“Until when are you going to stay at your grandmother’s house?”
“Until when are you going to stay at your grandmother’s house?”
Nadirah narrowed her eyes, ostensibly beleaguered. “At least, until the Friday’s Journal is here.”
“At least until the Friday’s Journal is here.”
“Why,” her narrowed eyes had transformed into a pair of slits, “Are you repeating my words?”
“No such thing,” Ikhwan brushed her off nonchalantly, “Purely coincidental that my replies bear striking similarities to yours.”
“Such striking similarities they were, I would rephrase it to same if I were you.”
“I’m not you, and either way,” he popped a sugar cube into his cup, “It’s not something within my control.”
It had been customary for a handful of people to visit her grandmother, yet never in his life had he visited her grandmother’s house twice in a row, no she didn’t think so.
However, this was the first time that they were joining forces for the sake of the 19th Century treasure, in the form of a butterfly no less, so all was forgiven—at least his visits weren’t in vain.
Yet, she couldn’t help but get annoyed by the annoying little elf.
“Why do you need to wait for the Friday’s Journal anyway?” she said impatiently. “You have nothing to do here, nonetheless.”
“If I say that I need to supervise their works, will you believe me?”
“They will listen to a fifteen year old? Really?” her tone was dry.
“Maybe not,” he admitted, “But who says I will appear as a fifteen year old?”
She stopped dead on her tracks, muttering slightly, “Oh yeah, you’re supposed to be Wafi.”
He smiled, and then lowered his eyes, “As for you…”
“I wanted to see how they conduct the interview,” she said indignantly, “And confirm myself that it is not just a mere promise.”
“You’ll see that it’s not,” he sipped his tea, his eyes crinkling into a knowing smile. “But where is the duvet that you have promised?”
“Oh,” she mouthed, shoving her hand into her pocket. She smoothened the silk handkerchief on the table, discreetly said, “Can I keep this when all of these are over?”
He looked at her amusedly, resisting the urge to burst in mirth, “Why?” his voice was muffled.
“This is a 19th Century handkerchief!”
“That much is true,” his face was still brimming with amusement, “You are such a 19th Century advocate, aren’t you?”
“If not, I won’t shop at Meta,” not to mention the butterfly, “And possibly not buy this one-piece, and possibly will be such an inconvenience for you if I did not buy this one-piece, and possibly make it quite impossible for you to detect the duvet, and possibly quite not possible that this is the duvet—”
“How is that possible?”
She stared at him, beleaguered. “I’m sure you know,” she lowered her eyes, “But I found this in the one-piece. Doesn’t say much, doesn’t prove much, doesn’t mean anything, might mean something-”
“It does means something,” his hand slowly retracing the handkerchief’s stitches, his voice lowered to a small whisper. “This is the duvet.”
Of course, he would know.
“Of course,” she muttered dryly, “You would know.”
“I would know,” he grinned, “Quite ingenious of you to discover the handkerchief.”
“Yes, I expect the handkerchief is screaming in your head, nagging about my torturous method of uncovering his hiding place.”
He laughed. “How perceiving of you, but no, things couldn’t talk, could they? Didn’t we learn that in school?”
Logic hardly mattered to her anymore. “Things can’t speak, but they probably can,” she continued to stare at him in an annoying manner, “To you, at least.”
“I can’t speak to non-living things.”
Theory busted, but she never had much faith in it anyway. “What can you do, then?”
He raised his brows. “Aside from being a splendid persuader?”
“Yes,” she waved her hand, nodding seriously, “Aside from that.”
He definitely was the most surprising person she ever met—not that she met a lot of people in her life—but she couldn’t really predict his next action. It was probably due to the fact that she was such a surprising creature to him as well, and so, prompted him to act quite bizarre than an average person.
Being the secretive person he was, he could easily evade from answering her question. Yet the puzzled look on his face said otherwise, and as he sighed, she knew that she had succeeded in her attempt of luring the woodland creature out of the safety zone.
On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t entirely due to her efforts. He was too absurd—she ceased to believe that common sense could ooze out from him any longer.
“You found this in the Meta one-piece,” he finally spoke.
“I believe I’ve told you so.”
“I vividly remember that,” he clasped his fingers, “Your cousin helped you discover it.”
“I don’t believe I told you that.”
He stared at her in a weird mixture of amusement and annoyance, quietly said, “Yes I don’t believe you told me that you asked for Zahari’s help.”
“You would know anyways,” she said equally in the same manner, “The same way you’d know who hid the handkerchief in the dress in the first place.”
“Is that so?” he raised his eyebrows. “But I expect you would have quite a clue on that someone.”
“Perhaps,” she shrugged, “Perhaps not. Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.”
“Oh, you sure do.”
“Maybe I do, but I’m not telling, if you’re not telling.”
He smacked his lips in controlled amusement. “Have I established myself as quite a secretive person, then?”
“Quite,” she pointed out, “Is an understatement.”
He snickered. “Maybe I’m the most secretive, but so are you.”
“Nothing about me is secretive, not even the clue,” she retorted. “Not when you can practically know everything about my secret endeavor with my cousin.”
