The fluorescent lights of the lobby hum at a frequency just high enough to induce a headache. It is exactly 3:00 a.m. at the Hotel Venn. Behind the front desk, Arlo Vance straightens a stack of blank registration cards. The damp, cloying smell of lilies hangs in the air, though the ceramic vases near the elevator have been empty for weeks. It is a heavy, funeral scent that seems to seep directly from the wallpaper.
A rhythmic clicking echoes from the grand staircase. Vesper Linden descends, her heels striking the marble with surgical precision. She wears a trench coat the color of a bruised plum, despite the dry heat of the building. She does not stop at the bottom step. She walks directly to the mahogany counter, her eyes fixed on the empty hook behind Arlo.
"Room 14," she says. Her voice is low, like water moving over gravel. Arlo does not move. For nineteen years, that room has been occupied by a guest who never emerges, a name on a ledger that never changes. Vesper does not wait for him to check the records. Vesper's hand reaches across the mahogany counter, her fingers brushing the closed ledger.
