Page 52 of The Haunted Hotel
“Really?” I reply brightly.
“All you have to do is sell some of it.”
“Oh no, we can’t do that,” I answer with a smile.
“What?”
“We can’t sell any of it,” I reiterate.
“Why the hell not? If it’s the difference between keeping this place open or losing it?”
“It’d be like selling organs on the black market.” He stares at me for several long moments and I wonder if he’s fallen asleep with his eyes open. “Morgan?”
“Sorry. I’m trying to figure out what you mean.”
“Well, a person who needed money to survive could keep selling their organs, but sooner or later they’d die. If we sell all the treasures inside the house, eventually it will just be a husk. There’d be nothing left to save.”
He hesitates. “That shouldn’t make any sense, but I kinda see where you’re going with this.”
“Morgan,” I say softly, my fingers itching to reach up and smooth the wrinkle between his brows and ease the serious look on his handsome face. “This house isn’t just bricks and mortar.It isn’t the age or the architecture that makes it special. It’s the memories it holds, the stories of the people who have passed through its doors and the little pieces of themselves they left behind. It’s the massive chip in the edge of the stone steps that lead down from the back turret. That’s from when a friar fell down the entire staircase drunk and carrying a casket of wine. Instead of even trying to put his hands out, he chose to save the wine and smashed his skull open.”
“What a charming and heartwarming tale,” he says dryly.
“Or the ballroom where Leona died in the makeshift studio at the birth of the film industry. How do you think she’d feel if we sold all her dresses and costumes?”
“She’s dead,” he replies in bewilderment. “I don’t think she’d notice.”
“You’re wrong about that.” A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth when I recall seeing Leona hiding behind one of the movie cameras and watching us when we’d been in the ballroom. “My point is, the vase that was a gift from King Ferdinand, the goblet that Queen Elizabeth drank from, the bed that Oscar Wilde shared with a young lover?—”
“Oscar Wilde? Really?” His mouth falls open.
“Apparently,” I reply. “But all of these things are part of what makes this place what it is. If we start breaking it up and selling off chunks of it, it loses its magic.”
“I can understand that, genuinely I can,” Morgan says. “But if my grandfather is going to ultimately end up losing the house, it’s a moot point. I mean, how bad is it? Really?”
I hesitate for a second. Even though Morgan is Mr Asht—Cedric, I correct myself, still feeling the warmth of him allowing me to use his first name. Even though Morgan is his family, he’s still a stranger, and I don’t want to reveal sensitive information that Cedric might not want him to know.
“It’s… it’s not good,” I finally say. “We’re running out of time, but I have to believe we’ll find a way. One that doesn’t involve cannibalising everything that makes this house special.”
He shrugs. “I guess it’s not really any of my business anyway.”
“Thank you for caring anyway.”
“I don’t though.” He pauses. “I’m not saying that to be an asshole. It’s just that, whether this place stays open or not, it isn’t my business. I don’t have any ties to it. What my grandfather chooses to do is up to him, but it…” He hesitates. “It bothers you.” He shrugs again and looks away, not meeting my eyes.
“Like I said.” I reach out and tug the sleeve of his jacket so he’ll turn that smouldering dark gaze back in my direction. “Thank you.”
I reach out and twist the doorknob. We both step into the room, only to be brought up short when a brightly coloured explosion of confetti hits us straight in the face. Pink and red tissue paper hearts float down around us. I try to blink away the hearts that have caught on my eyelashes, and twisting to look at Morgan, I catch him with his mouth open. He’s trying to spit out several hearts, which appear to be stuck to his tongue.
“What the hell?” he growls, and the sound sends a shiver down my spine. Not from fear, but one of the sexy variety.
Tearing my gaze away from the tempting grumpy man beside me, I look across the room in time to see Bertie and Roger giggling like children as they disappear into one of the bookcases. I drop my gaze to the circle of hearts around us and sigh. I had been saving those confetti cannons for Valentine’s Day, hoping that we’d have more guests by then. I had a very tentative idea in my head for a mini Valentine’s party in the ballroom or something.
“Sorry about the cannon malfunction.” I turn back to Morgan and reach up to dust a few paper hearts from his shoulders and chest and try not to grope him during the process—which, to be honest, is what I’d really like to do. “So, this is the library. There’re actually quite a few first editions in here and a lot of interesting reading, your great-great-grandfather had quite eclectic reading tastes, but one of the things that’s really cool is this.”
I cross the room and search for the right book, then give it a tug. It releases a concealed mechanism and a door opens, revealing a hidden cupboard.
“This is where poor Professor Plume’s body was stashed during the murder mystery weekend.”