Archive of Our Own ^beta

My master, Mr. Owl, is a cold creature. 

As the proprietor of the Rusty Lake Hotel, he is no gentler than when he inherited Paradise Island. Back then, he was still called Jakob Eilander, the eldest son summoned by his father's letter to return home for his mother's funeral. That was nearly a century ago, at dusk, when his mother's memories were sunk into Rusty Lake, and ten days later, he was sacrificed by his entire family in the Owl Altar's flames. The fire buried the name Jakob, along with all the human emotions it once carried.

Years later, the Rusty Lake Hotel rose from Paradise, awaiting judgment. The hotel has never had many staff, and of course, it has never served outsiders—only descendants of the family, chosen by my master and guided by some unseen fate. As for what kind of fate that is, Mr. Crow, Mr. Toad, and Mr. Bat remain tight-lipped.

It's time to meet my colleagues, a group of mysterious and taciturn creatures. Mr. Crow, who mans the front desk and ferries guests to and from the island, always wears a finely tailored black tailcoat. Legend has it his origins are as ancient and enigmatic as our master's. The hotel's chef, Mr. Toad, prepares the finest meals, always respecting his ingredients—whatever they may have been in life. The bellboy, Mr. Bat, operates the elevator, dressed in a coat as red as fresh blood, his keen eyes glinting with cunning.

When night falls and Rusty Lake's waters turn the colour of rust, Mr. Owl often spends ten or fifteen minutes standing by the hotel window, smoking a cigar. Sometimes Mr. Crow joins him; other times, he stands alone, gazing silently toward the opposite shore, lost in thoughts no one can fathom.

"Our guests have arrived, Harvey." My master's hypnotic voice lingers, the syllables at the end of his sentences soft and drawn out—his peculiar way of speaking, like a drop of water trembling at the edge of a faucet.

"As you predicted, sir."

"I have my own reasons to let them stay. Make sure everyone is worth dying for."

I bow slightly and leave the room, following the plan we had agreed upon earlier.

The guests arrive right on time, impeccably dressed. Mr. Crow's ferry creaks across the rust-red waters, carrying six figures who appear to be wearing masks. Mr. Deer disembarks first, his magnificent antlers held high, untouched by time in the past hundred years. Mrs. Pigeon is dignified and graceful, her dove-gray feathers lending her a warm, wise air, like one of Vermeer's kindly milkmaids. Ms. Pheasant is dazzlingly resplendent; in recent years, she has risen to fame as an actress, her delicate feathered fan concealing the iridescent sheen of her neck plumage. Mr. Boar wears the face of a hedonist—the path of the Asura has done nothing to purify him. His clouded eyes, half-lidded like a drunkard's, betray the greed of an addict and a glutton. Mr. Rabbit cracks irreverent jokes, his ruby-red eyes gleaming with the mocking amusement of a magician, coldly observing the tragic fates of others.

"The Rusty Lake Hotel welcomes you all," I say with a shallow bow. "Please hand me Mr. Owl's invitation letters."

Five simple envelopes bear the honoured guests' names and the Eilander family crest, written on the finest stationery my master could procure:

To my dearest family,

I trust you have not forgotten the night Rusty Lake revealed its true face. I await you at the Rusty Lake Hotel to witness the path to Devaloka. I'm sure it is going to be a wonderful week.

Our time has come. Paradise will rise again...

Beneath this is my master's signature, the letters pressed tightly together, the strokes sharp as the spires of a Gothic cathedral.

Before Mr. Bat escorts the five esteemed guests to their rooms in the elevator, I serve them pink shrimp cocktails and advise them to remain in their quarters—for the night belongs to hungry ghosts.

Mr. Deer's room is adorned with Baroque iris motifs. He lounges on the sofa, one hoof draped casually over the backrest. I convey Mr. Owl's welcome and ask if there is anything I can do for him before our master personally visits his father.

