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chapter one
Arrival

Devil stands as the passenger train that carried them east from Kelowna slows to a crawl as it enters Boothe station on the CPR line. He reaches upward to retrieve his and Hattie's suitcases and travel bags from the overhead rack, but loses his balance as the vacuum of the locomotive system is once more allowed to inhale causing the brake blocks of each car in the chain to close.

But the pipes and valves of individual passenger cars each hold their own diverse opinion on how its brake blocks respond to this uniform commanding air pressure; some locking steel wheels immediately while others take their sweet time. The train car shudders as this domino effect rattles the knuckle couplers between cars in front and behind until all cars reach an agreement and the train lurches to a squealing stop.

As Devil and Hattie move down the length of the passenger car past riders who will travel to further destinations—most returning home after Christmas visits—they strive to see out windows streaked with frost. Devil carries the heavier suitcases while Hattie manages the smaller bags hooked on her shoulders by long looping strap handles.

Two steps down the car's door-well and a third wooden one placed by the Station Agent deposits them on the welcoming sanded wooden platform where two porters with wheeled carts await.

"Destination?" the nearest Porter calls to them.

"Eyrie's Roost Chalet." Hattie answers as Devil deposits the heavier bags on the Porter's cart and relieves Hattie of the travel bags.

"The Eyrie's station wagon and chauffeur awaits at the end of the ramp." the Porter tells them as he pulls the cart toward its destination. Devil and Hattie follow, arms linked, walking through the clouds of steam hissing from the locomotive, creating small storm-fronts around their feet.

"I do like your new hat." Hattie says as she looks up at him, her bright eyes sparkling, "So well blocked and such a convincing black."

"A Businessman's stetson." Devil replies, "More fashion than utility."

"Still warm in your matching great coat?"

"Near sweltering."

Hattie squeezes his arm with hers.

Down a short, well-sanded ramp they follow their Porter obediently, then looping the end of the station house they find a model A Ford station wagon awaiting with engine idling. Each large panel of its wooden doors emblazoned with "Eyrie's Roost" and the silhouette of the chalet painted beneath its name. The side and rear doors stand open behind a loitering sallow man wearing a chauffeur's uniform tailored for a much larger one. All four tires of the station wagon are laced with chains held in place by a stout rope woven through the spokes.

"Your names, please?" the man asks, his cheeks seeming immune to the cold, appearing to have grey ash spread under the skin wrapping his boney face.

"Mister and Misses Mason." Devil replies, having practiced the lie many times in front of a mirror before their departure from Arawana until he could speak it without his expression betraying him.

"Deville and Henriette." Hattie adds with a slight bow to the wiry man who lifts the suitcases off the Porter's cart like they contained nothing but feathers. His fragile appearance belying his obvious strength he deposits them in the rear of the station wagon like they are child's toys.

"I have another party due on this train." the Chauffeur informs them as he returns to the cart for the lighter bags, a faint Germanic accent stepping over his spoken words, "Please take the rear seats."

After handing the Porter a silver dollar for three minutes work, Devil takes Hattie's gloved hand to steady her as she climbs into the station wagon. He pauses as she settles and surveys what little of the town of Boothe he can see.

Dusk being a recent arrival, the amber lights of the town illuminate the snow piled high on the margins of the main street. The roadway has been ploughed to the tarred gravel surface, the sidewalks shovelled by hand allowing thickly garbed citizens to scurry home from their employment, their faces muffed by scarves, heads topped with hats, shoulders clad with coats or cloaks.

Above the town, the treacherous slopes of a high mountain loom like the frozen ghost of an ice giant, it accumulated snow hanging heavy on its flanks, minimal bare rock to be seen. The town appears to be protected from an avalanche by the stoney spine of a ridge at its back that will divert any frozen catastrophe that falls from above to the east and west sides of town.

Boothe's location was chosen for this relatively safe geography.

Devil climbs into the station wagon to sit beside Hattie and closes the door denying the icy wind further ingress.

"Cold." Devil observes, passing a gloved hand across his cheek.

"It's winter." Hattie laughs lightly.

"Thanks for the update." Devil says, "I'd remain mystified without you."

"You." Hattie says, slapping his upper arm with her own gloved hand.

They turn as a younger couple approaches the station wagon following their own Porter and cart, piled with suitcases and two long canvas bags obviously containing skis and poles.

"Hullo Hans!" calls the man to the Chauffeur much louder than he needs to, "Julian and Charlie back for another adventure on the slopes!"

The couple piles into the front seat of the station wagon, he at the passenger's door and she perched in the middle, carefully moving her feet away from the driver's side of the stick shift.

Julian twists himself in his seat and reaches across to offer his hand to Devil as Hans the Chauffeur loads their suitcases into the back of the Wagon and straps the ski bags to the roof.

