Free Jilo by J.D. Horn Page B

reached up to take her apron from its hook, saying a silent prayer that the youngster’s lie might soon be made true.
    The thought hit her that perhaps her magic could be the answer to that same prayer.
    No .
    She shook her head, forcing the temptation from her mind, and slipped on the apron. Once her uniform was neatly in place, she grasped the handles of the zinc mop bucket in her right hand and the mop in her left. The hotel had an elevator for guests, but not for staff. She planned to tote the cleaning supplies up the back stairs to the top floor and work her way down, meeting the other maids on their way up.
    But May’s hand cramped, forcing her to set the bucket and mop back down. Following its usual course, the aching in her joints came as a sharp jab, then settled into a repeating throb. She closed her eyes and rubbed her swelling knuckles. It’ll pass. It’ll pass . May took a few breaths, willing the pain to subside.
    One eye popped open in surprise. It’d never happened before, but this time the ache had eased. Instantly, at the very moment she’d formed the thought. With both eyes open, she stepped away from the closet, and held her hand up beneath the overhead light. There was no swelling. There was no pain.
    Physical relief gave way to concern. Maybe she no longer had a choice about using magic. Maybe once the door had been opened, even a crack, it was open for good.
    A door on the far side of the kitchen swung open. “May,” Mr. Porter snapped without even stepping into the room. “Follow me.”
    “Something need cleaning, sir?” May asked, starting to bend over to pick up the bucket and mop. Her eyes fixed on the spots of dried calamine lotion that dotted Porter’s thin, gray face and bald pate.
    “Leave those and come with me,” Porter said. May hurried across the kitchen to join him. Rather than hold the weighted door for her, Porter let it swing shut behind him, closing it right in May’s face.
    May leaned back to escape being struck, then eased the door open enough to slip through. Porter had carried on without her, leaving her to scurry to catch up to him as he crossed the lobby and entered the dining room.
    May only rarely ventured into the ornate room, except to sweep its deep red—Venetian red, she had once overheard a guest say—carpet, or to clean up a spill. The entrance was adorned by pillars, similar to those at the Greek church south of the Forsyth, but not quite so busy-looking at the top. She moved between those columns with trepidation.
    The hotel was nearly full, and it had gotten late enough in the morning that May had expected to see guests at most of the tables, but other than the two men sitting at the table near the back wall, the room was deserted. May stopped dead in her tracks, a feeling of dread falling on her. Even from across the room, May had no difficulty recognizing Fletcher Maguire, the elder of the two visitors; she’d seen his picture in the Gazette more than once. But she recognized him not from his thick head of gray hair, piercing blue eyes, or prominent chin, but from the wooden wheelchair in which he was sitting. May remembered hearing he’d suffered a stroke around the time of her mama’s death. Word was, he’d been in that wheelchair ever since.
    Despite his advancing age and declining health, Maguire was still one of the most powerful men in Georgia. He could’ve been governor or senator if he’d wanted, but he wasn’t the kind of man who ran for public office; he was the kind of man who chose those who did. May had read enough of the official news and heard enough whispers to know that what Maguire didn’t outright own, he damned sure felt no qualms about stealing.
    The younger man could only be his son, Sterling. Sterling was a tall fellow, pink and lean, with hair as light as corn silk. She’d only laid eyes on him once before, and then it had been from a distance. Up close, she could see he was a good-looking boy for his type, but