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Nothing.

“I know I shouldn’t fiddle. I just get so nervous, you know, and then it’s like I’m possessed by some manic imp, because—”

“We don’t need to talk.” Mr Grangemoor cuts across me, his deep voice quiet but commanding. This man’s word is law, and he hath ruled: shut up, Helen.

“S-sorry,” I start to say, but he gives me a warning look. Knotting my fingers together, I sink down in my seat.

Jerk.

Guess those fancy wages make more sense now. The way everyone avoided him, too, huddling together in the town square and leaving him on the outskirts. And that thought helps, because you know what? I’ll take an asshole boss over a surprise porno any day.

So long as I wake up with all my organs in the right place, I can handle a rude employer.

* * *

Sky High Hotel might look better in the daylight. That’s the most charitable thought I can muster. It slumps against the rock face, four stories tall, and even in the evening gloom, it looks dilapidated.

Several windows are boarded over. The cheery white paint has peeled. There’s an ancient hotel sign, hanging from rusty chains and creaking in the breeze, but the letters are faded so it reads:Sk igh ote

There’s no warm welcome in these mountains. Not here, anyway. Not anymore.

“Watch your step,” Mr Grangemoor says as he shuts the truck engine off. It ticks quietly, cooling in the thin evening air, and I gather my courage, wrapping it around my shoulders likea shawl before I follow him out there. Stars are scattered across the sky.

His cane clacks against the rocky driveway. Mr Grangemoor grabs my duffel before I can offer, swinging it easily onto one broad shoulder before he limps to the front door.

Two electric lanterns offer feeble light on either side of the hotel entrance. And that’s good, because I half expected my grumpy boss to turn to me and declare that we have no electricity or running water.

We’re isolated. In the middle of nowhere.

“It’s so quiet,” I whisper, forgetting the no-speaking rule for a moment.

No reply.

Floorboards creak under our weight as Mr Grangemoor leads me into the hotel lobby, with no rugs to muffle our steps. The door swings shut behind me, and theboommakes me jump. Like a prison cell banging closed.

My boss flicks on the lights. Wall sconces give off a yellow glow, casting a sickly hue over the pinstriped green wallpaper. It doesn’t help.

“Nothing down here except the kitchen,” he says, each word gruff. He barely looks at me before limping toward the staircase. It used to be grand, clearly—the steps are still covered with a faded purple runner—but as we climb, we kick up so much dust that my nose itches.

“Do you have a cleaner?” I ask, scrubbing at my tickly nose with the back of my wrist. There’s no way he could keep up with this big, dusty hotel all alone. Not if he ever wants to paint as well.

There’s a brief pause. “Not exactly.” And I open my mouth to ask what that means, conversation ban be damned, but Mr Grangemoor goes on without prompting. “Sometimes a few women from the outpost come here to clean, when they needthe money badly enough. But they don’t like spending too much time here. Haven’t been for months. They think I’m…”

He trails off. Steps groan as we climb, my hand whispering along the polished banister. They think he’s what? Rude as hell? A secret murderer?What?

“There’s a bathroom on this floor that works,” he says, jerking his chin at the second floor hallway. We keep climbing. “And a library that you can use so long as you put everything back where you found it.”

Duh. I’m not an animal.

I glare at my boss’s broad back as we climb, watching his shoulder blades shift beneath his faded gray shirt, and it’s my turn to be silent. His cane leaves little divots in the purple runner.

At the third floor, we come to a sudden halt. I wobble on the top step, then edge away from the stairs.

“Your quarters are on this floor. There’s a bedroom and a bathroom, and a small sitting room that can be yours too. Is that enough?”

My boss scowls at me, like he expects a diva tantrum over these arrangements. Three whole rooms to myself and no rent? In this faded but once-grand hotel? Is he crazy? Sure, the wallpaper is ugly and the whole place needs a wipe with a damp cloth, but I’m not an idiot. Back in the city, most of my bartending money went on renting a shitty studio with a foldaway bed.

“Of course.” I take a faltering step down the corridor. “Will you show me…?”

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