“Oh, far from it,” said he. “True, I can see your secret endeavor. But I couldn’t understand the need for such actions, since my personal matinee is muted from the sound you see. I can only see from the handkerchief’s eyes, despite the fact that it doesn’t have an eye, but I can see from his perspective nonetheless, and it didn’t tell me much about your intriguing conversation with Zahari.”
She tilted her head, digesting his words, creasing her forehead, and realized that he had explained about his secret ability in one breath.
Exactly, he just confessed everything in one breath…didn’t he?
“You mean,” she tried to keep her composure, holding her own teacup, “If I ask you about the origin of this cup, you can tell me exactly where it’s from?”
He stifled a chortle with a short reply, “Quite so.”
“Why is it ‘quite so’ and not ‘yes’?”
“Because ‘yes’ is a definite answer and sometimes, things aren’t as definite. This cup,” he said, “Is made in a factory, yet it wasn’t as if I could differentiate the many factories in the world.”
“Oh,” she mouthed, “So you might not have an idea about the clue.”
“I might. I definitely can see the words he’d written on the paper, but I can’t tell if I gathered anything from the words. But I’m sure you do, since your face was quite,” he paused, ascertaining the right word to use, and said, “Exhilarated.”
“Exhilarated,” she echoed. “Really? I was quite thrilled with the messages, but I didn’t expect that it’d show all over my face.”
He shrugged, hiding a smile.
“The messages are quite interesting, that’s for sure,” she said adamantly, “But I can’t say I know the connection between them all.” She shoved her hand into her other pocket, and
took out a nicely folded paper.
“Do you want to read?”
“I’ve read it.”
“Right,” she grinned. “Well, there are five, the first one is French, second is Greek, third is Malay, fourth is Chinese and the last one is Latin.”
He scrunched his face, contemplating on ways to pronounce the words most probably, and said, “How nice it is to have an interpreter.”
She laughed mockingly.
“Go on,” he waved his hand lazily, “I’m curious on how you pronounce these words.”
“Monsieur, je vous demande pardon. Je ne l’ai pas fait exprès…” she read it aloud, “It’s in French. It means, I beg your pardon, mister. It was not on purpose.”
He further blinked, much like the confused person he was, “I don’t think I could grasp the meaning even if I’ve been literately enlightened.”
“I read about it once,” she read about it more than once, but he didn’t need to know that, “It was Marie Antoinette’s last words.”
“Ah,” he nodded thoughtfully. “The Dauphine of France. My grandmother is particularly fond of her story.”
“Oh, really?” she asked, intrigued. “My grandmother finds that the story of the Empress Dowager Cixi to be exceptionally thrilling, despite her perpetual grumbling,” she pointed at the sentences with the Kanji alphabets, “This is one of her quotes.”
He peeked over, grunting slightly, “I couldn’t even read it, much to pronounce it.”
Grinning, she said, “It means; Whoever makes me unhappy for a day, I will make them suffer for a lifetime.”
“Wow, harsh,” he exclaimed. “I didn’t get that impression from your grandmother.”
“No, she’s a gentle person,” she shrugged, but then she was lost in thoughts, muttering without realization, “Except for the cursing,” she paused again, and hurriedly said, “Not intentionally, of course.”
He cleared her throat, which ultimately jumped her back to reality. “Right,” she swallowed convulsively, “The next one is…oh the Latin one is quite odd.”
“I couldn’t tell which the ‘next one’ is.”
“The next to the Chinese one, of course!”
He arched his brows, and by his smug expression, Nadirah had a slight suspicion that he understood the oddness of the sentence, yet he casually asked, “What do you mean by odd?”
For a split second, Nadirah had the urge of equally hiding her information, but then, she realized that this matter hardly concerned her as opposed to this secretive fool.
She had no reason to hide anyways; unless she wanted to blackmail him of some sort.
But she knew that he could sway his way in without breaking a sweat, or even agreeing with her conditions.
That irritated her deeply.
“Zahari claimed that the Latin writing isn’t as washed out compared to the others, so he deduced that the writing shouldn’t be older than a few months…or at least a year.”
His eyes flickered with a glint she couldn’t comprehend. “Your cousin is strangely convenient.”
“He gets that a lot,” she decided to ignore his sudden swing of mood, and proceeded to read the sentence aloud. “Fiat justitia et pereat mundus. It’s the motto of Ferdinand 1.”
“Can’t say I know who that was.”
“He was the Holy Roman Emperor.”
“I’m quite ignorant in the ancient royalty world, save for the Dauphine.”
Again, she ignored the dryness in his voice—and the obvious annoyance at things that she couldn’t comprehend—absentmindedly translating the words for no one in particular. “Let justice be done, though the world perishes. Ferdinand 1,” she muttered to herself, “I’m quite certain that my grandmother wouldn’t know who that was either.”
“Like me?”
“Yes, like you,” she said flatly. “I would’ve guessed that it was not you who wrote the quote on this handkerchief.”
“Can’t even spell,” he retorted. “But are you implying that whoever wrote these quotes has a certain fondness for the stories?”
“Will you write the quote of Mickey Mouse if you didn’t like him?”
“Depends,” he replied. “If the quote was meaningful, then I might.”
