Page 59 of The White Octopus Hotel
“Why are you blushing?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
“I’m not blushing,” he returned, picking up his napkin and laying it across his lap. “I’ve never blushed in my life. And certainly not at an octopus.”
She shrugged. There was something liberating about having the tattoo on display like this, instead of being wrapped up in her usual black turtleneck. The green lace was so soft against her skin that it practically felt as if she wasn’t wearing anything at all. It would be difficult, at home, to go back to hiding. But, of course, when she checked out, she would forget she’d ever done anything different. And if she succeeded in winning the writing paper, then she would have a different life and no tattoo at all.
After dinner, Eve and Max searched the hotel for several more hours but found no further octopuses. It was approaching midnight by the time they returned to the Smoking Room. The thin guest from before was there, sprawled half-asleep in one of the armchairs, but most people had already retired for the night.
Eve lowered her voice and said, “What about the basement? Didn’t that guest say there were forbidden objects in there?”
“There isn’t a basement,” Max replied.
“How do you know?”
“We’ve been over every inch of this place, and I haven’t seen any stairways going underground, have you? There’s no button on the lift either.”
Eve glanced back at the guest as he got up from his chair and stared into the mirror.
“He was right about the octopus in the wall,” she pointed out.
“Well, even a broken clock—” Max began.
Before he could go on, the other guest let out a cry as his reflection suddenly lunged right out of the mirror and clamped both hands around his throat. The guest immediately jerked back, stumbling out of the reflection’s grip. In the mirror, the reflection smiled—a cold and oddly vacant expression—before merging back into mimicking the guest, who had whirled around to grab a nearbyhumidor. He hurled it straight at the mirror, shattering the glass, which fell to the ground in dagger-sharp pieces.
“That’s seven years bad luck, Mr. Morton,” said a voice from the doorway.
Anna stood there holding her rabbit in her arms, cradled against the scarlet silk of her gown.
“I was about to bekilled,” the guest replied, his voice a screech. “He was going tokillme!”
“I doubt it,” Anna said. “The mirror has never murdered anyone, to my knowledge.”
“It’s happened to you before anyway, hasn’t it?” Max said, his eyes fixed upon the guest. “You told us your reflection tried to strangle you just the other day.”
The guest goggled at him. “That’s—Of course it’s never happened before, you fool! I only said that becauseshetold me to.”
“Who?”
“Her!” He pointed with a trembling finger at Anna. “Annabella Roth!”
Eve’s breath stuck in her throat. Annabella? Her mind flew back to the napkin, lavender grey, with an octopus motif and a list of names. She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter. It didn’t. Her mother had crossed out “Annabella.”
“I think you have become a little overwhelmed, Mr. Morton,” Anna said. “Perhaps a shot of whiskey or some smelling salts might—”
“You’re deranged if you think I’m staying here!” the guest snarled. “I’m leaving and don’t any of you try to stop me! I won’t remain another second!”
“No one is keeping you here, sir,” Anna said pleasantly. “The lake has frozen, but I will gladly summon a sleigh to escort you to the other side.”
Without another word, she turned and left the room. The guest hurried after her, glancing fearfully into shadows as he went, asthough he expected clutching hands to reach out of the walls for him.
“We could follow him,” Max said quietly. “We could leave this place too.”
“You should,” Eve said.
“But you won’t?”
She shook her head. “I can’t. I can’t check out to a time that’s not my own. Why did he call her Annabella?”
“That’s her full name, I believe,” Max replied. “Why, what does it matter?”
