Chasing Ghosts by Madalyn Morgan (best fantasy books to read .txt) 📕

‘Thank you,’ Claire said. Taking a couple of coins from her purse she gave them to the lad. ‘I’ll make sure I need something while I’m staying here,’ she said and laughed. The bellboy laughed with her, touched his cap and left, closing the door.

The room was small. Besides a single bed, there was a narrow wardrobe, small window, and a desk-cum-dressing table on one side of the room. On the other side was the fire and a wash basin, with a towel hanging from it. Claire was tempted to hide the towel and ring down to reception and ask the miserable woman to bring a towel up, but the woman would probably keep her waiting, and she needed it to dry herself now.

Claire took off her wet clothes and hung them on the picture rail at the side of the fire to dry. After towelling her arms and legs, she put on her dressing gown and knelt in front of the fire to dry her hair. Feeling warm at last, Claire sat back on her heels and gazed into the flames. She watched as they licked the underside of each lump of coal turning one after the other red as each caught alight. She leaned back, rested her head on the foot of the bed, and closed her eyes.

A knock on the door woke her from a light sleep. Her stomach lurched as she got to her feet. She held her breath and without making a sound, crept to the door. Damn! It wasn’t locked. She pulled her dressing gown tightly around her waist, knotted the belt and put her ear against the wood. There was a second knock followed by, ‘Room service, Madame.’

Claire recognised the bellboy’s voice and exhaled with relief. Quickly returning to the side of the fire she shouted, ‘Come in.’

‘Monsieur Durand thought you would like coffee, Madame,’ the bellboy said, treating Claire to a cheeky grin. A Jack of all trades as far as the hotel was concerned, Claire thought, and smiled back at him. ‘Monsieur Durand took my advice and telephoned reception for it.’ He grinned again. ‘Madame la propriétaire had dropped off in her chair in the office and when the telephone rang almost jumped out of her skin.’ The lad giggled. ‘She was not happy,’ he said, crossing the room and putting the tray on the dressing table.

Claire laughed. ‘Is Monsieur Durand having coffee?’

‘Yes, Madame, I’m about to take it in.’

‘Thank him for me, will you? And tell him I’ll see him downstairs in the bar at six-thirty.’

When the boy left, Claire turned the key in the lock. She didn’t think military intelligence would have had time to catch up with her. All the same, it was careless of her to leave the door unlocked, especially as she had fallen asleep. She took her diary and a pen from her handbag and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the fire with her coffee. She recalled the events of the day, jotting down the places they had stopped to put fuel in the car, writing down the cost next to the name of each petrol station. The last entry was the hotel. Two rooms for one night, possibly two nights if they didn’t find the doctor who had looked after Mitch tomorrow.

Replacing the diary in her handbag, Claire got up and closed the curtains. She took off her dressing gown. Turning to throw it on the bed she caught sight of herself in the mirror. She looked thin. She had lost weight while she was in Canada, which she hadn’t minded because she had been a few pounds overweight when she went out there. She hadn’t eaten as much as she would normally have done at Christmas either. She’d had hardly any treats, she had been too worried about Mitch to bother with candied fruit or chocolate.

Thinking about it, Claire had hardly eaten since she got back to Oxford. She stared at herself in the mirror and grimaced. Loose flesh at the top of her arms and legs made her look skinny. Antoinette had noticed she’d lost weight, she had said as much. Claire laughed, ‘That’s why she fed me up while I was in Paris,’ she said aloud.

She put the plug in the basin and filled it with hot water. As she washed, she decided she needed to eat to keep up her strength. She would start eating properly tonight - if she could get the image of the prison out of her mind.

Claire felt the coat and the hem of the skirt she’d worn in the afternoon’s downpour. Neither were dry. Give them a few hours more, she thought. The clothes were relatively clean, they were just wet. Tomorrow she would ask the delightful Madame la propriétaire if she could borrow an iron.

Claire crossed the room and opened her suitcase. The outside of the case was damp, but the clothes inside were dry, they just felt cold. Tonight she would put on something smart to go down to dinner. Apart from a blue silk dress, which she had brought in case she went anywhere where she needed to dress up, she had packed mostly thick, serviceable clothes; skirts and jumpers to keep her warm, which she laid on the bed.

She took out a navy blue tailored skirt and a pale blue twin-set and hung them on the outside of the wardrobe. The only other outfit suitable for dinner in a hotel that wasn’t creased from being in the suitcase all day was a tailored suit in a tweedy mix of green, blue and mauve. She wore the jacket in the daytime, and a fine mauve cardigan in the evening. She hung up the dress, skirts and the jacket, folded her underwear, cardigan and jumpers and placed them on the shelves in the wardrobe, leaving the door open so