The Eleventh Guest

The morning ferry cut through the Aegean at 9:15 AM, carrying the first guests Hotel Poseidon had seen since October. Irene Katsaros stood on the terrace, watching the white wake trail across water the color of lapis lazuli. She cracked her knuckles twice—a habit when her mind worked through details—and mentally reviewed the preparations. Fresh linens in all ten rooms. Herbs trimmed in their terracotta pots. The Nikon D850 charged and waiting in her office, its lens cleaned until the glass caught light like a mirror.

Thirty years. Thirty years of photographing every guest who crossed her threshold, their faces preserved in leather-bound albums that lined her office walls. Some hoteliers kept guest books with signatures. Irene kept faces.

"You're doing it again." Sofia emerged from the kitchen, carrying a tray of coffee cups. At thirty-five, her daughter had inherited Irene's sharp eyes but not her patience for tradition. "The photograph thing. It's a corporate retreat, Mama. They won't want their picture taken."

"They'll want it." Irene accepted a cup, the ceramic warm against her palms. "People always do. Something about islands makes them sentimental."

The van arrived at 10:42 AM, navy blue with tinted windows, grinding up the coastal road in second gear. Irene positioned herself behind the reception desk, the camera resting beside the registry—a leather-bound book with pages thick as parchment. Through the open door, she watched them emerge: business casual clothes slightly rumpled from the ferry, rolling suitcases catching on the gravel.

The organizer entered first. Alexei Demetriou, according to the reservation. Mid-forties, dark suit despite the island heat, hair swept back with enough product to survive the sea wind. He extended his hand across the desk, his grip firm but brief.

"Mr. Demetriou. Welcome to Hotel Poseidon." Irene opened the registry to a fresh page, the spine creaking softly. "I have all ten rooms prepared."