The Mystery Guest

I feel a hand on my arm. It’s Angela, guiding me to the hotel entrance. Throngs of guests surround us, all of us pushing through the revolving doors. Before long, we’re standing outside on the plush scarlet staircase, where the shrieking alarm is not nearly as deafening.

A sea of humanity gathers around us.

“What’s going on?”

“What happened?”

“Is there a fire?”

In the midst of the chaos, Mr. Preston calls for calm and ushers people down the staircase toward the safety of the sidewalk.

As suddenly as the hubbub began, the alarm ends. Mr. Snow rushes through the revolving doors and calls down the stairs: “All is well! A false alarm! Please, you may reenter the Regency Grand.”

Audible sounds of relief are heard all around me.

“That was exciting,” Angela says.

“It was far from exciting,” I reply. “It was stressful and agitating.”

“Come on,” Angela says. “It’s over now. Let’s go back in.”

I follow her up the stairs and through the revolving doors. We make our way to the reception desk, where we were standing earlier.

Mr. Snow rushes over. His eyes search the lobby. “Where did she go?” he asks. “Where’s Serena?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Angela replies.

It’s then that I take in the reception desk behind us. It appears that Ms. Sharpe is not the only absentee. The banker’s box containing the rare first edition is gone.

Chapter 9

Before

I am transported back to the tiny kitchen where Gran and I enjoyed so many meals together when I was a child. It’s the morning after I looked into the steely eye of the troll that lives behind the wall in the Grimthorpe library. Was I frightened? Yes. Did I run? I did. But the troll did not eat me. I did not turn to stone or melt on the spot. I faced the monster, and I survived.

I swing my little legs back and forth under our worn country kitchen table. Gran brings over two steaming bowls of cinnamon porridge. I take in the scent that to this day I equate with goodness and home.

“Gran, if you were rich, what would you spend your money on?” I ask between warm mouthfuls.

“A private school for you, with kind and patient teachers. And a small house we could call our own, with no bills or landlord, and two easy chairs by the fireplace.”

“When we’re rich, can we have tea with clotted cream every single day?”

“Every single day,” she replies.

“Tell me again, Gran. What happened to my mother?”

It comes out of nowhere, and it takes her by surprise. She puts down her spoon. “Your mother left us,” she says.

“I know that,” I reply as I try to conjure a memory of her face, but I draw a complete blank. All I can envisage is the framed photo of her that Gran keeps in the living room. That photo was taken when my mother was only a few years older than I am now.

“Your mother had demons,” Gran says. “She got lost in the labyrinth, as people sometimes do. By the time I realized she’d been wooed away by a fly-by-night, it was too late to save her.”

I think about the troll in the mansion. He seems not nearly as frightening as my mother’s demons or the winged fly-by-night that wooed her away. You can fight monsters you can see, or you can run away from them. But the invisible ones are inescapable.

I swirl my spoon around in my bowl. “Gran, what happens if you die?”

Her eyes grow two sizes. “My dear girl, I’m not going to die.”

“That’s a lie,” I say as I plunk down my spoon in protest.

“You’re right. I will die one day. But not soon. And besides, even when I’m gone, I won’t leave you. You won’t see me, but I’ll be there with you, always.”

“Like a ghost?”

“Yes. Like a friendly ghost haunting you for the rest of your days. And reminding you to brush your teeth when you’re done with your breakfast.” She smiles and grazes my cheek with her palm.

I pick up my empty bowl and place it in the sink, then rush down the hallway to our tiny washroom, where I brush my teeth as instructed. A few minutes later, I meet Gran by our front door.

“To the mansion we go,” she says. She’s crouching down, tying her right shoe. When she’s finished, she gazes up at me. “Molly, promise you’ll tell me if you’re unhappy at the mansion?” Her eyes are scrunched and glassy.

“Unhappy? Gran, I love it there. I love to clean.”

“You certainly made a good impression on Mrs. Grimthorpe with all that silver you polished yesterday. She called you ‘obedient and compliant,’ which from her is as high a compliment as they come. She has a surprise for you today.”

“A surprise?” I ask. “What is it?”

Gran stands and pinches my cheek. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

Together, we head out on our long commute. I spend the entire journey imagining what surprise a woman like Mrs. Grimthorpe could have in store for me. Used gray pajamas? A lump of coal in a darned stocking? A hairy spider in a jar?

But when Mrs. Grimthorpe opens the heavy front door to the mansion, she announces it right away. “Your grandmother and I had a chat the other day while we were shopping. We’ve come to a conclusion,” she says.

“About what?” I ask.