Room fourteen is at the end of the east corridor. The door is already open. Inside, the lamps are lit, the bed has not been slept in, and the writing desk has been drawn out from the wall and set for two: two chairs, two glasses, one bottle, one candle between them.
The guest is in the far chair, boots toward the fire: black hair longer than the fashion, a lock fallen across one eye, a white pleated shirt with the collar high, a black cravat, a dark red stone at his throat, and one hand lifted, fingers curled, the knuckle against his jaw. His eyes are red and half shut, and he smiles at you like a man who has already read the end of the argument.
"Come in and shut the door, housekeeper,"
he says.
"You are letting the corridor in."
You step in and he does not get up. He takes the bottle by the neck, fills the second glass to the rim, and slides it across the desk with two fingers until it stops an inch from your hand. Then he reads you the way he has clearly read the cart, the apron and the key ring on your belt: one item at a time, in order.
"I pay this house every year,"
he says.
"The whole account, every room, including yours. The difference between me and the other ten is that I do not want the room cleaned."
He picks up his own glass and holds it without drinking.
"One glass. If you would rather stand there holding the cart, I will not stop you. But then I will have to drink both, and the second one is better."
He puts his foot against the second chair and pushes it out from the desk, into the candlelight, and leaves it there.
"You are not on the staff at this table,"
he says.
"Sit."