Page 38 of Alchemy of Secrets
Usually, Holland hated to assume the worst. But with all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, she felt as if she must.
Quickly, she stepped out of line and into the fray of the lobby.
Parrots flew overhead, soaring between the potted palms, only unlike at the Roosevelt, these palms were lush and alive.
Everything smelled faintly of citrus. And then she saw that, indeed, there was a beautiful orange tree in the center of the lobby.
Someone with white gloves plucked an orange, then cut expert slices to garnish drinks for a pair of smiling guests.
It was lovely, and bright, and unfortunately far too open a place for Holland to hide. She wasn’t sure if any of the staff from the check-in desk were following her, but she didn’t waste time looking.
She scurried past the orange tree.
Holland heard a thud, followed by another, and then there was a noise so loud a series of gasps broke out.
Holland couldn’t help turning. It was only for a second, but that was all she needed to see that every single orange had dropped from the tree and broken on the ground.
“We’re so sorry.” A hotel worker was already apologizing to nearby guests.
Holland didn’t know what was happening, but she started running.
There was an old-fashioned elevator up ahead, similar to the one in the Bank.
The dial said the lift was currently seven floors up and climbing, slowly.
Holland barely saw the dial move. And, she realized, she didn’t actually know her sister’s room number. There was no indication on the key.
Maybe there was a gift shop she could hide in? Beyond the lobby was a little alcove. Holland saw a pair of black lacquered doors garnished with a simple chalk sign: The Black and White . Holland had no idea what the words meant, but she ducked inside.
Immediately, the world shifted from the Regal’s Technicolor palette to the enigmatic shimmer of silver screen. It felt like the scene before the opening credits; the moment when you know something is about to happen, something that will show you exactly what sort of story you are in for.
Holland couldn’t help slowly turning, taking in this new type of magic. Puffs of smoke floated overhead as people sat in tall booths and had animated conversations over black-and-white drinks garnished with speared trios of little onions.
On the far side, across from Holland, a bartender in a black bow tie and white rolled-up sleeves worked behind a full bar. He tossed a cocktail shaker into the air, earning a long line of claps and cheers.
Across from the bar, couples spun and twirled on a checkered dance floor, flooded with the music of a lively band and a singer in a jazzy sequin dress. She was holding one of those old-fashioned microphones, the large rectangular ones, and singing a perky Edith Piaf song.
Holland knew she needed to keep moving, but it was hard not to be mesmerized by all the black-and-white wonder. No one was on a phone or taking pictures. People were chatting and laughing and dancing and kissing.
It felt like a hundred stories were unfolding around her, all at once.
Next to the stage was a pair of long velvet curtains with a narrow sign above them containing two words: The Abracadabra .
Holland had always liked the word abracadabra .
She wondered if this could be a good place to duck into and read her father’s screenplay pages.
She started to step that way, but she paused at the sound of a familiar voice.
Her eyes cut back to the bar and instantly she saw him, sitting next to a woman with the bone structure of a starlet. Adam Bishop.
Her heart did an unexpected flip.
Adam looked absolutely flawless in the silver-screen light.
And yet Holland had the strangest feeling that her heart wasn’t flipping just because Adam looked good in his dark slacks, his velvet jacket, and his white collared shirt, insouciantly half-unbuttoned.
His jacket sleeves were messily rolled up, and his tie was hanging loosely around his neck.
He looked careless and harmless, and Holland couldn’t help thinking that she missed him.
It made no sense. She hadn’t known Adam before yesterday, and yet she suddenly felt as if she did.
She knew him from somewhere. Somewhere before tonight, or last night, or yesterday afternoon.
She couldn’t remember how. She couldn’t remember anything about Adam Bishop that she hadn’t heard within the last twenty-four hours.
But she felt it in the prickling across her skin, the rising of her heartbeat, the way he drew her attention like a magnet.
She had known him before . And it wasn’t because he was her sister’s partner.
He was someone… someone to her that she couldn’t remember.
Suddenly she wanted him to look at her, to see her, to notice her. She was feeling far too aware of everything about him. He didn’t look as if he’d been shot last night. In fact, he looked as if he’d never been shot.
She thought once again about how time moved differently here. If Adam had been brought to the Regal after his injuries, then days, possibly weeks, had passed for him, while it had been merely hours for her.
He was now grinning intoxicated wide, his entire attention on the stunning woman beside him. She was dressed in a gown with ’40s-style cap sleeves, a plunging neck lined in fine crystals, and a pair of ruched gloves.
It seemed he’d forgotten all about Holland and the promise he’d made to January, which was fine.
Holland didn’t need Adam to notice her. She was probably feeling this way about him because of the strange visions she’d been having.
She tried to shake it off, nearly bumping into a server who was ferrying a tray of frothing drinks covered in glass cloches.
Then another server passed, carrying drinks garnished with popcorn, which seemed to be a popular snack at this hotel.
“Dance with me.” The words, barely audible above the din of the bar, were followed by an uninvited hand on the small of Holland’s back.
“I’m sorry, I’m not really in the mood.”
“And I’m not really asking.”
The hand at her back moved possessively to her waist, confident fingers turning her until she was face-to-face with Adam.
Her heart kicked up nervously.
Adam smelled like citrus and vodka, and this close, Holland could see it wasn’t just his tie that looked loose and undone. Everything about Adam Bishop looked perfectly negligent and disreputable in that charming way only really attractive men could pull off.
“You’re drunk,” Holland blurted.
He grinned with an unfairly perfect smile. “It’s good to see you, too. I’m glad that mercenary didn’t kill you. And yes, I’m just swell. I didn’t almost die. Thank you so much for asking.” His hazy eyes sharpened, some of the intoxication slipping away and revealing a hint of something like anger.
Then he was spinning her around in the middle of the dance floor as he drawled, “I’d offer to buy you a drink, but I believe you actually owe me, for all that taking-a-bullet-for-you business.” Adam waved down a server before Holland could object.
She started to say, “I’m really sorry about the shooting. I made a terrible mistake and—”
“Hello, sir, what may I get for you?” The server cut in with a deferential nod toward Adam.
“Hi, yes, the lady would like to buy us some drinks. She’ll have a Shirley Temple with extra cherries.” He looked at Holland and winked. “And I’ll take a sidecar.”