Everyone who disliked this must belong to [GROUP REDACTED].

The floor is grey, and full of buggers. I return this silly card back to the dust whence it came.

“OK, that’s it.” I look back, just once, at the wheezing, dusted old man sweeping the Floor of Goths, his long beard barely touching. Charles London, the floor’s most esteemed guest - one who was here even before myself. But I refuse to think of a Hotel Trivago that was around before I took Aunt Nishi’s place. Not that I don’t like Aunt Nishi. She’s my favorite aunt. She taught me everything. And I’ve become just who she wanted me to be - the greatest Hotelier in the history of Trivago.

And Trivago’s been here before the Nine.

“Let’s walk a bit more quickly, Rafflesia,” I tell Raffle, as we descend the short block of concrete stairs that lies between us and the illusion of freedom, for there are still - forty-five, forty-four, forty-three steps between us and the next floor down. It is - wow, I am that deprived of sleep, but still enough to dream - whichever floor it was that lay just below the twin floors.

And that’s why I have my assistant besides me, huffing and puffing like they’re going to slide down the staircase, woohoo! And jump out, surprising the oinkers, still in their Christmas woolens, roasting chestnuts, not expecting the Wolf to appear from the fireplace. Who does, who will? After all, the Three Pig Sages are several floors above my current level of residence.

Oh, I know. I’ll make the new assistant take their inventory. On their newest methods of security, as if the Hotel ever needs security besides myself. And maybe Continental.

“Rafflesia, shall you wake Luna?” An assistant I actually like, and one who actually enjoys this job.

Rafflesia nods multiple times. “She’s right below, Ms. Hilton. Just myself, or will you be entering the Romdervan?”

Of course, Raffle, we have to cross the Floors to reach the stairs between them.

“I look forward to it, assistant of mine,” I reply, and their stilted beam gives me pause. After being so rudely woken, they are still cheery, and look at me, their Hotelier, now pushing open the doors to the Romdervan. Reluctant to meet the dreamy Edmond, but always happy to meet Ms. Dickinson, whose habitual stuttering rings like - like - I remember once, standing in an empty Foyer, looking at the Mural for the first time, crying because I hadn’t seen anything as beautiful, and Ms. Dickinson’s manner of speech is how I attempted to say anything in that moment, but Ms. Dickinson does it intentionally, I know she does, and that look in her face, when speaking of that which we do not speak of here, is power. It is power.

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I - I run my eyes through the Romdervan, and here, had I remained, the front desk so intricately carved in vaults and nave, ah, what a place to sit in, albeit quite uncomfortable - and sitting there, tuning the great organ, is our dear Luna, daughter to the Ocean, adjusting the bars with all the care of the Nine. Her hair barely fringes her glasses as she works, and she doesn’t notice us. O! Dear Luna - I don’t pick favorites, but here is one I am glad my family sent.

“Luna, Luna, we’re here!” interrupts Raffle, skipping up to the desk.

Without answering, Luna reaches over, behind the keys, and pulls another. Ring. The great organ makes a soft whistle as it reaches harmony with its perfect self.

“Good morning, Luna,” I tell her, and she smiles, pulling another string. Ring.

“Good morning, Ms. Hilton.” She is still not looking at us; Rafflesia takes a few steps back and watches her tune. “What brings you to the Romdervan?” Her husky, mellifluous tone pulls at my heart.

“We have another assistant joining us. Custom! We greet them in the Foyer. Would you come?”

“This organ has many keys,” she says. There are a great many Floors, and steps between, before we reach the Foyer, I think in response. And - the Mural. Our greatest treasure.

“Well, please consider taking a rest at any time, Luna.”

“I will, thank you.” And she continues. “I’ll be here when you come back, to say hello.”

With that, she reaches over once more. Raffle is looking forlorn. I take another glance behind me - the guests here are yet in their rooms.

I let out a quick sigh, so quick that neither assistant could have detected it. The Chief Hotelier needs keep up appearances. “Rafflesia, what’s next?” I ask.

“The next floor’s just past those doors, Ms. Hilton.”