It was 8:03 in the morning. And it was Scarlett’s fifteenth birthday.

At 8:15, unshowered, one curl still poking her eye, Scarlett got into the ancient Art Deco elevator. She pulled the gate shut, the outer doors closed, and the elevator made its impossibly slow way down. She leaned against the massive silver sunburst on the back wall—one of J. Allen Raumenberg’s (and Scarlett’s) favorite touches. The elevator stopped just once to pick up one of their four current guests, a man named Mr. Hamoto who spoke no English at all.

All of their current guests were Japanese, from the same company. Mr. Hamoto nodded briskly, but looked a bit harried. He stared impatiently as the elevator creaked its way down to the lobby, then he almost sliced open his finger trying to get the outer gate open. Scarlett had to politely step in and release the catch. There was an art to it, and if you didn’t know it, you could be trapped in the elevator for a while.

She walked through the empty lobby and slid back the doors of the dining room. This was the largest room in the Hopewell—its own little wing, with a high ceiling and a dozen tall, thin windows facing both the street and the building next door. Fifty years ago, this room was packed every morning with guests enjoying a hearty breakfast off prim bone-china plates, served up with silver cutlery and coffee pots emblazoned with the HH monogram. The china had long been chipped and retired. A drug-addled waiter stole the silver in the seventies. The floor was subsiding, the chairs no longer completely matched, and the chandelier was missing pieces.

Still, it was a happy room. It had been designed to amplify the best qualities of each part of the day. In the afternoon, it caught the breeze. In the evening, its diamond-cut top windowpanes caught the sunset and refracted it into a dozen colors. On sunny mornings like this one, it was drenched with light. In the sunniest corner, four tables had been pushed together to create one long family-sized table. There were balloons taped to the backs of the chairs, and blue and yellow streamers fanned down from the ceiling creating a colorful canopy. Scarlett recognized both the streamers and the balloons from Lola’s high school graduation party four days earlier. Someone had gone to some effort.

Spencer was already seated, fork in hand.

“I did this,” he said, pointing at one of the linen napkins. They had been folded into decorative cone shapes, and each had a single yellow tulip tucked inside.

“No, you didn’t,” Marlene said sourly, coming in behind Scarlett. “Lola did.”

This, Scarlett already knew; she could recognize Lola’s handiwork. Spencer had been joking, but jokes were not Marlene’s strong point.

“Come,” Spencer said, patting the seat next to him. “Sitteth next to me, so that I may chooseth the second-best waffle after you.”

Martin family birthday breakfasts followed a strict tradition. First, there were Belgian waffles, made by Belinda, the beloved Hopewell Hotel cook. These were served up with an array of toppings: chocolate syrup, fresh lemon whipped cream, stewed strawberries, and powdered vanilla sugar. The air should have been thick with wafflely perfume. Instead, there was an acrid, confusing smell, undercut by a light touch of smoke.