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One
Helen
It takes nine hours and three separate buses to reach Sky High Hotel from the nearest train station. A long, baffling journey for my brand new, baffling job.
The first is a sleek city bus, crammed full of bored travelers staring at their phones; the second is smaller and shabbier, half-empty with threadbare seats, chugging through forgotten towns. By the third and final bus, I’m so desperate to get there already, I don’t even care that this vehicle looks like it was hammered from tin. We wind higher and higher into the mountains, engine sputtering asthmatically, and I grip my duffel bag until my fingertips go white.
Nearly there.
Outside the grubby windows, it’s nothing but bare rock and wispy plants in the cracks. Sometimes—if we’re lucky—a cloud skids across the blue sky.
I’d be bored if I weren’t so terrified.
My fingers tremble as I dig out the sheath of papers from my coat pocket, the whole stack folded and read and refoldedso many times on this journey that I’m surprised it hasn’t disintegrated. The edges of the papers have curled; the sheets flop around in my hands.
On top is the cut-out newspaper advert. The whole reason I’m here.
Wanted: Live-in artist’s assistant. Room & board.
Then, underneath, as casual as can be, a salary which made my eyebrows leap into my hairline the first time I read it. And it’s too good to be true, right? No one offers dream money for an assistant job unless there’s a huge catch.
Back at home when I showed her, my sister Fran said, “Human trafficking. Definitely. Or maybe you’ll get there and find it’s a porn shoot. Or maybe it’s a crazy old man who’ll march you at gunpoint down the nearest church aisle. Or maybe—”
“I’ll look it up,” I told her weakly, patting her on the wrist. “I’ll do my research first, I promise.”
And I did. Sky High Hotel is a real place, though it’s now a private home, and my employer, Rufus Grangemoor, is real too.
Notorious, maybe, but real. A famous artist.
But I still made copies of everything for Fran and told her to call the cops if I don’t check in by tomorrow.
The bus lurches to one side, rounding a hairpin bend, and I glance out of the window—then choke. Below us is nothing but dead air, and further down, sharp rocks. Mist clings to the mountainside, and patches of scrubby grass are the only signs of life.
The engine roars. I whimper.
And by the time the mountain road levels off, weaving through narrow passes cut in the rock, I’m sweating and clammy under my layers.
Maybe this is a mistake. If there’s anythingoffabout this job, anything at all, I’ll be completely isolated. The bus only comes onthis final route once a week, and if I tried to hike back the way we came, I’d fall down the cliff face in three seconds flat.
What if thisisan elaborate trick? A wife-hunter or a porno. Or what if Rufus Grangemoor steals my organs? Ineedthose.
“Idiot,” I whisper to myself, brain whirring as I try to remember all my contingency plans. I dug out the local emergency numbers before I came and wrote them down in my stack of papers. There’s enough cash in my duffel bag to pay for a week or so in a dive motel. Will a local show me the way?
I’m still panicking when we curve around a final bend and the road widens into a small, dusty town square. There are buildings, suddenly, made of wooden slats and painted in cheerful pastel shades. A post office; a general store; a bakery. The paint peels in places, the clock is frozen in time on the town hall, and the whole place looks tired, but I appreciate the effort.
Those bursts of soothing color are what get me moving, fumbling my bag and coat together as the bus driver says, “Well, folks. Sky High Outpost. This is the last stop.”
No kidding.
An elderly woman leaves first, leaping into action with surprising sprightliness, followed by a teenage boy. The only other passengers. I trail after them both, but it’s too late for misgivings now.
I’m here. This is happening.
And I came all this way, didn’t I? I need to meet Rufus Grangemoor for at least five minutes. This is my dream job, so long as it’s real. And sure, you’d be stretching to call this tiny town shabby chic, but there arepeoplehere. Signs of life.
Never thought I’d be so glad to see a bunch of strangers.
Twin clouds of dirt kick up as I hop off the lowest bus step. The sun burns hot up here in the mountains, but the air is thin and the wind is cool. I swallow hard, mouth dry, as I scanthe small crowd of greeters, but there are no photos of Rufus Grangemoor online so I’m flying blind.
