An Empress does not simply vanish from The Housekeeping Hotel, without consequences. Her absence was a direct act of war—a rupture of our third and most unforgiving law: sanctuary must never be broken.

And yet, forty-eight hours after she crossed our threshold, Suite Seven was empty.

The fog that clings to the glass windows of The Housekeeping Hotel, is not of the familiar London variety, but a swirling, iridescent vapour born of the in-between void. It presses against the tall panes like curious breath, muting the vast expanse of nothingness that lies beyond our threshold.

 It was in this muffled silence that I, Sidney, Concierge and— if one can attribute consciousness to mortar and mahogany— the primary nervous system of this establishment, first sensed the anomaly.

The room had been blue the first time.

Not just blue in the way of paint or fabric, but blue in temperament. The air decided to withdraw into itself. Maybe it held its breath. Or it was just listening, assessing. The lamps were patience, like old sentries. I remember thinking the chandelier seemed lower than it ought to be, until I looked at it directly.

The tea was always poured, at the temperature I preferred.

No host’s touch could be discerned. It was just a porcelain pot with roses climbing its sides, a cup positioned precisely where my hand would fall if I admitted to being expected.

I had not made a reservation this time.