” She frantically extracted the key from her purse and dangled it in front of him.
The attendant no longer looked ready to throw her out, but judging by his unpleasant expression, she’d clearly broken some other rule she wasn’t aware of. Then, with a smile Holland didn’t trust, he said, “You’ll need to visit the check-in desk. It’s just beyond the entrance to the left.” He pointed in that direction as he finally opened the doors. “Enjoy your stay.”
Perky piano music and animated voices greeted Holland as she stepped inside. She’d always loved the lobby of the Hollywood Roosevelt, but this was something else entirely. It was all cocktails she didn’t know the names of and people she felt she should know the names of. Everyone looked pretty or powerful or so unexpectedly peculiar that she wanted to talk to them.
This felt like the reason she’d come back to Los Angeles. Not to chase after myths about the devil, but to find magic. Like this.
Even the check-in desk looked like a work of art. A mosaic of ivory and brass covered the front, forming a gleaming art deco image of the Regal’s exterior. Behind the desk was a low series of wooden mailboxes containing neatly rolled newspapers, smartly wrapped packages, and a few coveted keys. Above the mailboxes was a row of enamel clocks, all labeled with different place names: Sydney, Tokyo, London, New York, Los Angeles, the Regal.
The only clock that appeared to be ticking was the Regal’s. It said the time was 5:47 p.m., which didn’t make sense. According to Holland’s watch, it was 10:23 a.m.; even if it was a different time zone, the minutes should have aligned. Then she remembered what Eileen had said about time working differently here: Every hour inside the Regal is only a minute outside. Which meant Holland suddenly had more time.
Unless … it was also Halloween inside the Regal, which would mean she had less time.
Anxiously, Holland approached the check-in desk.
There was a line, and Holland genuinely couldn’t tell if the people in it were wearing costumes or were just extremely eccentric. The woman just before her wore a fur across her shoulders and held a champagne coupe in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. Then there was a man with an excellent silver mustache speaking rapid French into a silver rotary phone with a long curly cord that extended back behind the check-in desk. In front of him was a couple with a pet monkey dressed in a little top hat and a striped vest. They appeared to be either quite important or quite a bit of trouble: Three staff members were currently helping them.
Holland couldn’t hear what anyone in line was saying, but they all appeared to be growing more frantic. The strap of the satchel carrying her father’s screenplay dug into her shoulder, suddenly heavier. Even though the outside world had slowed, the minutes inside the Regal seemed to be ticking by too fast.
Finally, another staff member in a more managerial outfit stepped up to the desk. Holland hoped he was there to help the next person and move the line along. But then he whispered into the ear of another staff member, and soon both of them were looking directly at Holland.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Usually, Holland hated to assume the worst. But with all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, she felt as if she must.
Quickly, she stepped out of line and into the fray of the lobby. Parrots flew overhead, soaring between the potted palms, only unlike at the Roosevelt, these palms were lush and alive. Everything smelled faintly of citrus. And then she saw that, indeed, there was a beautiful orange tree in the center of the lobby. Someone with white gloves plucked an orange, then cut expert slices to garnish drinks for a pair of smiling guests.
It was lovely, and bright, and unfortunately far too open a place for Holland to hide. She wasn’t sure if any of the staff from the check-in desk were following her, but she didn’t waste time looking.
She scurried past the orange tree.
Holland heard a thud, followed by another, and then there was a noise so loud a series of gasps broke out.
Holland couldn’t help turning. It was only for a second, but that was all she needed to see that every single orange had dropped from the tree and broken on the ground.
“We’re so sorry.” A hotel worker was already apologizing to nearby guests. Holland didn’t know what was happening, but she started running. There was an old-fashioned elevator up ahead, similar to the one in the Bank. The dial said the lift was currently seven floors up and climbing, slowly. Holland barely saw the dial move. And, she realized, she didn’t actually know her sister’s room number. There was no indication on the key.
Maybe there was a gift shop she could hide in? Beyond the lobby was a little alcove. Holland saw a pair of black lacquered doors garnished with a simple chalk sign: The Black and White. Holland had no idea what the words meant, but she ducked inside.
Immediately, the world shifted from the Regal’s Technicolor palette to the enigmatic shimmer of silver screen. It felt like the scene before the opening credits; the moment when you know something is about to happen, something that will show you exactly what sort of story you are in for.
Holland couldn’t help slowly turning, taking in this new type of magic. Puffs of smoke floated overhead as people sat in tall booths and had animated conversations over black-and-white drinks garnished with speared trios of little onions.
On the far side, across from Holland, a bartender in a black bow tie and white rolled-up sleeves worked behind a full bar. He tossed a cocktail shaker into the air, earning a long line of claps and cheers.
Across from the bar, couples spun and twirled on a checkered dance floor, flooded with the music of a lively band and a singer in a jazzy sequin dress. She was holding one of those old-fashioned microphones, the large rectangular ones, and singing a perky Edith Piaf song.
Holland knew she needed to keep moving, but it was hard not to be mesmerized by all the black-and-white wonder. No one was on a phone or taking pictures. People were chatting and laughing and dancing and kissing.
It felt like a hundred stories were unfolding around her, all at once.
Next to the stage was a pair of long velvet curtains with a narrow sign above them containing two words: The Abracadabra. Holland had always liked the word abracadabra. She wondered if this could be a good place to duck into and read her father’s screenplay pages. She started to step that way, but she paused at the sound of a familiar voice.
Her eyes cut back to the bar and instantly she saw him, sitting next to a woman with the bone structure of a starlet. Adam Bishop.
Her heart did an unexpected flip.
Adam looked absolutely flawless in the silver-screen light. And yet Holland had the strangest feeling that her heart wasn’t flipping just because Adam looked good in his dark slacks, his velvet jacket, and his white collared shirt, insouciantly half-unbuttoned. His jacket sleeves were messily rolled up, and his tie was hanging loosely around his neck. He looked careless and harmless, and Holland couldn’t help thinking that she missed him.
It made no sense. She hadn’t known Adam before yesterday, and yet she suddenly felt as if she did. She knew him from somewhere. Somewhere before tonight, or last night, or yesterday afternoon. She couldn’t remember how. She couldn’t remember anything about Adam Bishop that she hadn’t heard within the last twenty-four hours. But she felt it in the prickling across her skin, the rising of her heartbeat, the way he drew her attention like a magnet. She had known him before. And it wasn’t because he was her sister’s partner. He was someone … someone to her that she couldn’t remember.
Suddenly she wanted him to look at her, to see her, to notice her. She was feeling far too aware of everything about him. He didn’t look as if he’d been shot last night. In fact, he looked as if he’d never been shot.
She thought once again about how time moved differently here. If Adam had been brought to the Regal after his injuries, then days, possibly weeks, had passed for him, while it had been merely hours for her.
He was now grinning intoxicated wide, his entire attention on the stunning woman beside him. She was dressed in a gown with ’40s-style cap sleeves, a plunging neck lined in fine crystals, and a pair of ruched gloves.
It seemed he’d forgotten all about Holland and the promise he’d made to January, which was fine. Holland didn’t need Adam to notice her. She was probably feeling this way about him because of the strange visions she’d been having. She tried to shake it off, nearly bumping into a server who was ferrying a tray of frothing drinks covered in glass cloches. Then another server passed, carrying drinks garnished with popcorn, which seemed to be a popular snack at this hotel.