“Thus, the answer for my grandmother’s bizarre fondness of the dowager’s story. Not especially like, but thrilled nonetheless.”
“You meant to say that the French quote was written by my grandmother, and the Chinese one by your grandmother, and the Latin one by a fairly recent person, presumably the thief.”
“Yes, and there are two more,” she pointed at the writings. “Raja adil raja disembah, raja zalim raja disanggah,” almost automatically, she began to translate, “A fair king is the king to obey, a cruel king is the king to condemn. A quote by Hang Jebat, he’s a well-known historical figure in the Malay realm.”
“He has a dry wit, I see,” he smiled briefly, “Say, do you like historical tales?”
“I read a lot.”
“And you remember everything.”
“Quite so,” she mimicked his previous reply, quickly trying to change the subject from discussing about her welfare and her secret fetish and further prying into her guilty pleasure—
“Anyway, the last one is—”
“Another that I can’t read.”
“Exactly,” she grinned. “It’s in Greek.”
“So it is,” he sighed impatiently. “Spare the unnecessary and cut the chase, will you?”
“Sure.”
He certainly didn’t enjoy the sensation of being outranked, she gathered that much.
He cleared his throat.
“Right,” her voice sounded funny, and after clearing her throat as well, she continued, “Always excel and be better than all others.”
“I assume it’s one of those famous quotes from the royalties again.”
“No,” she shook her head. “It’s a snippet from Homer’s poem.”
“Homer,” he smacked his lips, unwillingly indulging in deep thoughts, “I know one Homer and I don’t think you’ll appreciate it if I say it aloud.”
“I wouldn’t,” she resisted to laugh, “Homer is a Greek poet, and that quote is from one of his epic poems, Illiad.”
“Even if you bluff, I wouldn’t know.”
“I’m not bluffing,” she laughed finally, unable to contain her boiling mirth. “It’s weird, considering all of those are from historical stories. And this one is from a classic poem,” she raised her brows, “Maybe it’s not about a famous figure after all.”
“Still, all of those are historical quotes.”
“Apparently, yes.”
“It’s nice to have a motto in life,” he said lightly, “But why did they wrote it on a handkerchief?”
“Why does people write on a tissue?” she raised her brows.
“Lack of paper?”
“Lack of paper, then. Whatever the reason was, surely you could see?”
“But as I said, I can only see,” he said bluntly. “Watching an audio-less film didn’t tell you much about the situation.”
She wondered if he knew about her true ability beneath his stoic persona, or was he genuinely clueless for the reason behind her foolproof memory.
Nevertheless, he had told his secret in one breath, although she doubted that was the only secret he kept, but she thought that she might as well reply the same notion.
So she said, “Well I can hear,” she tried to appear blasé and unmoved, “But only to things that my ears can reach.”
She scrutinized his face, trying to detect any strange glint on his face, yet all she could see was his usual pained expression, which might result from her being too contained for his comfort. “What do you mean?” he asked, genuinely curious, or so she thought.
This was the second time she told a stranger about her ability—the first being with the mysterious elderly—but it didn’t matter, because she joked about her freakiness with her cousins a lot anyway. “I can rewind c
onversations,” she explained, “But only conversations that I’ve heard. Although,” she tilted her head, indulging in her thoughts, “Maybe I’m actually rewinding my memory, and not the conversation, but,” she tilted her head on the other side, “I could remember every single word, that’s for sure—”
“Surely you underestimate your ability?” his times spent with Fattah must have paid off, because he effortlessly cut her words like an expert, penetrating deep inside her brain.
She bit her tongue, digesting the hidden message, and said, “Maybe.” She sucked in her lips, “I never dwell much thoughts into it.”
“Maybe you should dwell much thoughts into it.”
“Why should I bother?”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Okay,” she said nervously, “How?”
“Let’s see,” his eyes gazed longingly at his cup, before abruptly flickering back on her, “This is hypothetical, but it’s worth a shot.”
She was tempted to say anything you say, boss, but she held her tongue.
He skimmed the quotes hastily, randomly pointed at one, or maybe not so random, “Why don’t you rewind the conversation that my grandmother had when she was talking about this particular quote?”
That was the most absurd suggestion she had heard in her entire life.
Well, maybe not.
“How?” she spluttered. “I didn’t know where, when—”
His lips curled into a smile, stopping her words right on track like a dangerous predator. He began to murmur, low and dangerous, “I might be able to assist you with that.”
She swallowed, ceased to speak in case he would eat her alive.
“Now, why don’t you close your eyes, and visualize the scenery.”
She did just that.
She was too frightened to say otherwise.
“My grandmother was a ten-year-old girl, sitting on the ground, near a mango tree. Your grandmother was on the left and on her left, there is a young boy with cropped hair and army print trunks. On his left, there is a young boy with disheveled hair and grey t-shirt.”
How was she going to visualize the younger version of Grandmother Maznah and two complete strangers?
Now, her grandmother’s image proved quite easy, considering how her younger self was often exposed on the family photos. Trying to imagine a youthful Grandmother Fatima was a breeze.
She did just that, placing the face of her grandmother in the center, and proceeded to visualize Grandmother Maznah’s on her right.