"A Bloody Mary, if you please," he says with gentlemanly poise.

"Anytime, sir."

All going too smoothly, isn't it? How about a Rusty Lake Hotel special Bloody Mary? Blood, vodka, Tabasco sauce, and a special ingredient (you don't need to know what). By the time Mr. Deer collapses, foaming at the mouth, the drink still carries the fresh tang of just-prepared perfection.

The elevator takes me back to the lobby, where Mr. Owl's portrait watches silently from the darkness as I return Mr. Deer's room key—after all, he won't be needing it anymore.

A proper deer steak with mushrooms and rosemary requires fresh, newly killed venison. The first course at Rusty Lake Hotel is ready. I find my master in his usual study, still staring out the window. The lake has turned rust-coloured, and a full moon hangs in the sky.

"The night my father wrote to summon me back to Paradise, the moon looked just like this." His owl's head swivels smoothly, while the human part of his neck remains unnervingly still—a sight both absurd and grotesque, like a joke spat out by a nightmare.

Silently, I slip my hands into my pockets, staring at the ornate carpet behind him. Amidst the intricate vine patterns, a small stain the colour of blood catches my eye. The stiff collar of my butler's uniform chafes against the feathers at my neck, and suddenly, the feeling of suffocation grows sharper.

I think of all the questions I once wanted to ask—questions full of whys and what ifs. But fear and pity silence me. Ignorance is always more innocent, even if ignorant hands are soon to be stained with blood. The reclaimed invitations still rest in my inner pocket, their cold, luxurious texture lingering on my fingertips, the family crest on the envelopes burning like a brand against my chest.

"Sir, your invitations." The sin-laden white papers are released like doves, the pocket that held them still warm with haste. I pinch the indictments between the tips of my wings—they foretell the fates of the remaining guests, and perhaps my own. The Eilander family never forgets vengeance.

"Burn them, Harvey." My master's voice is hypnotic and devoid of emotion. "Four more nights, and it will all be over."

I hope so, I think silently. And as the fireplace's flames consume the last blackened scrap of paper, Mr. Owl does not turn from the window.

The next few nights pass as smoothly as a film reel. Three swords forever silence Mr. Rabbit's mocking red eyes. The courtesy between brothers has been observed—what better sacrifice than a magician dying by his own tricks?

A 220-volt current races through Mrs. Pigeon's rose-scented, steam-filled bathroom. I wonder if, in her final moments, she remembered the nickname of the eldest grandson sacrificed a century ago.

Ms. Pheasant is no easy target. My master's softhearted sister may be no more wicked than I, with my feigned ignorance and evasions, and her suicide by gun may remain but a hasty footnote in my ledger of sins.

If all men bear the seven deadly sins, Mr. Boar embraces them gladly. He never even tried to hide his vulgar, revolting desires. Let's hope the axe that falls upon him brings enlightenment.

The perfect dinner! All praise Mr. Toad's culinary mastery, though he merely flicks out his tongue to lick his eyes in indifference.

On the final night, wild boar ribs in red wine with tomatoes are delivered to Mr. Owl's room. I knock and enter, carrying his usual cigars.

"The guests have all been dealt with, sir." I light a cigar and hand it to him, watching as he leans back wearily into the green velvet armchair.

"I am really glad you brought the cigars, Harvey." He takes a deep drag, the scent of nicotine and tar dissolving into the air. "The Lake will be grateful."

"Then, as per our prior agreement, my service at the Rusty Lake Hotel ends here." I bow slightly. "I hope we shall not have occasion to work together again."

His dry laughter suits his Asura-like form perfectly. Mr. Owl flicks ash indifferently, offering no reply. I can only bow again and turn to leave.

Dawn breaks as I step out of the hotel, the rust-coloured waters beginning to clear. The moment I leave Paradise Island, a hypnotic voice rises from the pristine sky:

"The memories are not only the key to the past but...

...also to the future."

END