Bran said.
“It’s an ugly old thing,” Astara noted.
“But why this place?” Bran asked aloud. She shrugged.
“No one would suspect anything strange here, I guess,” she offered. It was the perfect place to hide something.
They crossed the street and leaned their bikes against the side of the building. The steps creaked as they went up, and Bran pulled the door open. A chilly artificial air blew out, wafting with the sounds of an old record playing inside.
“Close it, please,” an old man’s tired voice commanded. He was sitting at a desk to the left and didn’t look up from his crossword puzzles. Bells around the handle jangled about as the door closed, mixing with the sounds of oldies music from the phonograph on the desk. Bran rubbed his arms in the cold.
“Good morning, sir,” Bran said, looking about. The inside was all wood of an old design, with intricate carvings on the ceiling and cluttered with antique furniture. Hallways branched out in all directions, and stairs on either side of the room led to more. The creaking floorboards made the room echo as Bran turned slowly, taking it all in. A large stained-glass window on the front wall threw colors across the room.
“Morning,” the old man replied, still not looking up. He found a word and penciled it in.
“How’s business today?” Bran asked, searching for anything to say.
“Usual,” the man said.
“Should be more travelers with weather like this,” Bran mused.
“Perhaps.” He erased a word and replaced it with another. Bran took a glance around the corner and saw that there were rows of doors on each side with numbers on the front.
“We’re looking for a room here,” Bran said.
“I’ve got plenty of ’em,” the old man replied.
“Which ones are open?” Astara tried. The man looked up. His face was pale and bony with bits of gray hair poking out on his dirty chin. He was mostly bald, and his eyes narrowed as he looked them over for the first time.
“Aye,” he said. “You want a room? We only sell rooms to folks old enough to have driver’s licenses. Go get your parents.”
“Oh, this,” Bran stammered, “is my…sister. We’re…apartment hunting, for our parents.”
The man blinked and didn’t look as if he was entirely convinced. Bran grinned stupidly, hoping he looked brother-like, and finally the man relented and started to look for his ledger book. He coughed roughly.
“Twenty-three’s popular,” the man said. “But it’s filled. Forty-five’s filled too.”
“What about ten?” Bran asked. The man flipped through the book.
“Taken,” he said. Bran’s shoulders fell a bit. Taken? He hadn’t been prepared for that.
“Who’s got it?” Astara spoke up.
“Can’t say that.” The man shook his head.
“Come on,” Bran said. “It’s just a name.”
“No, honestly, I can’t,” he said, squinting at the paper. “This bloody ledger’s all smudged out for some reason. It’s been there a long while, too, that’s why. Whoever-it-is paid in advance.”
“When will they be leaving?” Bran tried.
“Hmmm,” the man looked in the book. “Oh, they’ve got that one booked for the next two years, it looks.”
“Two years!” Bran gasped.
“On for longer than that, too,” the man went on. “Ten’s been taken for the past nine years at least. Probably some sailor who thought it’d be his home.”
“Do you ever see anybody going in there?” Astara pressed.
He shrugged. “Never look,” he said. “There’s so many rooms I can’t keep up with them. If they pay, they stay; it’s been paid, so I don’t care if they live there or not.”
“You don’t check on the tenants?” Astara asked.
The man furrowed his brow. “What they keep in their room’s their business,” the man declared. “There’s rooms in this place I haven’t been in since I started working here nineteen years past.”
He nodded strongly. “But eleven’s open, if it’s any
“It’s an ugly old thing,” Astara noted.
“But why this place?” Bran asked aloud. She shrugged.
“No one would suspect anything strange here, I guess,” she offered. It was the perfect place to hide something.
They crossed the street and leaned their bikes against the side of the building. The steps creaked as they went up, and Bran pulled the door open. A chilly artificial air blew out, wafting with the sounds of an old record playing inside.
“Close it, please,” an old man’s tired voice commanded. He was sitting at a desk to the left and didn’t look up from his crossword puzzles. Bells around the handle jangled about as the door closed, mixing with the sounds of oldies music from the phonograph on the desk. Bran rubbed his arms in the cold.
“Good morning, sir,” Bran said, looking about. The inside was all wood of an old design, with intricate carvings on the ceiling and cluttered with antique furniture. Hallways branched out in all directions, and stairs on either side of the room led to more. The creaking floorboards made the room echo as Bran turned slowly, taking it all in. A large stained-glass window on the front wall threw colors across the room.
“Morning,” the old man replied, still not looking up. He found a word and penciled it in.
“How’s business today?” Bran asked, searching for anything to say.
“Usual,” the man said.
“Should be more travelers with weather like this,” Bran mused.
“Perhaps.” He erased a word and replaced it with another. Bran took a glance around the corner and saw that there were rows of doors on each side with numbers on the front.
“We’re looking for a room here,” Bran said.
“I’ve got plenty of ’em,” the old man replied.
“Which ones are open?” Astara tried. The man looked up. His face was pale and bony with bits of gray hair poking out on his dirty chin. He was mostly bald, and his eyes narrowed as he looked them over for the first time.
“Aye,” he said. “You want a room? We only sell rooms to folks old enough to have driver’s licenses. Go get your parents.”
“Oh, this,” Bran stammered, “is my…sister. We’re…apartment hunting, for our parents.”
The man blinked and didn’t look as if he was entirely convinced. Bran grinned stupidly, hoping he looked brother-like, and finally the man relented and started to look for his ledger book. He coughed roughly.
“Twenty-three’s popular,” the man said. “But it’s filled. Forty-five’s filled too.”
“What about ten?” Bran asked. The man flipped through the book.
“Taken,” he said. Bran’s shoulders fell a bit. Taken? He hadn’t been prepared for that.
“Who’s got it?” Astara spoke up.
“Can’t say that.” The man shook his head.
“Come on,” Bran said. “It’s just a name.”
“No, honestly, I can’t,” he said, squinting at the paper. “This bloody ledger’s all smudged out for some reason. It’s been there a long while, too, that’s why. Whoever-it-is paid in advance.”
“When will they be leaving?” Bran tried.
“Hmmm,” the man looked in the book. “Oh, they’ve got that one booked for the next two years, it looks.”
“Two years!” Bran gasped.
“On for longer than that, too,” the man went on. “Ten’s been taken for the past nine years at least. Probably some sailor who thought it’d be his home.”
“Do you ever see anybody going in there?” Astara pressed.
He shrugged. “Never look,” he said. “There’s so many rooms I can’t keep up with them. If they pay, they stay; it’s been paid, so I don’t care if they live there or not.”
“You don’t check on the tenants?” Astara asked.
The man furrowed his brow. “What they keep in their room’s their business,” the man declared. “There’s rooms in this place I haven’t been in since I started working here nineteen years past.”
He nodded strongly. “But eleven’s open, if it’s any
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