A ten-year-old Grandmother Maznah should be shorter than now—she couldn’t be hitting puberty so early in age—and her face must’ve been free from the aging properties, and so she eliminated the wrinkles, smoothened the texture, until she found herself looking at an image of someone that looked like Ikhwan’s sister.
It would’ve been easy if he had a sister.
The two girls and two faceless boys were placed on a mown ground, sitting in a circle near a mango tree, chatting animatedly.
“Monsieur, je vous demande pardon. Je ne l’ai pas fait exprès…” Maznah recited the quote flawlessly, locking her eyes at her transcript. Abruptly, she smacked it on her head. “That was her last word to the executioner. Why was she executed? I can’t remember!”
“It’s not in there?” asked the boy with the disheveled hair.
“Of course not,” she replied scathingly, “Or else I wouldn’t need to ask, would I?”
“True,” he acceded, “But I thought you liked the story of Marie Antoinette.”
“Exactly,” said the other boy with the cropped hair, “Despicable of you to forget her reason of death, really.”
“She likes her coiffures,” Fatima bluntly disclosed. “That’s the main reason.”
“You like it too,” said Maznah accusingly.
“A simple chignon is nice,” she replied, “But I’m not fond of the hair mountain that’s adorned with ornamental decorations.”
“It must have weighed a ton,” said the disheveled hair boy thoughtfully.
“The sparkling butterfly weighed a ton too,” chuckled the other boy.
“No it doesn’t,” snapped Maznah, almost impatiently.
“Not to you, I don’t think,” he laughed, “Too precious to be claimed heedless, even if most of the gems are semi-precious.”
“Well, admit it,” she snapped. “You like the story of Hang Jebat for the kris.”
“I don’t recall denying that,” he grinned, “I do admire the Taming Sari for its mystical properties.”
“True, and,” added the boy with the disheveled hair, “The fighting scene touched me so deeply.” He brought his palm to his chest. “Especially here.”
“What’s so touching about a couple of men fighting?”
“Simple, they touched a lot.”
Both of the boys laughed, but abruptly stopped once they caught Maznah’s belligerent gaze.
“Bittersweet,” he said, “Girls could never understand.”
“Yeah,” the other boy with cropped hair dreamily agreed, “The battle between loyal and justice.”
“He shouldn’t bother,” said Fatima flatly. “Hang Tuah didn’t appreciate his justifying action anyways.”
“But it’s a kind notion!” said the boy with the cropped hair. “If any of you were unjustified in any way, I would most certainly follow his justifying ways.”
“What, rebel against the authority and ends up slaughtered by your own friend?” snorted Maznah.
“Having a killing spree all over the city?” provided the boy with the disheveled hair.
The boy with the cropped hair leaned in, inquired quietly, “Is it all over the city, or just the city square?”
“I’ve forgotten,” his hands unconsciously tousling his disheveled hair, “But he has a killing spree nonetheless.”
“Well, at least I’ll prove myself that I’m a good friend,” he touched his chest with his hand proudly. “Not a good citizen apparently, but it’s for the good of humanity.”
Maznah grunted, recognizing her defeat. They laughed, their loud voices shaking the earth under, until a foreign voice cleared his throat, draining the volume of their ruckus to an acceptable minimum level. “Assalamualaikum,” he greeted cheerfully to the children.
“Uncle Tajudin!” the voices came in unison, squealing in delight as they answered with bright smiles on their faces. “Waalaikummussalam!”
“Someone’s in a good mood,” he said amusedly, “Or should I say all?”
“Does Maznah’s face looks like she was in a good mood?” pointed the boy with the cropped hair, grinning broadly.
“Hmm,” said the uncle, ascertaining the situation, “Well, it’s hard to say, since she looks pissed most of the time.”
They broke into laughter, as Maznah pouted her lips and yelled, “Uncle!”
“What could be the reason for the smiley faces and the…sour face?”
They laughed again, until Fatima decided to intervene, “We were discussing about the extravagant coiffures of the Dauphine of France, and the questionable ways of Hang Jebat’s haste actions.”
Uncle Tajudin creased his forehead, unbelieving his ears. “Is-is that so?”
“If you come a bit later, we might even discuss about the fearsome dowager and the Basileus of Macedon.”
He smiled nervously, clearing his throat as he said, “I didn’t realize that all of you are more or less interested in historical tales.”
“Oh,” Fatima grinned, “It’s scandalous, highly scandalous.”
“Full of evil.”
“Humans are so evil.”
“Beyond words,” Maznah lowered her eyes, “Evil.”
“Now, now,” Uncle Tajudin forced a humorless laughter, “Don’t be so pessimistic. You’re making me guilty of conveying the wrong message.”
“Please, don’t.” The boy with the cropped hair stood up, dramatically said, “You have just taught us about the harsh truth of life, the cruelty of the world,” he shoo
k his head. “We owe you that much.”
“Really?” he asked, fidgeting. “What did I unconsciously teach?”
Maznah stared at her transcript, and looked up again with gleaming eyes. “Even if you’re a Queen, don’t spend all of your money on shopping!”
“Don’t be too gullible, or else your Taming Sari will be at risked!”
“Marie Antoinette, Hang Jebat,” Fatima counted, thinking aloud, “Who should I say next?”
