“More or less.”
Sterling hesitated in front of Andreas. Unsure if he’d accept a hug, she offered her hand to shake. He took it. “If you need more paperwork, there’s a gang of skateboarding teens on Rotenturmstrasse who are always violating section 142.”
Andreas gaped, still gripping her hand. “Section 142. Robbery. Are you… learning legal codes?”
“I picked it up from—”
He dropped her hand, eyes rolling. “Yeah, yeah,one of your lovers.We know.”
“Actually,from a close friend. Isn’t that what we are, Andreas?”
He scoffed, suppressing a smile as he said, “Naja.”
Yes and no.That sounded about right.
— 57 —Siebenundfünfzig
Life was back to abnormal. Sterling had returned to her work amid the chaos, candlelight, and crimson of the sacred house of ill repute.
It was around midnight when a flurry of guests waltzed out of the Opera House and into the Hotel. Sterling checked them in while she checked them out. A woman in a sultry ball gown floated towards Room 5, her date already unknotting his bow tie in anticipation. Sterling couldn’t blame him; she’d have done the same in his position.
Society both high and low had forgiven the Orient, and the Hotel had forgiven Sterling. It was running at full capacity and with a full staff. Sterling now had assistance from a suite of maids and butlers, even on the overnight shift, which gave her more time to attend to guests. Among other things.
Fernando lumbered into the office holding a heavy package. “A courier dropped this off for you.”
“I better take it upstairs. Who knows what’s inside if it arrived at this hour.”
“I think we both know who it’s from, considering the time,” he said.
Sterling took the box upstairs in the elevator, which was behaving tonight. She checked for prying eyes before heading to the bookshelf and slipping her key behind the copy ofTraumnovelle. The locks had all been replaced, even Room 13’s, except this time around, Sterling had the only key. Mr. K had gifted the room to her after everything, as a reward. Or perhaps as a way to keep her around while she began to pursue other interests.
Regardless of his motivations, at their current rate of bookings, she both needed and deserved an office. Since he’d given it to her, Sterling’s signature brand of chaos had begun to take over, but she tried to keep it tidy. Mr. Left and Mr. Right checked in once a week to ensure she did.
The office had many uses, most of them professional, some of a more personal nature that would have made Herr Kleinmann Senior proud. It came in handy to have a place to hide when someone arrived seeking Sterling’s help. Rumors of her ability to sniff out rumors had spread.
Fernando had joked she should open a side business as a private eye. At the Orient, of all places. A one-stop shop with Sterling playing both gumshoe and honeytrap and often finding the philandering spouse, all under one roof.
He’d given her his costume from his failed audition to encourage her. The trench coat hung beside Herr Kleinmann’s portrait. The fedora was tilted atop the bust of Oscar Wilde at the corner of the large mahogany desk.
After setting the box beside Oscar, she closed the curtains and switched on the green glass lamp. This year’s spring was mercurial enough that she considered lighting the fire. Being that it was Vienna, the Danube would be boiling tomorrow and frozen solidthe following day. She opened the package and read the card sitting at the top.
Dollface,
I regret to admit I adore it here. The inmates are consummate performers, and the budget is higher than I had at the theater. Günther the Iron Fist made a surprisingly elegant Ophelia. Though Little Jürgen’s take on Hamlet was… serviceable, at best. I only wish performances were open to the public and that I had more energy. I’ve found a fetching country doctor to keep me stable for the next few years.
I long for the drudgery of Vienna, even its muddy and gray spring. It’s difficult to lounge around watching the sun set over rolling hills and properly wallow in my misery. Nevertheless, I persist.
I miss Serafina, as ever. I miss you most of all.
I couldn’t say before, not with certain company around. But of those remaining of the Nightingale Gang, some of us believe there’s more to Serafina’s death than meets the eye. Perhaps you already suspected as much. Having her journals in your possession could put you in danger, but I see now you are more than equipped to handle that on your own.
We don’t yet know all the answers, but I believe some of them are in here. You’re in for a treat if you can decode them. You knew her best, so perhaps you’ll understand. Choose who you take into your confidence wisely. I will be watching from afar.
Trust is a perilous thing, be careful who you give it to.
—Uncle C
Inside the box were newspaper clippings, old photographs, and at least three more of Serafina’s journals. Sterling flipped through the contents and paused on a photo. Serafina and a group of women, taken at the Eden Bar. Shortly before she died, given her hairstyle. In the background of the photo, on the dance floor, were the core members of the Nightingale Gang, and even though the photo was blurry, Sterling recognized the kaiser-worthy mustache of Herr Kleinmann curled over his beaming smile. Her desk phone rang. It could only be one man calling.
