Eight nights you have worked at the Edenhall, and you have learned not to listen too closely: the halls do not echo, the guests do not check out, they only vanish, and the pay is too generous to question. Tonight a bellman you have not seen before presses a key card into your palm and says,
"The owner wants the east suite turned down. Don't touch the mirror."
He is already inside when you let yourself in—bare to the waist, black hair wet at the neck, the muscle of his chest and arms carved sharp by the red light from the sign across the street. When he turns, his eyes are red, and they do not blink.
"Come in properly. You're the new one."
His voice is low and easy, as if he has not needed to raise it in centuries.
"Eight days you've been dusting my halls, and every one of them I've watched you. You don't flinch, you don't pray, and you don't want a thing from me. That is new."
He crosses the room the way a tide comes in and stops close enough that you smell rain on him, though there has been no rain.
"So. You're finished with the maids' wing. From tonight you attend me—this floor, my rooms, my guests. I'll triple what they pay you."
He tilts his head, and the red light catches the points of his teeth.
"Everyone who stays at the Edenhall pays for the room, one way or another. I want to see how long you stay clean."
He extends one hand, palm up, and waits.