“Yes, yes, the fearsome dowager, and the Basileus!” provided the boy with the cropped hair.
“Oh, right,” she swallowed. “Stay away from an evil person who has a cunning mind.”
“Stay away?”
“Coward!”
She smacked both of the boys’ head with her two hands.
“Oh right, me,” he rubbed his head with his hand that further tousled his hair, deeply in thoughts when suddenly yelling in triumph over his inspiration. “You are never too young to conquer the world!”
Each of them broke into laughter yet again at the depth of seriousness in his voice, which prompted Uncle Tajudin to ask, “Do you plan on conquering the world, Khalil?”
“Oh, not at all,” he grinned, “But I don’t mind gaining superiority. Although I thought if there was a person who would conquer the world, it would be you.”
“I do travel a lot,” he admitted, “But just a mere fraction of the world.”
They gaped at him, probably relishing their deepest desire of sneaking into his traveling bag.
“I have yet to go the land of morning calm,” said he, “That’s my next destination.”
“What?” they asked simultaneously.
“Korea.”
“Korea!” they exclaimed loudly, “What about Japan?”
“I’ve been there.”
“But you haven’t told us the story,” Maznah wrinkled her nose.
“The story,” out of a sudden, he didn’t seem as comfortable sitting on the ground, “What story?”
“Do you know the Tale of Hikaru Genji?”
He swallowed convulsively at Khalil’s question.
“Hikaru Genji,” they repeated unisonly, probably suspecting that his ears had been clogged with excessive earwax.
“Oh. Yes,” he nodded in distress. “Definitely, I know that tale.”
“Yes!” Khalil acceded, “His mind sure is twisted—”
“The story is quite heavy,” he brushed him off, trying to evade from the subject, “I don’t think your innocent mind could take it—”
“I have endured the disconcerting moments of the dowager,” Fatima shuddered, “I can take anything else, especially the story of a womanizer.”
“Is he real?” asked Maznah.
“No,” she answered, “Fictitious, but might be inspired by a real person.”
“Bring it on,” said the other boy, “It is time to learn new quotes.”
“I doubt that my favorite quote would change,” Maznah asserted smugly.
“Your favorite quote?” asked Uncle Tajudin. “Now that’s new, what is it?”
“Oh, it’s—” she licked her lips, opening her mouth to speak, “Wait, it’s—” she chewed her lips, and said in frustration, “You are making me nervous, Uncle Tajudin. I’ve forgotten how to pronounce the words.”
“It doesn’t matter,” was his assurance, but none really heard him, because his voice was drowned by the overlapping shout of Maznah, “Let me write it down!”
“It’s fine.” But again, his voice couldn’t match the piercing volume of the children, and she wasn’t listening either—instead, she was searching for a tool to scribble on the rough ground.
The boy with the cropped hair emptied his pocket, giving her his pen, and a piece of cloth.
“Write it here,” he offered.
“Write it—” she gasped as her eyes landed on the precious cloth. “But that’s your silk handkerchief!”
“Yes,” he grinned.
“You’re about to let me stain the precious handkerchief!”
He considered for a while, tilting his head left and right, loudly contemplating on his reply, and finally answered, “Yes?”
“That handkerchief was from the 19th Century! You can’t possibly—”
“Fine,” he began to pocket the cloth again, “If you don’t want—”
But before he could move even a muscle, Maznah quickly sliced through his action with her loud words, “You really don’t mind?”
He smiled nonchalantly. “I’m in the process of procreating the delicate art myself.”
“Oh,” she mouthed breathlessly. But then, she held her chin high, recovering her senses as she said, “If you say so.” She took the handkerchief from his hand, delicately scribbling the last words of Marie Antoinette on the cloth, and finally placed it on her uncle’s palm.
“My favorite,” she announced proudly.
“Her moment before execution,” Uncle Tajudin’s face contorted uneasily, “I see.”
“I also have one!” and without waiting for a reply, Khalil snatched the cloth fiercely, and proceeded to scribble the surface with his handwriting. He pinched the edges of the cloth with his fingers and held it close to Uncle Tajudin’s face, waiting for his reaction.
“Isn’t this,” he swallowed, “The excerpts from Homer’s poem?”
“Alexander the Great loved Illiad, didn’t he?” he grinned enthusiastically. “He even slept with it! Maybe I should do the same.”
“Give me back my handkerchief,” snarled the boy with the cropped hair, but instead of pocketing it, he scribbled on the soft texture as well, handing it back to the uncle. “This is mine.”
“Hang Jebat’s quote,” he widened his eyes, “Not Hang Tuah’s.”
“Loyalty to the king is not something that I can easily understand,” he admitted dreamily, “Hang Jebat on the other hand…well, he was a misled and confused person who had a pure intention. It’s just that he simply executed his action the wrong way, that’s all.”
Uncle Tajudin handed the cloth back to his hand, briefly replied, “Don’t let your pure intention tainted by your misled actions then.”
“I won’t,” he grinned. He swiveled his head, staring at Fatima, and then as if on cue, everyone started to stare at her as well.
“What?”
He shoved the cloth into her hands. “It’s time for you to write a quote from the dowager.”
