30. Iris

I look at her shriveled bone of a hand marked with spots and bruises, which shakes as it takes the teacup off the table. I’m guessing Iris is old. Like maybe a hundred.

“This is a hard place to find,” Mom tells her as we sit on a sofa covered with tiny white hairs that belong to either a dog or a cat.

“Not if you’re looking in the right spot,” Iris says in a raspy but dignified voice.

She’s got an accent. A proper accent, almost British or something like that. Or maybe it’s just that I think anybody who talks proper sounds British. She’s sure not from around here.

Even her outfit makes her look … different. She’s wearing a black turtleneck and black pants. Perfectly matched and fitted, strange almost for someone so old to be so fashionable.

She didn’t offer us anything to drink and barely even suggested we sit down. I can already tell that I don’t want to work for her. The only difference between her and a crabby old man is her gender.

“I don’t suppose you were told the job description? Most of the time that’s what scares the children away.”

Children?

“I was just told that this would be a good job for someone who needed work,” Mom says as she shifts on the couch. “Chris is willing to do pretty much anything.”

“Chris, is it?”

I nod.

“I’m Tara Buck—Tara,” Mom says.

She still isn’t used to using her maiden name of Kinner. I still like the sound of Buckley myself even if I don’t like who it belongs to.

“It’s good that Chris is willing to do, as you say, ‘pretty much anything.’ Because every day and every week there is something new to do at the inn.”

“How long have you run this?”

“My dear,” Iris says to my mom, as if she’s a child too—maybe we’re all children compared to her—“the inn keeps me, not vice versa.”

The room we’re in is modest and orderly, nothing too strange or weird. Everything is very woodsy in terms of colors and decorations and feel. A painting above the fireplace sums up this room and probably this inn—a picture of a tiny log cabin perched at the edge of a very high cliff.

That’s this place, dummy. Someone drew this from far away, as if they’re taking a bird’s-eye view of it.

The woods must hide how high up we are. Which is a good thing because I don’t particularly love heights.

“When are you available, Chris?”

“Well, I’m not sure—I can’t drive—so I mean, it’s up to my mom.”

“When would you like him, Miss …?”

“It’s Iris. And does he finish sentences, or does he have a speech impediment?”

“I finish sentences,” I say.

“Good. Just wanted to know what to expect.”

“When will you need him, Iris?” Mom asks again.

Iris brings the teacup to her mouth and takes a long time to sip it. Then she sets it back down and looks at us. Her hazel eyes are a bit unsettling in their steady stare, as solid as super glue.

“This Saturday, to start. Eight in the morning will do.”

“That’s fine. And for how long?” Mom asks.

“As long as it takes.”

I wonder if I get a say in any of this.

“And what will he be doing?”

“Tara, you must understand. This inn is a special place for special people. It’s hard to get to for a reason. It is a place to rest. A place to hide. We have unique guests here who sometimes want to be left alone and sometimes need tending to. My job is to do whatever is required of me. And I need someone to do what is required of him.”

I glance at my mom to see if she is as confused as I am.

Thanks, Mom. Great job choice. It’s going to be nice when Iris “requires” my left thumb for her creepy experiments in her dungeon.

“Yes, I understand—we understand. It’s just—any ideas to share so Chris knows what to bring or what your expectations are?”

“Chris already looks strong and fit. That’s one thing. He seems to do a good job keeping quiet, which is another thing. Chris?”

“Yes?”

“Can you keep secrets?”

I want to laugh. This whole town is built on secrets. I’m carrying a backpack of them myself.

Yeah, I can keep freaking secrets.

“Yes,” I say.

“What does that mean?” Mom asks.

“As I said, we have unique guests who stay here, Tara. And discretion is wise when it comes to them.”

Mom sits on the edge of the seat and shakes her head. “When you say ‘unique,’ what do you mean?”

“You don’t have to worry.”

“Chris is respectful, if that’s what you’re going for.”

“Respect and caution are two different animals,” Iris says. “They’re both wise for a place like this.”

“I can keep my mouth shut, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Iris seems surprised by my sudden answer. Yet I see a slight smile on her face.

And for some weird reason, I think of another smile. Another slight smile that popped up surprisingly. The first time I saw Jocelyn smile.

“I don’t want to have to worry about my son being around strangers,” Mom says.

“There is no need to worry. Chris will be safe and sound in this place. Nobody will harm him here.”

I think of the bluebird and want to beg to disagree, but this time I keep my mouth shut.

“But Chris cannot bring guests to the inn. That is unequivocally forbidden. Is that understood?”

I nod. I’m doubting that Newt’s going to want to come up and stay the night at this place anyway.

“Chris is a hard worker,” Mom says.

“Then he will be able to earn the money. For Saturdays, I pay two hundred dollars.”

What?

“Two hundred, for—is that for the day?” Mom sounds as shocked as I am.

Iris just nods, not even bothering to watch our expressions.

Judging by this place, where everything seems old and outdated, I can’t see Iris having a lot of money.

Two hundred bucks for a day? Can I start now?

“We’ll see how this first Saturday goes and proceed from there. How does that sound?”

“Great,” I say.

Iris smiles again. Maybe she likes my outspoken nature. She gives me this look, and for a second I think I’ve got her wrong. She’s not a crabby old woman. She’s just—

Careful?

My mom thanks her, and then Iris stands as if she’s got other things to do than chitchat the day away. That’s another difference between Iris and other old people, especially around here. Most of them have plenty of time to burn. Iris acts like she’s got other duties to attend to.

I look down a hallway and wonder if anybody else is staying in the house. If someone “unique” is back there.

When we get outside, we hear rain falling above us onto the covering of trees. Even though it’s winter, the trees are still dense enough to cover us.

“When did it start raining?” Mom asks. “The sky was clear when we came up here.”

“This mountain never ceases to surprise me,” Iris says. “The longer I’m up here the more accustomed I am to seeing anything.”

“Do you go into town much?”

Iris merely shakes her head. Maybe that’s what she needs me for, though she knows I don’t have a license.

“I look forward to seeing you next Saturday, Chris. Be safe.”

As we walk to the car, I scan the area and find it—the bluebird, surely the same one that bit me, perched on the edge of a limb not far from our car.

I watch it carefully before getting into the vehicle.

I think of Iris’s last words to me.

Be safe.

I wonder exactly how she expects me to do that, and if she has any clue about the mess that’s waiting for me off this mountaintop.