I’m just thinking I should maybe crash out myself – I have a foldaway bed down here – when there’s a loud ting-ting from up at my desk. It’s so unexpected at this time of night that I almost jump out of my skin. I tiptoe up to my cubbyhole but there’s no one there. On the counter is a folded note addressed to the Lost-and-Founder of the Grand Nautilus Hotel. Or, in other words, to me.

I open the note.

Dear Herbert Lemon,

Please come to my rooms immediately.

Yours sincerely,

Lady Kraken

I do a gulp. I can’t help it. Lady Kraken summons no one to her presence lightly. The hotel runs like a venerable and well-greased machine, with old Mollusc supplying all the grease needed and then some. Every cog in that machine – from the manager himself to the most rabbit-eyed chambermaid – knows its place and turns correctly round its particular duty.

Or gets removed.

“Just wait till Lady Kraken hears about this,” Mr Mollusc said earlier.

Well, it looks like she already has.

My hand is wobbling slightly as I put the CLOSED sign up on my counter. I glance across Reception – empty this late at night – and catch sight of myself in one of the ancient mirrors. I tug straight the front of my uniform – royal porpoise blue, with a double row of brass buttons – and tuck as many of my scrappy blond tufts under my cap as I can. I try not to think this might be the last time I get to wear it.

Then I set off for the hotel’s stately brass elevator.

THE CAMERALUNA

I REACH THE SIXTH FLOOR and the doors of the lift clack open. The carpet here is deep and aqua-blue, and the walls are a faded coral pink. The ceiling is so far above, I can’t see it against the icy gleam of the chandeliers that float there. There are paintings of the Kraken family all along the corridor – admirals and captains from many ages. They stare down at me from decks and staterooms, painted waves crashing against painted rocks behind them.

At the other end of the hallway are the high double doors of the Jules Verne suite – Lady Kraken’s private quarters. I begin the long walk to my doom, passing the narrow bronze spiral staircase that leads to the tower in the exact centre of the roof. I’ve always wondered what’s up there. Now I suppose I’ll never know.

Lady Kraken is almost a recluse. All her orders and requests come down via a private elevator, and all her meals go up the same way. In all my years here, I’ve only seen her a handful of times. She’s famously bad-tempered about having to get involved with the day-to-day running of her hotel.