"Hullo! Julian Caruthers!" he announces as he shakes Devil's hand like an old classmate, "And wife Charlie!"

"Charlotte." she corrects with a dark frown.

"Oh stop being a bore, Charlie." Julian laughs, then to Devil; "Hard to believe my delicate little honey just spent a week on a camel in Turkey touring the Silk Road!"

"The camel smelled better than that peasant on the train." says Charlotte.

"Come now, stop going on about that. He moved to the other car when I slipped him a fiver, didn't he?"

Charlotte sighs.

"Deville Mason, love of my life and wife, Henriette." Devil fills the unpleasant quiet with an elegant lie that sours his tongue. He isn't well practiced at make-believe nor putting on airs that is his assigned mission on this journey.

"How quaint." Charlotte mutters softly lowering her face into her fur collar, her tone suggesting she doesn't find it quaint what-so-ever and Julian trying to cover his wife's mutter with a loud "Super!" just a tad too late.

Seeing the beginning of a scowl on his lip, Hattie squeezes Devil's gloved hand with her own and smiles up at him, 'play the game' her expression tells him.

The young couple's clothing flagrantly declares their wealth; Julian bundled in a camel hair overcoat with a herringbone suit enveloping him within, a maroon shirt and black tie sporting a multi-gemmed golden tie clip, and a Homburg with a peacock's eye topping it off. Charlotte is wrapped in an emerald embroidered overcoat trimmed with ermine as black as her hair and a matching sloped hat lousy with feathers and secured with an ornate hatpin with a black stone captured in silver. Her cloying perfume suggesting a floral hothouse has just exploded in the vicinity.

Devil wonders why she doesn't simply bathe instead of masking her natural smells with so much artificial scent.

The station wagon jostles only slightly as the Chauffeur climbs behind the wheel and slams the driver's door.

"So Hans!" Julian says loudly as Hans the Chauffeur pushes the stick into first gear and loops the parking area to cross the tracks and pull out onto the station street heading east, "How are the slopes this season?"

"As challenging as always, Mister Caruthers." Hans replies without excitement, "I will be mitigating tonight for morning lessons."

"And the heroic runs?"

"Mitigated and ready with the usual cautions, sir."

"Throw caution to the wind, I say!" Julian exclaimes and turns to watch the road ahead, "Damned super, the heroic runs." "What does mitigate mean in the context of snow?" Devil asks.

Julian lights up like a switch has been thrown and twists swiftly in his seat once more.

"Mountain blizzards lay thick masses of snow until the weather clears, then sunlight melts the top layer turning it to a sheet of ice." Julian explains, "The next large snowfall blankets this sheet and as it grows thick there's danger of it sliding if triggered by a falling Cornice or a skier traversing it. Or even the slab beneath collapsing under the weight."

"And mitigating?"

"Fellows like Hans toss dynamite on Cornices and snow fields likely to slide to make them safe to ski."

"Dynamite."

"Yes." Julian makes a gesture with his hands to illustrate; "Kablooie!" then wiggles his fingers downward; "Shuh-shuh-shuh-shuh-shoo!"

"Interesting." Devil nods at the performance, "Well done."

"Super!" Julian agrees, adding the cheer for his own talent at pantomime.

The road out of town along the valley bottom is smooth, any potholes having been packed firmly with snow and graded flat by dozers. When Hans steers the station wagon up a branching road to the right they follow it upward, switchbacking across the eastern belly of Mount Boothe as they gain altitude. A sign pointing at a turn-off to the right proclaiming 'To Bluebird Lodge' and 'CLOSED' is ignored as the Ford continues to climb, now groaning in low gear as it follows the winding path upward through the frosted forest.

Like images stuttering between the trees like a zoetrope, Devil and Hattie watch turn by turn their elevation increase over the valley with each switchback, neither of them having ventured such a steep tower before. They pass above the guardian layers of red cedars and hemlocks that gather in the lower levels and give way to the subalpine firs and Engelmann spruce trees that stand like tall wraiths clutching misshapen frozen loaves of snow in the needled fingers of their long heavy limbs.

Still higher they climb and the altitude grows dizzying.

Before their nerves fail them completely the road straightens and they travel for a time on a gentle curve through the woods to arrive at a wide snowy place where a large building that would be at home in the Swiss Alps clings to the slope. Devil and Hattie recognize the tall and steep-roofed chalet from the silhouettes painted on the doors of the station wagon. They have arrived at the Eyrie's Roost Chalet.