“The dowager?” she asked uncertainly. “Can’t it be—”
“Marie Antoinette, Hang Jebat, Alexander the Great,” Khalil pointed at her, “Dowager Empress Cixi.”
Her face was loudly screaming with protest, but she scribbled on the cloth all the same, before giving it to Uncle Tajudin. “A great reminder,” she nodded seriously, “To keep myself free of vengeance no matter how irritating those people are.”
Maznah peeked at her writing. “But the quote is vengeful—”
“Thus, a reminder not to be one!” she cut off impatiently.
“Not to be one,” they echoed.
“Yes,” she sighed, “It’d be such a disaster if I were to think like that.”
And then, she shivered.
Perplexed, they asked, “How so?”
“Someone might live like hell on earth!”
Nadirah’s eyes abruptly flew open, the words continuously ringing in her mind. She shook her head, trying to settle her thoughts, but as she squinted into the darkness, she realized that she wasn’t in the dining room any longer. Or any place for that matter. Everything was pitch-black, and she saw nothing at all, except for the darkness.
She turned around, searching for any object of familiarity, when she finally saw Ikhwan, his eyes wildly reassessing the situation.
“Well,” he said, noticing her gaze, “I knew that something like this would happen, and I’ve come prepared.”
Her eyes widened with fury, mixed with annoyance. “I don’t!”
“I can tell.”
“Well tell me,?
?? she said dryly, albeit harsher than she intended, “Where are we?”
He grinned. “Possibly hell on earth.”
Out of nowhere, a voice mechanically rung in their head, robotically said, “Hell on earth, keyword accepted, hell on earth…” The sound muffled, before another voice—mechanically enhanced as well—boomed into the darkness. “Question. Where is hell on earth for sinners?”
Nadirah drawled about, “Hell on…” and then blinked, “Earth for…” her forehead creased, “Sinners?”
At once, she gaped at Ikhwan. “How should I know the exact location of hell on earth? It might be on the center of the earth, I’m sure I’ve read that before—”
“I don’t think he meant the true hell.”
“Then, the earth is the hell on earth!”
For the longest time, he just stared at her expressionlessly. “I wouldn’t say that,” he said thoughtfully. “I thought the life on earth is more a mixture of both. Not exactly traumatizing, not exactly soothing.”
“Oh right,” she blandly smiled, wasn’t in the mood for arguing. The wisest thing to do at a crucial moment like this was to join forces, not to further rapture the relationship, and being the wise girl she was, she racked her brain hard to think. “Hell on earth…hell on earth…”
She shivered at the thought of staying here with the devil Ikhwan for eternity, and that sole reason motivated her to rack her brain harder. “Hell on earth for sinners. Well, sinners are those who committed sins, and usually, those who committed serious sins like murder are convicted and sent to jail—”
“Jail,” said the voice. “Keyword accepted. Jail.”
Suddenly, something flickered before their eyes—as if someone decided to turn on the lights and let them see reality for the first time. The scenery no longer exuding extreme blackness, but instead, they were standing on a hard, cemented ground, complete with iron bars and an opened chamber pot, as well as a haggardly looking person curling up at the corner.
“Jail?” she mouthed to Ikhwan, nervously hissing, “Are we in jail?”
“Seems so,” he whispered. “Good job.”
“Wha—” Nadirah quickly closed her mouth as the prisoner raised her head, staring at them quizzically.
“Oh my,” she clasped her mouth, “What have I done?”
Nadirah sucked in her lips, nervously glancing at Ikhwan and the prisoner.
“I shall send you back at once—”
“My lady,” Ikhwan spoke, his voice firm and absolute, “This is not an illusion.”
That staggered her momentarily. “Illusion…it is not? Then what is this, pray tell, for I do certainly wish for a companion, yet I was bestowed with two little devils.”
“We’re not devils.”
He might think that both of them didn’t embody the soul of the devils, but Nadirah happened to think that he was pretty much a devil in his own right.
“We accidently have the pleasure of being your acquaintance. We,” he paused, probably having second thought about his next reply, and then decided to continue, “We are searching for the sparkling butterfly.”
“The sparkling butterfly?” her brows shot up. “I’m afraid such thing has never crossed my path, nor has it reached my ears. I could conduct a search solely for your sake, but alas, for the state that I am in,” she sighed, “Possibly not.”
“I appreciate the kind gesture, my lady,” his voice was still in polite form, delicately mannered, “But if you don’t mind me asking, why are you in such a state?”
“Please, drop the courtesy,” she squeezed her crystallizing eyes. “I’m in no position to be regarded as a lady,” her eyes flew open, shock overwhelmed her existence as they landed on their presence. “Am I right to presume that both of you are aware of the real identity of mine?”
Nadirah glanced at Ikhwan, watching him briefly nodded at the perplexed lady.
The lady wiped her fallen tears with her fingertips. “How is that possible? I have been convicted as an entirely different person, and not one knows my true identity underneath these garbs I donned.”
“You have the face of an aristocrat.”
It hadn’t been Nadirah’s intention to speak, but she couldn’t control her mouth from uttering that fact aloud, since what she said was indeed, the truth. And if there was anyone who knew the true measure of living in the 19th Century, it would be her.
