“Okay,” he says, turning to the woman. “One night. Thank you.”
The woman’s entire face brightens. “Come,” she says, waving us toward the stairs.
The second floor of the hotel is painted in the same tiny blue tulips with cream-white doors along both sides of a long hallway. It’s anodd contrast to the wilderness beyond the hotel walls. A land of dirt and harsh winds and cold, cold nights.
The woman moves with purpose down the hall, glancing at each door, as if deciding which room is suitable, then stops at one on the left, turning the knob and pushing the door wide.
She lets us inside, then plants her hands on her wide, full hips. “The bathroom is at the end of the hall—I’ll draw the warm water.”
She leaves us alone and I stand in the center of the room, an itch beneath my skin. I run my hands along the quilt, a white patchwork with lace stitched into the edges, while Noah goes to the window, pulling back the curtain to peer out onto the street. “They’ve already led Odie away.” He lets the curtain fall back into place, removing his coat and placing it on the corner of the bed, then pushes up the sleeves of his shirt. “But we should be ready to go if we hear anyone ride into town.”
I nod.
The woman appears back in the doorway, two towels in her arms. “Are you ready, miss?”
Noah nods at me. But I see the woman’s eyes stall on him, his arms lined with dark tattoos, and a starburst brand sunk into his forearm—the mark of a Theorist.
I walk to the doorway and her gaze pulls away, smiling curtly at me; then she leads me down the hall. I count five doors, aside from our own, and in the last room is a shared bathroom, a wood-sealed tub waiting in the center, steam rising up from the water. The sight of it makes my chest flutter.
“I’ve set out a nightgown for you,” she says. “An extra one I had in my closet. I’ll wash your clothes tonight and have them ready for you in the morning.”
“Thank you.” It feels wrong taking so much from her—a free room for the night, a hot bath, and now she’s lending out her clothes and offering to clean my dirty ones. “Is the hotel yours?”
At the tub, she pours in the last bucket of warm water—heated on a fire somewhere downstairs, I imagine—her face turning pink from the steam, the fleshy part of her hip leaning against the edge of the tub. “My husband and I built it a year ago. He was going to be the mayor of our small town, once it was large enough. He named it Maybelle, after me.” Her blue eyes dampen, and she brushes back a wavy curl that’s come loose from her pins. “He died three months back,” she adds swiftly, clearing her throat. “It took him quick, only a week after he became ill.”
“I’m so sorry.” I hold the towel she gave me tight to my chest, eyes falling to the wood floor.
But Maybelle’s gaze lifts, turns clouded, and for a moment I think she’s seen the mark on my neck. Perhaps my hair shifted forward when I glanced to the floor, parted enough for her to spy the ink sunk into my flesh.
My eyes skip to the doorway—I could dart through it in three quick steps, I could shout for Noah to run. He won’t hesitate; he won’t ask me what’s wrong. He knows that danger is always close. We will sprint out of the hotel and find Odie, then be in the woods before Maybelle has even made it down the stairs.
But her mouth tucks flat, and she crosses her soft arms, the white knobs of her elbows poking out from her rolled-up sleeves. “He’s not really your husband, is he?” she asks, her tone curt—a woman who doesn’t like to be lied to.
Again, my gaze skips to the door. If I tell her the truth, shemight not let us stay. But the truth falls out anyway. “No.”
“I saw the mark on his arm,” she says, her sad, narrowed eyes showing a flicker of distrust—she’s wary of me suddenly, of both Noah and me. “He’s a Theorist,” she adds. “He’s dangerous. You shouldn’t be traveling with him.”
A new kind of panic spikes through my chest. “He’s not dangerous.”
“I can send word for the sheriff,” she says quickly, moving toward me. “He’s a day’s ride over at the next town, but he can be here tomorrow. If you’re in trouble, you don’t have to stay with that boy.”
“No,” I tell her sharply, shaking my head, hoping she sees the seriousness in my eyes—the fear that she might do something to force Noah and me apart, the thought like a cold blade separating my rib cage. “He’s not dangerous, and he’s not a Theorist—not anymore. The mark is from many years ago.” I move closer to her, pleading, needing her to believe me. “He’s saved me many times,” I add. “He’s kept me safe.”
Her soft blue eyes narrow to points. “Were you a Theorist too?”
I scowl, shaking my head again. “No. Of course not.”
“Because I saw the mark on your neck, when I came for you in the room. It looks like a tattoo. Like…” Her voice fades, chin tilted slightly to one side, like she’s trying to place it, make sense of what she saw. “It looked like the night sky.”
My throat is a fist, narrowing, suffocating. “It’s nothing,” I say, brushing a hand quickly across my neck, like I could wipe it away—only dirt and sweat. Nothing more. Nothing that means anything.
“I’ve seen the posters,” she says now, blinking once, twice, her features tugged into a strange, unreadable line. “I know what it is.”
Panic grips my stomach, the ever-present fear, pushed up, heaving, twisting against my thoughts.Turn for the door,my head screams.Shout for Noah. Run. Run.
“You’re her,” she says, a twitch at her left eye. “The one they’ve been looking for. The one who reads the stars.” She steps toward me, peering, like she wants to see me closer, like she wants to reach out a sharp hand for me and pull me to her. Trapped.
Run. Don’t let her get any closer.