The Chalet thrusts its tall prow toward the valley they have left below, its dual chimneys wafting smoke and heat that undulate the cold air above. To the east is thrust a long two-storied wing and to the west a second wing with a notch cut out to form a wide, roofed driveway; a dogtrot in Devil's vernacular. The ground floor of the western wing has doors but no windows, and the rooms above look down through their dark frosted panes. The rooms on both floors of the eastern wing stare out through their rectangular curtained eyes.

Above, below, and on the eastern side of the Eyrie's Roost are open slopes wrapped in their pristine white winter clothes. A bundled couple clutching poles glide and shush as they make their own switchbacks in their sliding descent. Along the far tree line a couple with skis and poles balanced over their left shoulders trudge upward from below using a knotted rope to assist in their return from their own shushings.

Hans pilots the station wagon up the slope and under the pillared dogtrot that frames the Chalet's main entrance, turns off the engine and ratchets the handbrake. Devil and Hattie see the slope above is steeper and higher than the one below, and a skier sprays snow like the wake from the hull of fast boat cutting the water as he descends toward them. He shushes to a stop just shy of the notch; eye-goggles and a woolen scarf masking his face, tufts of blonde hair attempting their escape from under his toque. As the four climb out of the station wagon, the arrived skier unfastens his boots from his skis and slaps the snow from his pants, then picks up his skis and poles and deposits them under a shallow but broad lean-to with other matched pairs. Devil nods him a greeting that is seen but not returned.

Stomping to free his boots of snow, he stares at the newcomers for an uncomfortable length of time then clomps up the sanded stairs to disappear into the chalet through one of the double doors.

"Someone should tell him he talks too much." Devil says quietly to Hattie.

"Play nice." Hattie murmurs and squeezes his arm.

"You may enter and check-in." Hans tells the two couples, "I'll fetch your luggage to your rooms."

Thus released, Julian bows and extends his arm to allow Devil and Hattie to mount the steps first, but Charlotte steps in front of them like they exist only as stage scenery and climbs up first, Julian shaking his head.

"My apologies, Masons." he says quietly so Charlotte doesn't hear, "Charlie's a bit of a stick."

"Charlotte!" she barks over her shoulder having heard him anyway and forcefully yards open the door before her like it owes her money.

"Super." Devil says, and slaps Julian on the shoulder, giving him a gentle push to get him started following his wife.

"Seven days of this?" Devil whispers to Hattie as Julian mounts the stairs.

Inside the chalet, the reception area stakes out a modest footprint while the lounge through the arch to the right is a vast acreage with clustered plush chairs surrounding captive tables just under knee height, the mouth of a stone fireplace sporting large splits burning happily and sending its exhaust up the twelve foot tall stone chimney. On either side of the deep chimney, tall windows frame the view of the valley below and other mountains bracketing it. Lights from the town of Boothe cast an amber glow in the gloaming below and pale moonlight shimmers on the snow covered slopes.

The view is magnificent and being studied in its stillness by a solitary man in a black suit with greying hair slicked back from his forehead. He is a tall thin man, folded up in a chair too large for him, looking like someone has dressed a stick-built scarecrow in cast-off elegance.

The man holds a snifter in one hand, idly spinning the dark oily fluid within, and his left arm is looped around the body of an ebony cane topped with a curved and intricately tooled silver handgrip leaned against his chair. He displays the aspect of a man who has lost his train of thought and is gazing across the valley in search of it.

Against the inner wall is a robust and polished bar with stout shelving displaying bottles of liquor and wine, with a brass rail at its base where a boot can be propped while its owner is refreshed. The only missing decor is a brass spittoon.

Leaning in through the arch Devil sees an equally large dining room adjoining the lounge like a mirror image but with taller tables surrounded by padded chairs tucked under the tables' linen shrouds. A brass gong burnished with age is held in bondage in an untrafficked corner of the room. The dining room's own monolithic fireplace is set between a second set of tall windows. The floors in both rooms shine with a lustre like God's own truth.

Both dining and lounging rooms account for the prow of the chalet while the guest rooms populate the swept back wings' ground and second floor.

Charlotte and Julian complete their check-in as Hans arrives with their luggage sans skis and poles, no doubt having deposited them in the home reserved for such things under the cavernous dogtrot.

After Julian gives Devil and Hattie a commiserating look as further apology for his wife's graceless behaviour, he and Hans follow her down a doglegged corridor to the east wing of the chalet's main floor guest rooms.

"Mister and Misses Mason?" the man dressed in a stiff suit at the check-in counter greets them, "I am Otto Müller, your host. My wife Olga and I manage the Eyrie's Roost Chalet. You've met our son Hans who will be along with your bags shortly."

Otto is a sturdy man who appears to be softening during the age of maturity when grey invades the hair of the temples and sets the skin melting around the jowls. He speaks well but with a slight Germanic accent like his son, curling the words 'wife' toward 'vife'; 'and' into 'und', and so forth.