The lady’s face was everything a lady from the 19th Century would look like.
And by the look of things around the cell, she couldn’t help but bask in the familiarity, surging the excitement she usually felt of seeing a historical picture came to life.
She had never been more certain in her short age of living in this world—especially right this time—that somehow, out of her comprehendible mind, she was somewhere far away from home, not by distance—although that might be true as well—but rather, time.
By this time, she had ceased to believe in realism.
She just wanted the adventure, even if that might take a toll on her brain.
Well, that was what she got from following the butterfly in the first place.
She might as well just embrace it all.
Curtsying, she asked, “What happened to you, my lady?”
She smiled ruefully. “What happened has already happened.”
“What’s going to happen next, then?”
“I wonder,” she sighed dramatically. “A trip to the executioners, perhaps so.”
Nadirah narrowed her eyes. “Did you kill someone?”
“No,” that was a definitive no, “However, I do indeed was convicted for murder.” She made no effort to hide her pain. “A murder I have not committed.”
Nadirah didn’t understand on how things could turn out that way, and normally, she would be content on just being a side spectator, but this time, she truly didn’t want to leave a puzzle unsolved. Especially when it concerned an immaculately mannered lady in distress.
Especially when the situation concerned that.
“What happened has already happened, my lady,” she said, “Yet we can prevent the events that had yet to happen from happening.”
She felt a burst in her soul.
A quite…familiar burst.
“To what do I owe this favor?”
“To what do you have to offer?” asked Ikhwan.
Her eyes staggered wildly, her mind heavily occupied with her thoughts. For the longest time, she stood there expressionless, her body agitated, fidgeting under the cold ground. But then, she abruptly sat up straight, adjusting her posture before finally allowing, “The sparkling butterfly. I give you my word, I will return your kindness with your precious sparkling butterfly.”
How on earth could the lady return the sparkling butterfly?
Yes, she meant that literally.
With a time capsule?
Considering Nadirah was right on them being somewhere in the past, of course.
“Thank you very much, my lady. It is the most that I could ask. My name is Ikhwan,” he introduced himself, tipping his head slightly, “And this is my friend, Nadirah.”
The lady smiled, more out of courtesy instead of plain friendly. “My name is Lady Laura Stancliffe,” she paused, and then continued with a thoroughly pained expression, “I was held in charge for the murder of Lady Laura Stancliffe.”
Something fell on the floor, wait, it was Nadirah’s jaw.
She recollected her jaw and blurted, “How is that possible? If the true Lady Laura is here, then the crime is void.”
“Yet you can’t void a hard substance as corpse,” Laura held their gazes, hoping her eyes were good enough to prove her innocence, “The corpse does exist.”
Nadirah gnawed her lips. “Then—”
“It was my sister,” she swallowed. “The corpse is my sister.”
In an instant, the scenery changed. But instead of returning to Grandmother Fatima’s house, their eyes were feasted with luscious green bushes, the sun strikingly azur
e, illuminating the faces of the children in the garden, who were deeply content of just lying there on the ground.
“Wha—” Nadirah bit her tongue, amending her inquiry as she turned to Ikhwan, “I guess this is what you meant by illusion?”
He nodded, briefly answered, “That’s her specialty.”
Another person with freakish ability.
Not the least surprising.
“That,” Laura’s voice caught her attention, and as she followed her gaze, she saw that Laura was intently watching the two children on the ground, “Was me and my sister.”
Nadirah stepped closer, ignoring the random shaking of her bones. Each second felt like a daring moment, but strangely, it made her blood pumped with exhilaration, and she was dying for more.
Scrutinizing the sunny complexion of the sisters, she was confounded with another realization, and so she swiveled back to the lady, clearly stated, “Your sister is a bastard.”
Laura tried hard not to gape, but one can’t ignore the unnerving shock in her eyes. She licked her lips, casually said, “Why yes,” and then the words became uneven as she blurted, “But we had such striking resemblances, how do, how do you know that she is…” she staggered for the right words, “She is illegitimate?”
Her eyes were firmly attached to Nadirah, and so were Ikhwan, thus she decided to simply answer, “The same reason why I know you’re an aristocrat.”
“Is that so?” Laura reluctantly nodded, shifting her attention back to her mini counterpart. “My sister—” she chewed her lips, “No one really knows who she was, but for those who noticed her existence, she had been known as my father’s ward. But everyone, at least in the household, knows that she was my father’s illegitimate daughter.”
The scenery changed yet again, and they found themselves looking at a pair of identical twins parting their ways from each other, one was heading north with a parasol and gloved hands, while the other was heading south with her bonnet and riding suit.
“Your sister dressed too well,” Nadirah commented. “No, your sister dressed too well compared to you. Are you switching lives?” and as if realizing something again, she looked intently at the lady. “Was that why you were caught?”
She swallowed, slowly nodded. “It is very so often that we changed our lives, for my sister envied the flamboyant life of being part of the ton, yet I yearn for the adventure in life, truly not something you would expect from a refined lady.” She took a deep breath, and continued, “Inauspiciously enough, my sister died in my name, and at this rate, I would also follow her fate, by resting in the grave with the carved name of hers.”
