“Excuse me,” someone says in an English accent, which is no doubt my favorite accent. My chest tightens. I turn to find a young, beautiful guy with pale and freckled skin, stubble, messy red hair, and the kind of New York T-shirt someone only wears if they’re a tourist or lost a bet. He points at my name tag. “You work here, yeah?”
“Yup.” My face warms up and I wish I could turn invisible to hide my blushing cheeks. “You need help?”
“What time are the group tours?”
“Start of every hour.”
The guy checks his watch. “I have a show to catch at half eleven. Would you mind giving me a brief tour? Promise I won’t ask too many questions.”
With a voice like that, I want to hear all his questions. I got ten minutes before my shift officially starts, and man, I have no problem working a little earlier to hang out with him. “I could show you around. You with anyone else?”
“No.” He extends his hand, which I eagerly shake. “Charlie.”
I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m far from a know-it-all like Brighton, who always has answers, but this is one of the rare times when I have tons myself. I fight back against the thought that my fitted jeans and favorite brown boots from Goodwill don’t make me look as good as I usually swear they do. I don’t even care that Charlie doesn’t appear to live here—that’s what FaceTime is for.
“So what do you want to know?”
“I didn’t realize there are so many phoenixes,” Charlie says, running his hand through his hair like I’ve seen countless models do online.
“Tons of phoenixes,” I say, while wondering if I would compare the green in Charlie’s eyes to emeralds or trees in spring. I’m fantasizing about staying up late with Charlie on the phone to hear more of his voice when I remember I’m supposed to be doing the talking here, like a tour guide who has his act together. “Check this out.” I point at the suspended phoenix models above us. “There are dozens of breeds, and the curator, Kirk Bennett, highlighted some of the more popular ones for our guests. Walking through here with the phoenixes above me is one of my favorite things.”
“Can you tell me about them?” Charlie asks.
“My favorite things?” I don’t know where to start.
“The phoenixes,” Charlie says with a smile.
I’m suddenly extra warm, but I’m not standing underneath the sunbeams filtering through the skylight. I recover, pointing at each phoenix like a star and telling their stories like a constellation: the crowned elders, who are born old; sky swimmers, who live underneath water and can set an ocean on fire with their cerulean flames; century phoenixes, who only spawn every hundred years; obsidians with their glittering black feathers and eyes so dark I once thought they’d been hollowed out; breath spawns, who dive into battle like missiles and explode against their enemies, resurrecting moments later in fields of ash; blaze tempests, who conjure the fiercest storms with massive wings, three times as large as their tiny bodies. I stop to catch my breath after telling him about the sun swallowers, who breathe the hottest fire, but also burn out fastest of any breed.
“Amazing,” Charlie says. He wanders over to the replica of one of history’s most famous phoenixes. The gray sun phoenix is propped on a bronze perch. It has pearl eyes, a gray belly, dark tail, yellow wings, and a gold crown. In front of the model are pictures of the specters Keon Máximo and Bautista de León. “Sort something out for me. I read about the queen slayers that used to claw dragons in the eyes—now that’s a real phoenix! Why did these men bother with the gray suns?”
Yo, it’s like everything I found attractive about Charlie has been sucked away: his English accent is no longer music to my ears, his green eyes are not worth poetry, and dude needs to make a decision between growing out his beard or shaving because stubble is not the look.
“No one should harm innocent creatures for any reason,” I say defensively, but I’m unable to look him in the eye. “You’re also super underestimating the gray suns. Every time they’re reborn they come back with stronger fire and sharper instincts. Gray suns are good for a fight, but they aren’t weapons. They’re so . . . good-hearted, and they rescue wounded travelers in the wild and protect all animals and creatures.”
“These thugs killed them anyway,” Charlie says. “Why?”
I stare at the gritty photo of Keon Máximo, the alchemist who transformed into the very first specter. Keon’s piercing slate eyes are gazing to his left as he bites down on his thin bottom lip, and his ashy blond hair flows underneath his hooded cape.
Before I can try to answer, a voice behind me says, “Keon Máximo is responsible for this chaos.” Kirk Bennett is in his early thirties, and he’s got a brilliant mind. I wish he could take me under his wing. My eyes are drawn to the bright blue sky swimmers tattooed on his pale wrist as he continues to speak emphatically with his hands. “No one knows Keon’s motive, but historians believe the explanation to be simple—he wanted power.”
“You lot lucked out when this man stepped in,” Charlie says.
He points at the picture of Bautista de León: buzz cut, brown eyes, a shadow of a beard, and the original Spell Walker power-proof vest, which has the insignia sprayed on the chest like graffiti.
“His history is complicated because unfortunately we don’t possess direct answers,” Kirk says. “Some believe Bautista to be a hero, because while he was alive, he kept the threat of specters in check. Others point to the fact that by nature, as a specter himself, he couldn’t be a hero and was simply someone eliminating the competition so he could rule the city. Whether or not there’s any truth to Bautista sourcing his powers from a gray sun phoenix who had already been cut by a hunter’s infinity-ender, communities are still outraged that he perpetuated the cycle of creatures being killed for one person’s benefit.”
“They don’t even get all the powers,” Charlie says. “These men were never reborn, yeah?”
Kirk shakes his head. “Thankfully not. Phoenixes resurrect at different rates, of course, but no specter with their blood has ever reappeared. It would be a tragedy for phoenixes everywhere if their resurrection proved successful among humans.” He looks up at me with his thick frames. “Shouldn’t you be clocking in?”
“I thought you were working,” Charlie says to me.
“Have a great day,” I say, just to be on my professional flow, but I keep my eyes low as I head out.
Working up here in the Sunroom is the dream, but I go down the next set of stairs and walk inside the gift shop, where I actually make my money. One afternoon when I was visiting the Sunroom as a guest, sketching the suspended phoenixes, Kirk complimented my art, and I expressed how much I wanted to be a tour guide here one day. Kirk returned shortly with an application. I thought it was to work with him, but nope, just an opening in the gift shop. Wasn’t what I wanted, but it was a foot in the door.
My coworker, Sergei, is working the cash register. My anxiety spikes as he side-eyes me, and I pick at my cuticles before clocking in and taking over the register so he can handle some business in the office. The shop is busier than usual, thanks to some kid’s birthday gathering, but I knock out the line in minutes and get everything back in shape.