cups of coffee I’d consumed in the lobby and how many brandies I’d sipped in the empty bar. Here, almost midnight, and he’d sent some poor, sick boy with a note.
“Just a moment, please.” I made no attempt to disguise my irritation. I tugged on my dressing gown and cinched the belt before sliding the chain lock into its groove. The chain allowed little more than three inches, but enough to give some pubescent boy the sight of an attractive older woman in dishabille. I had barely enough room to snake my hand outside and say, “Give it here,” before noticing there was no one on the other side of the door.
I snatched my hand back inside, slammed the door, and leaned against it—chained and all. And then—
“Something for you, Hedda Kraus.”
Of course. My own unspoken thoughts sounded shaky even to the sole audience of my own mind. Of course, he would step aside, knowing the lateness of the hour. Knowing I might be undressed. And I’d reached my hand out empty. These boys. Merciless pursuit of gratuity.
My hand shook as I reached into the dish on the large dresser and took out a dime. Two, in fact. Then opened the door.
“Here, take this.” I clutched the money between my thumb and first finger, peering out, waiting for the sight of an open hand. I held back an irrational sob, though a small whimper escaped, because more and more it seemed there was no one there. Nobody to have scratched. Nobody to have summoned. My hand remained alone, suspended, until something brushed against it. Weightless, like a breath. A feather touch. From my angle behind the door, I saw nothing, only felt, and the feeling lingered long after, like sparks of cotton crawling up my skin. In the shock of it, I dropped the dimes, pulled my hand back through the door, and slammed it. What game was this? If Mr. Sylvan had enlisted his night staff to frighten me, he had more than accomplished the task. Tears burned at the back of my throat, not only at the immediate circumstances, but at the shame of my movements being so cruelly scrutinized.
Throwing caution to the wind, and eager to put this incident behind me, I unchained the lock, threw open the door, and peered out to see—nothing. Only the emptiness of the hall, dimly lit by strategically placed sconces.
I looked down, and my dimes had disappeared.
I spent most of the night sleepless, pacing the room, a damp cloth on my hand, red with a rash that traveled up past my sleeve. I’d taken down the last of my brandy in three great tumblers, and perhaps this is what finally allowed me to succumb to slumber. I awoke far later than my usual hour, mouth dry, skin slack, and my housecoat still bound haphazardly around me. At some point, I had moved from the chair to my bed, the sheets so entangled that I experienced a moment’s panic trying to free myself from them.
I brushed my hair, pinned it in a simple fashion, and dressed in my most serviceable day dress. I could do little about the puffiness of my eyes without an hour’s treatment of a cold washrag. No matter. I wanted Mr. Sylvan to see the toll his reckless prank had taken on my natural person.
I descended the stairs, took a fortifying pause where they turned, and strode straight for the desk, my eyes trained on the irregularly shaped bald patch on the top of Mr. Sylvan’s head as he bent over some paperwork. Not until I cleared my throat and rapped on the wood did he favor me with his attention.
“Good morning, Mrs. Krause.” He granted me a supercilious smirk.
“That is a matter of opinion, Mr. Sylvan.”
“You seem agitated.”
“Do I? I suppose I am, given the circumstances of last night.”
The smirk disappeared as one eyebrow lifted. “Last night?”
“Your prank.”
“My…prank?” He whispered the word, as if speaking of something vile.
“I don’t know what else you would call it, sending a message to my room in the middle of the night.” I’d dropped my voice to a hissing whisper too, but seeing the postman at the end of the desk, resumed a normal volume to add, “And, there I was, a poor widow, all alone, scared nearly to death.”
“I should be hard-pressed to think anything would scare you, Mrs. Krause. But even so, I can assure you, no message was sent to you last night. At least, not to my