Marcus Doyle arrived at ten with two assistants, a leather portfolio, and the expression of a man who had never once been kept waiting by a door.
"Gather round, team," he said, in the tone of a coach who had already decided which players to cut. "Big news. Big, exciting, forward-facing news."
The stylists drifted in from their stations. Rosa hovered at the back with a broom she did not need. Regina stood at Marcus's right hand, a half-step behind, like a flag planted next to a visiting king.
"In three weeks," Marcus said, "Halcyon Beauty Group will sign the renewed lease on this building, and we will celebrate with a gala. Here. Cameras, press, two city council members, and a ribbon you could moor a boat with. And with the lease, we launch the new identity of this chain." He paused for an effect nobody gave him. "Velour by Halcyon."
Blair clapped, alone, twice, and stopped.
"The Alden name comes off the door?" asked one of the senior stylists.
"The Alden name comes off everything," Marcus said. "Signage, products, the website. Heritage is a lovely thing in a museum. In retail, it is drag. Our research says the customer wants new. The customer wants now. The customer does not want a history lesson with her highlights."
"Who owns the building?" Tessa asked.
Every head turned. It was the first time she had spoken in a staff meeting in two months.
"The building," Marcus said, "is held by a family trust. Extremely private people. Extremely. They sign through attorneys, they collect through attorneys, and in fifteen years nobody at Halcyon has ever seen a face. That is how the very rich prefer it, and frankly it is how I prefer it. Rent goes up twelve percent, which the gala will more than justify."
"The charter, though," Tessa said.
"The what?"
"The founding charter. It is in the old handbook. There is a covenant in it, about the first chair by the window. A free service for anyone preparing for a job interview."
Marcus smiled the smile of a man being shown a child's drawing of a house. "Heritage marketing," he said. "The founders wrote all sorts of poetry in those days. It sold soap. None of it binds a modern lease, sweetheart, I can promise you that. Legal has been over every page of every document connected to this property. Twice."
"It has a signature," Tessa said. "G. Alden."
"And I have a mortgage," Marcus said. "We all carry paper, sweetheart. Mine is just enforceable."
"Legal has been over the documents that matter," he added, when she did not look convinced, and something in his voice had stopped smiling.
Regina chose that moment to step forward, both hands clasped. "Marcus, if I may. When the regional trainer position opens with the rebrand, I would like my name considered. Twelve years I have run this floor. Twelve years of protecting this brand's standards, its clientele, its image. I have kept this salon exclusive. You know I have."
"I do know it," Marcus said. "You are on the list, Regina. The short list. Keep the floor immaculate through the gala. No incidents. No surprises. No street people in the window chair when the cameras come. Can you promise me a clean three weeks?"
Regina looked directly at Tessa when she answered. "I can promise you a clean three weeks if I am given authority over staffing. Real authority. Some positions here have become," she said, "difficult to justify."
"Handle it," Marcus said, already turning to his portfolio. "That is what managers are for. Just keep it quiet and keep it legal. I do not want paperwork with my gala."
He left in a rustle of assistants. The staff scattered to their stations, and the salon filled again with dryers and small talk, as if a weather front had passed through and decided not to rain.
Rosa found Tessa in the dispensary, restocking color tubes neither of them had been asked to restock.
"He is going to let her fire you," Rosa whispered. "You heard that. Authority over staffing. Clean three weeks. Tessa, that meeting was your funeral with better lighting."
"I heard," Tessa said.
"You have to tell somebody what you found in that handbook."
"Somebody already knows," Tessa said, and she thought of an old man sweeping a hotel's steps in the dark, keeping his own counsel, patient as winter. "And I think he is counting to three weeks too."
"What does that mean?"
"It means keep your head down, Rosie. And whatever happens at that gala, be there. I would not miss it for the world, and neither should you."
Across the street, unnoticed by everyone but Tessa, a porter swept the hotel steps, unhurried, like a man counting down to something.