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She sighed, and rubbed at her eyes. “No, the apologies should be mine. My own self-restraint is insufficient; I mustn’t cast stones. But here, you see where we are?” she changed her tone and the subject at once, indicating the lobby around them.
He followed her gesture, taking in the tiles with their dizzying patterns, and the tin ceiling tiles between the fan tracks—embossed with something more organic than the tiny squares that made up the shapes on the floor. The curved staircases in a sweeping pair. The elevator nestled to the left of them, its brass cage slid to the side, all angles and darkness within.
Only then did he notice that they were alone.
Sarah was not at the desk, and now there was no sign to indicate when or if she might return. The afternoon was dying and the gaslamps hissed on, one by one, so the light changed color—but did not leave them altogether.
“Where is everyone?” he asked the nun.
“Anywhere but here, I assume. They may not know the particulars, but no one wants to be alone under this roof. And especially, no one wants to be right here.”
She tapped the edge of the mosaic with the toe of her plain black boot. Then she used her foot to point at the center, to a dark dot of marble the size of a dinner plate.
“I doubt the architects and artists knew that the tree ever stood here. They could not have designed this with such precision. No, they were guided. The thing in this hotel…it remakes itself. It…” she struggled to find the words. “It re-draws itself, piece by piece—or it tried. It was a tree, it was alive. It twisted and flowed, and bent in the wind. But now it’s been supplanted by this place, so huge and square—such a block of boxes, stacked together. Nothing natural in here at all, except the wood that was cut and polished for the handrails, the doors, and the desk…but that’s not the shape it wanted. So it made another one for itself…it told them…”
She stared down at the floor and traced her toes in circles along the lines; and the padre felt the same thing, some spiral, drawing down. Water draining out of a tub. That pattern of a dust devil. The turning of the earth, of a storm, of sand.
He finished for her. “It told them it looked like this.”
She looked up suddenly, as if she was startled to hear his voice. “Yes. So this is the only part that remains, the only thing that looks like what it means. This is…this is…” She stepped away, outside the pattern on the floor.
She stared at it from the edge, seeing the whole thing instead of its pieces. “This is the shape of its soul.”
Sarah returned, and found the pair of them standing by the great mosaic that spiraled both directions at once. She smiled broadly, the social smile of a woman who is paid to make it. “Oh, excellent—I see you two have found one another.”
The nun smiled back, a similar expression with less contrived cheer, and more steady reasonableness. “Yes, dear. Thank you for sharing my message. I don’t suppose any new telegrams have arrived…?”
“No ma’am, nothing new since yesterday.”
“Ah, well. Any word about the weather, out of Houston?”
“Only that the storm is coming, and it should make landfall soon. They say we should evacuate if we can—but if we don’t, everything will probably be all right.”
The padre glanced out the nearest window and knew that the men in Houston were understating the matter, or perhaps the delay between telegrams and Mother Nature had gotten the best of them. The edge of the bone-white sky was tinged with purple, and a haze in the distance hinted that the horizon ushered something large and unpleasant towards shore.
It was still quite distant, just a smudge on the cusp of the world. Maybe the worst would not fall tonight. Maybe it’d find them tomorrow, or the day after.
But soon.
The nun may or may not have known the signs; the padre didn’t know how versed she was, in the ways of coastal weather. She accepted the answer gracefully, as if it didn’t matter either way. “That’s good to hear. And one last thing, Sarah—if you’d be so kind as to indulge me: Is there any news from the Rangers?”
Sarah’s smile slipped; it cracked at the edge, and for a small, short moment, it looked a little bit desperate. “None yet, I’m afraid. You do think they’ll send someone, don’t you? After what became of the Pattersons?”
“I’m quite certain they will.” And now the nun was lying, if only with intent to comfort. He knew it in his bones.
“The Pattersons?”
“I’ll explain before supper,” she told him. “Speaking of which, Sarah? Is it served in the community room again?”
“Yes ma’am. We haven’t yet finished…you know…so meals will be taken in the community room until further notice. I hope we’ll have everything refreshed and restored by tomorrow, but you never can tell.” She brightened again, and added, “At any rate, supper is served in half an hour. Until then, you’re welcome to make yourself comfortable. Take some tea or coffee, as you like.”
“Thank you, Sarah. We’ll find our way there—after I finish showing Father Rios around the premises, if you don’t mind.”
“Do you mean to show him…the dining hall?”
“I do. But don’t look at me like that,” she chided gently. “Do not be afraid of his reaction. The father is here to help, just as I am.”
“By all means,” she said, but her faith in this matter did not seem particularly strong. She struggled to muster it, flashing a worried glance between the padre and the nun. “Father, you may as well know it: We need all the help we can get.” With that, she withdrew to her position behind the counter—where she picked up the newspaper and pretended to read it.