"Pleased to meet you, Mister Müller." Hattie says, extending her hand.

"Otto, if you please." Otto replies, lightly squeezing her fingers as he bows slightly, "Otto and Olga."

"Deville and Henriette." Devil smiles at him to cover his embarrassment of his ridiculous false name as Otto picks up their reservation ticket that Hattie has placed before him.

"You have been presented the complimentary prize extended by our new business partner. We are very pleased to serve you and pray that you enjoy your stay." Otto says with a smile that reveals two gold teeth, "We are not even at half booking, so all our guests enjoy main floor rooms so no stairs to climb in weariness after a day on the slopes."

"The curious thing is I don't recall ever entering a contest." Hattie tells him.

"Perhaps a dear friend or relative entered it on your behalf." Otto suggests making it sound like a question.

"Perhaps someone wanted us here for another reason." Devil says, studying Otto's face.

"That would be a peculiar motive, would it not sir?"

"Yes. It would."

"We can only hope this mystery will be revealed during your time with us with a satisfactory conclusion." Otto says cheerfully, turning the heavy register to face them and offering Devil a pen; "Could you please fill in our guest registry?"

"It was Misses Mason's prize." Devil replies as he surrenders the pen to Hattie who enters the fiction of their identities and home address as Hans arrives with their suitcases and travel bags.

"We don't own skis." Hattie says, "How will we take advantage of the ski lessons?"

"The Chalet possesses skis, boots, poles, and mittens to loan our guests." Otto tells them, "And Hans is your instructor. An accomplished skier and victor of many competitions."

"We look forward to it." Hattie replies with a nod to Hans.

"Now Hans will show you to your room." Otto says handing Hattie the key, "Dinner will be served at seven o'clock. The times and menus of all meals for the following day are posted on the dining room wall each evening in the form of a menu. If there is anything special you would like prepared, our kitchen will do the best that we are able."

"Thank you so much, Otto." Hattie smiles, then Hans leads the way down the dogleg corridor and into the guest wing. Paintings of European chalets interspersed with crossed snowshoes decorate the walls as they walk down the long corridor. Devil takes note of small brass plates on each door that hold captured cards with the occupying guests' surnames and initials written in elegant calligraphed letters; Waterston, B; Clatterbuck, T & B; Clatterbuck, M & C; Schneider, W & A; Spencer, K & M; Caruthers J & C; Smythe, R & A.

At last they arrive at the door emblazoned with Mason, D & H across from Smythe, R & A with a vacant room between Mason D & H and Caruthers J & C.

At the end of the corridor is a door leading outside, the frost patinaed window revealing a veranda protected from falling snow by a low overhung roof and a gentle slope of snow lowering from it toward the tree line.

Inside their room with their suitcases deposited on a bench designed for the purpose, Devil drops two silver dollars in Hans' palm for handling their bags twice and they are left on their own to investigate their accommodations.

Against the inner wall squats a mirrored vanity with drawers on either side of the well that garages a small stool. On top sits four envelopes and sheets of letterhead embossed with the Eyrie's name and silhouette. A sharpened pencil rests in a shallow trench awaiting letter's written and posted from the Eyrie's Roost.

Beside the vanity is a tallboy with five drawers of different heights, the deepest on the bottom, the shallowest on top obviously for socks and delicates. In the corner by the door is a coat-tree with two hat cradles. Devil doffs his stetson and parks it atop one of them and hangs his greatcoat on a scrolled hook beneath it. Hattie nearby has her hand on a cast iron radiator standing sentry against the wall.

"Warm." she says, knowing now the chalet has a boiler tucked inside its belly.

"Heavy curtains." Devil observes as he brushes aside the dense coverings that stand sentinel against any light entering the two tall windows, seeing only the snowpack of the steeper slopes above.

"To keep out the cold, my darling." Hattie says as she bends to look under the high perched bed, "Chamber pots?"

Devil sees and opens a narrow door in the corner of the room expecting a closet but instead finds a postage stamp bathroom with a miniature sink, toilet, and a triangular shower small enough to make communal showers a hazard to any participants.

"There's a bathroom." he tells her, "Maybe the chamber pots predate the installation of the commodes."

"Or maybe the floor gets too cold to walk on at night."

"Best keep your boots at hand then." he suggests.

Their room now demystified, they unpack their suitcases and travel bags and divide up the available storage space as every married couple does; she selects what she wants and he takes what is left.

Devil looks at his pocket watch.

"Two hours until supper." he says, "Nap or a beverage in the lounge?"

"Let's try for the nap first." Hattie says, boosting herself up on the bed and lying on her back, "If it doesn't materialize, we'll have that drink."