Page 64 of The White Octopus Hotel
Max took a deep breath. “You’re not Thomas,” he said. “And you’re not here.”
“No thanks to you, old man.”
Eve slammed the trunk shut, hoping this would put an end to the awful scene. To her relief, the ghosts in the room disappeared at once, but it took a little while for the echoes of it to fade. She realised she could hear shells bursting and the sound seemed to rumble up through the floor, the vibrations so strong that they sent another trunk sliding from a shelf to burst open, spilling out dozens and dozens of paintings. The luggage label readNikolas Roth.
The paintings were nothing like the sickly-sweet Bouguereaus upstairs. They were like the ones she’d seen in the secret corridor—strange, twisted creations, dark, personal, and meaningful, clearly painted by someone in great pain. Once again, there must have been many different artists contained within this box. There was such a range of styles and subjects that they couldn’t possibly have all been produced by the same person. Then Eve’s eye fell on a painting that was very like one she’d seen in the secret corridor before. It depicted three hotel keys—for Room 27, Room 17, and Room 7.
Some paintings, she knew, could appear to change the longeryou looked at them, but this painting reallywaschanging. The key in the middle, to Room 17, was becoming more and more distinct, glowing ever more golden than the others. Eve stepped over and tried to touch the key, to grab it, to take it, but it was still too much a part of the art, still not quite real enough. So she reached right into the painting for it, gasping a little at how freezing the ink was against her skin as her hand disappeared into the canvas. She could feel it there, the key. She could feel it becoming more and more real, turning into cold metal beneath her touch. She was just about to pull her hand back when small fingers brushed hers from within the canvas, fingers sticky with apple juice. It was Bella—it had to be. Trying to get out into the real world. Trying to snatch the key back. Eve tightened her grip around it, took a deep breath, and yanked it right out of the painting.
There was a sudden flash. Eve wasn’t sure whether it was from the shellfire she could still hear, or that photographer’s pop that had gone off inside her head before. There wasn’t time to dwell on it because, one by one, the luggage trunks were disappearing and so were the paintings. Fading from existence like a pencil sketch being rubbed out. The next second, the bar and the furniture and the glowing neon sign were all gone too, leaving Eve and Max alone in an empty black room. The key remained real and solid in Eve’s hand, though, and the cage lift was bathed in the golden glow of its lights. There was nothing left for them in the basement, so they made their way towards the lift and soon they were back in the lobby. For long moments, they stood in the silence without speaking.
“I’m sorry,” Eve finally said. “I shouldn’t have opened the trunk—”
“You shouldn’t be here at all!” Max exclaimed. To Eve’s surprise, his hands wrapped around her bare shoulders and her skin tingled beneath his touch, and she liked it—liked the feel of his hands on her. “Believe me,” he went on, “nothing good comes from poking old wounds. Put a stop to this, I’m begging you. You couldgo back to your life, try to make something of it, try to find a little happiness for yourself. Bella is dead and the dead should be left alone.”
“I’m not leaving this hotel without the writing paper,” Eve replied. “I’ll burn the place to the ground first.”
Max sighed and stood back, shaking his head as he let her go. “So be it, then. We’ll see this thing through. I suppose we were always going to.”
Eve looked down at the key in her hand. Another time-travelling one, at last. Surely this must be how she got back to 1918. And perhaps the last octopus or one of the two remaining clocks was hiding there. Or perhaps they were in the Sugar Room. Either way, she had to look, to find out for herself.
“I need to go to Room Seventeen,” she said.
“It can’t wait until the morning?” Max asked. “If the room is occupied, the guest might be a bit startled by uninvited company arriving in the middle of the night.”
“I don’t care,” Eve replied. “But I don’t think there’s anyone there anyway. I’ve knocked several times and there’s never been an answer.”
They went to the first floor and were soon standing outside Room 17. Eve put the key in the lock and opened the door into a guest bedroom that looked much like her own.
“When I used my key to go back in time,” Eve said, “I had to use it from the inside to get to a different version of the room. Maybe this is the same thing.”
“Wait.” Max’s fingers brushed softly against her arm. “If you go back there, to 1918, you won’t like what you find. It would be immeasurably better if you did not go at all.”
Eve frowned at him. If he truly believed she had saved his life, then didn’t he care if he died?
“I don’t know where else to look for the last octopus,” she said. “Or the clocks or the Sugar Room.”
She put the key into the lock, but when she turned it, nothing happened and the corridor outside remained the same. She felt a wave of frustration. Why was this key hidden if it didn’t do anything?Wasit all just a game, with no real prize at the end of it? Were they simply rats in a maze? She looked at Max and then back at the key. The only thing different from how it had worked in Room 27 was that this time, she wasn’t alone.
“Step outside,” she said.
Max immediately looked suspicious. “Why?”
“I want to try something.”
He walked out and Eve put the key back into the lock. Slowly, she turned it, and at once, a bright white light exploded inside her head. The room around her vanished and she was falling, falling, falling. And then she was lying on the floor—or was it the ceiling? And there was that same sense of not quite being able to work out how her body functioned. Finally, though, she sat up. She was still in Room 17, but the art deco beauty was gone. It was far more basic now, with an ancient rug upon the wooden floor, and a simple single bed, and a washstand in the corner. And it was morning. Sunlight filtered in through the faded lace curtains.
Chapter 42
Eve—The White Octopus Hotel, 1918
When she looked out the window, Eve saw that the mountains were the same, and the lake was the same, but a new flag fluttered outside. The green hospital flag for health and healing. A note was propped up on the vanity table:
Dear Miss Shaw,
Welcome to the White Octopus Hotel. I trust you will enjoy your stay and please feel free to go wherever you like, but note that the sixth floor is off-limits both to yourself and to the servicemen.
Kind regards,
