Hellas toed his arm. “Is he dead?”
Bel checked his pulse. “His heart’s beating. He might have tried to run, but the blast must have knocked him out.”
I looked from worker to worker, people who Alastair imprisoned. Hurt. I half expected someone to dash Alastair’s head against the marble and end it. But no one moved. None of us wanted any more torture or pain today. Besides, without the hand mirror, Alastair didn’t have any time left once his stolen magic wore off.
“I have an idea,” Issig said. He stepped over Alastair’s prone form and hoisted him up by the shoulders. “I know of a room that’s no longer in use, where we can lock him up for a bit until we decide what to do.” A small smile slipped over the suminaire’s chiseled features. “Hellas, be a doll and take his feet. We’ll move him to the deep freeze.”
* * *
Over the next few hours we rounded up birds. A large flock had holed up near the moon window. Even more flew out from various hiding places around the hotel. Hundreds squawked. I stood beside Bel and touched wing after wing with the silver talon.
Two dozen or so came out whole. The rest appeared just as Céleste had described, their appearances leached of color, their limbs spotted with holes.
Most holes were covered by clothing. A few were not. One scrawny child, no older than ten, fingered a hole in her pale arm the width of her wrist. And a brown-skinned man walked around with a misshapen hole in his calf.
That must have been where the hand mirror touched down. It was sickening to know that Des Rêves and Alastair did this for years. I remembered the feel of Céleste’s hand, that wisp of tendon, and felt ill.
At least no one seemed to be in pain. Instead, all the trapped suminaires unfurled from birds into people too bewildered to do a thing but step out of the way.
The hotel was mostly empty of guests, but soon the freed suminaires took their places. Some were still dressed as performers in evening wear. Others were decked out in glittering frock coats, silken capes, and corseted gowns from another time. Some even wore stiff kitchen uniforms splotched with soup stains. But most were clothed in the garb they had arrived in.
I touched a bright emerald bird—one of the suminaires who still had magic—and it unfurled into an old woman with deep olive skin. She wore a cook’s uniform from a different era. Bel stared at her, awestruck. She flung her arms around his shoulders. “We can all find our homes now,” she said.
His home.
My chest tightened at what that meant.
After the cook left us to find more friends, Bel was curiously quiet. He seemed reluctant to leave my side, but a long line of birds were still waiting their turn. I swallowed down a knot in my throat. “You probably have more people to find. I can take care of the rest without you.”
“Are you sure?” Slowly, he trailed the pad of his thumb up the side of my neck. I closed my eyes and let myself relax into the touch, just for a moment. I didn’t want him to leave me here yet.
But soon he’ll leave for good, for his home, I reminded myself. I forced my fingers to brush his hand away. “We’ll talk later.”
He hesitated for a moment, then he gave me a tight nod that twisted my stomach. “Later, then.”
After Bel left, I changed the last of the workers. Zosa found me when I was finished. I took her hand and led her up the grand staircase. Together, we searched for a place to dry off, to rest, to figure out what came next.
Save for the mangled door, the Ode to a Fabled Forest Suite was immaculate. Two dressing robes hung in the wardrobe, each monogrammed with the letters “H. M.” in shimmering purple thread. Zosa peeled off her dress. She donned the robe and climbed under the thick bedsheets, pulling them up to her chin.
I lifted a pot of tea to pour a cup, but no steam came out. I dipped a finger in the water. Lukewarm. The enchantment that had heated the teapot was written in the ledger. All the enchantments were. All the magic that had made this place so wondrous was gone.
I sank down beside Zosa, relieved to feel her body beside me. “What do you remember?”
I expected her to smile, carefree, like that day in Durc when the hotel came to town. But the corners of her lips turned down and she refused to meet my eyes.
“I don’t want to talk about it now,” she said through a yawn, fiddling with a silk tassel on her pillowcase. She still hid her other hand from me, but I could see it dancing beneath the sheets. “Do you think that doorman could make me something like his wooden finger?”
She didn’t know about Bel’s switchblade. I pictured Zosa with fours knives for fingers and tried my best not to let the idea of it show on my face.