The service elevator is a steel gray crucible. The walls gouged and stained with streaks of antique gore that no amount of bleach will resolve. Godfrey stands in the center of the box with olive drab army satchel slung over one shoulder and a square leather medical case at his feet. Legs apart as if he expects turbulence. His head slightly bowed. He wears a dark green suit of Italian wool with a white shirt and no tie. Dark purple pocket square. He holds a moleskine notebook in his left hand open to an inscrutable map of jagged labyrinthine lines. He mutters left left right left right right left left right eight eleven left right left left eight oh eight left left left eight nineteen right left left right left left. He trails off and closes his eyes. Tucks the moleskine in his breast pocket.

Godfrey has had the eighth memorized for going on five years but doesn’t quite trust it. Doesn’t trust his shimmering memory. Doesn’t trust Pinch not to change something. The back of his neck itches but he doesn’t touch it. No visible cameras in here but he knows the extractor is never not watching from an unknown hole in the sky somewhere. He holds out his left hand. No perceptible tremor. Now the right. Twitchy as a half dead fish and he shoves it deep in his pocket.
Never you mind, he mutters.
He will take care of it in a safe room on the eighth. Another five minutes of calm cool geeking for a fix then he can get warm. Now he regards the panel of buttons. Like eleven unmarked silver and black coins. The button for the eighth is exactly where it should be but that means next to nothing.

After another round of controlled breathing Godfrey shrugs off the burn the itch the hunger and extends his left hand and punches the button for the eighth. The box surges then stops. He waits a long shuddering beat then reaches for the telephone. The receiver is black flecked with muddy brown and held together with electrical tape. It’s already ringing. Godfrey holds it away from his face and listens. He doesn’t much care to speak to Arthur at this hour but nothing to be done. Hotel politics are not his lookout. The beef between Pinch and the proprietor is none of his concern. The proprietor’s business is Godfrey’s business this morning and the note tucked under his door wasn’t the least bit flexible.

The familiar spidery scrawl on a fragment of scorched parchment. Attend to Evangeline at your earliest convenience. Translation. Do it five minutes ago or I’ll have your heart on a plate.

Maybe he gets lucky and Valentine picks up. The old man might even have a word of advice for him. Blind as a stone gargoyle but the lift operator is the only one besides Moxie who can navigate the eighth without a map. Moxie made the run to room 818 for the sapphire necklace that may or may not have nudged this whole cockup with Evangeline into motion. Godfrey mutters a half curse half sigh. He might have asked Moxie to ride shotgun but she’s giving him the treatment of late. The shoulder. Moxie is sleeping snug as a naked bug in Althea’s bed this morning and besides the note didn’t say to bring your girlfriend for backup. The phone rings and rings muted and faraway as if the other end is at the bottom of a lake.
Godfrey breathes.
The itch at the back of his neck flares hot and his right hand spasms in his pocket.

Finally the other end picks up.
Malick grunts, yeh who’s this.
It’s Godfrey. Where is Arthur. I need the eighth.
Nuh. Pinch says the eighth is no go. He’s got the override locked.
The hell he does. Unlock it.
Not my purview.
Goddamn it.
Uh huh why do you need the eighth?
Because the proprietor fucking says so. Do you want to take it upstairs?
Hummm no don’t reckon I do.
Well then.
Hang on.
Godfrey hears low cursing and the screech and groan of gears engaging.
Thank you, he says.
Hmmph yeh welcome and good luck.
Don’t need luck. Need to scratch an itch.

Malick rings off and the elevator heaves upward leviathan slow. Godfrey lowers the satchel from his shoulder and takes out the gas mask just in case. He removes his right hand from pocket and flexes it to ease the shake. He makes a fist. The elevator trembles to rest and hesitates before the doors groan open.

The hallway onto the eighth is unlike any other floor in the hotel. The walls are cinderblock painted gunmetal gray. Exposed cement floor with puddles of black liquid and a pale blue glow from unknown source. No amber lights marking the passage. Feels more like the bowels of a boat than the eighth floor of a respectable hotel. The walls even feature odd round steel and glass portholes that look onto nothing but brick one minute and black sky the next. Godfrey gives an uneasy growling chortle at the word respectable. The room doors are unmarked and most of them are bolted shut with the knobs removed. He exhales with a shiver. He can already taste the morphine he will bang into his neck when he reaches the first safe room. He can already see his breath. It's at least twenty degrees colder on the eighth than anywhere else in the nine. He sniffs the air and detects no hint of almonds but puts the mask on anyway. He allows himself a fast glance at the ceiling to be sure the mademoiselle isn't lurking about.

Godfrey reaches down and picks up the medical bag and proceeds into the uneasy blue of the eighth. Mutters the mantra left left right left right right left left right. He rounds the corner into yet another blind alley that abruptly comes to a dead end. He regards the unmarked door to room 811. The first of seven safe rooms he will pass through to reach Evangeline's glass cage. Amend that. This should be the door he wants if he hasn't cocked up one of the left turns. He pulls a chain from under his shirt to reveal an odd silver skeleton key that might have been smelted by elves. He fits the key into the lock with a flashing spark of metal on metal and opens the door to eight eleven.