Ikhwan didn’t look the least concerned by her remark. “I’m sure it won’t come to that.”
“Yet it will. In a matter of days, my life shall end in disgrace.”
That sounded horrifically bittersweet.
Still, Ikhwan didn’t look the slightest concerned, which contradicted his assurance, “If you could place a little faith in us, I’m sure we’d be able to release you from the clutches of law.”
“What makes you so certain?”
“I say, my lady,” Nadirah intervened, “If there were a person in this world that you ought to trust at the moment, it would be him.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, quietly muttered, “I question your sincerity.”
Nadirah smirked, more playfully than sarcastically. “Admit it, you do know everything.” Averting her gaze toward the lady, she shrugged, “But I don’t. Why were you framed for a crime you didn’t commit? Was there a feud between your sister and you, thus promoting a motive?”
“No, not at all,” she chewed her lips. “It is highly due to the evidence pointing at my doorstep.”
“Evidence?”
“The handkerchief,” Ikhwan provided. “They found it at the scene of the murder.”
Both of the girls stared at him incredulously, gaping for two completely different reasons.
“Handkerchief,” mouthed Nadirah in bewilderment, but quickly laughed it off, albeit nervously, “That evidence is not plausible enough. It might belong to Lady Laura.”
“It does belong to me.”
“I mean,” she amended her words, “It might belong to your sister, no, I mean,” she struggled for the right reply, “Since your sister is impersonating you, it wouldn’t be odd to notice her stuff, I mean your stuff, flying around the murder scene.”
“You do have a point, Nadirah, however,” she sighed, the scene molding back into the original cell interior, “There was a man who claimed that the handkerchief was not hers, and by that, it means that it doesn’t belong to Lady Laura. And upon seeing me, he quickly announced that I am the true owner of the handkerchief. Thus, I was captured.”
“There wasn’t any ill intention behind the rigorous action, I can guarantee you that,” assured Ikhwan.
“That might be true, and I shall believe you,” she said earnestly, “Yet because of that sole evidence, they had established me as the much-acclaimed ward, avoiding them from seeing my true identity beneath the false pretense.” She adjusted her hair, and shuddered at the slight tinge of urine her hair seemed to reek, “Except for the silver-eyes man, of course. He instantly knew who I was.”
Nadirah was about to inquire further about the identity of the silver-eyes man, and if it was possible for a person to have a pair of silver eyes, when Ikhwan quickly went ahead of her and asked, “Why did he give you the handkerchief in the first place?”
She should have known that Ikhwan—unlike her—were positively aware of the silver-eyes man’s identity, and not to mention, the entire situation.
Living in the dark suddenly didn’t feel that joyous.
Not that it was supposed to bring joy in the first place.
“It was one of those rare moments, not exactly tied with the case I don’t think,” she smiled ruefully, “I’m certain that you too cried once in a while.”
“I beg to differ, Lady Laura, while it was not thoroughly related to the case, it wasn’t much unattached to the reason of your fate.”
“Is that so?” asked Laura. “May I have the pleasure of sharing your mind, then?”
Ikhwan considered the question for a moment, before finally revealing his thoughts. “Your tears were caused by the absence of your sister, was it not?”
“Yes, you are right.”
“You were frantically searching for her, am I right?”
“Yes,” she swallowed. “She was long lost before my eyes, exactly a few months before she left me forever.”
“I say Lady Laura,” he said sagely, “If you did not make such an effort in searching for your sister, I don’t think the murderer would notice the truth about the double front.”
She blinked, nearly losing her composure. “I-I didn’t realize how obtrusive I was.”
“No, your level of discreet was acceptable, but you should know how sharp the senses of a predator are.”
She licked her lips. “I have come to realize that your words are absolutely the truth. As it happened, I was long marked to vanish from the world, yet they mistook my sister as myself.”
“Or it might be the other way around,” muttered Nadirah, more to herself than for stray ears to hear.
Ikhwan’s ears were apparently extra perky, because he blatantly said, “It might not.”
She raised her brows. “Really?”
“They would have left her alone as soon as her sister died, but they didn’t.”
Laura exhaled a sharp breath over the harsh revelation. “They ferociously wanted to see me vanish.”
“Indeed,” agreed Ikhwan, which was honestly jarring, “How insensitive I might sound, but indeed, they are quite the cold-blooded people. Have no fear, Lady Laura,” he smiled, “We won’t let it happen.”
“But the silver eyes man,” her voice was muffled, “I couldn’t quite determine his real motive.”
“He wished nothing but to be at your good side, my lady.”
“Time made
me learned that things aren’t as it portrayed,” she said simply.
“I assure you that he means no harm.”
“I could not quite be assured.”
Ikhwan stared at the lady for a long minute, before finally saying, “We will investigate him on for your behalf, my lady, and we shall report our findings to you as soon as we see you again. But in the mean time,” he smiled, “We shall release you from this cell.”
“How is that possible?”
“Oh,” he chuckled. “It had been done. I’m just merely procreating the action.”
Nadirah stared at him, openmouthed at the lack of explanation. But she quickly followed him as he bid his farewell and left the building, because in the land of nowhere, it was best to follow the one that you trusted the most, even if the said person didn’t reply the same sentiment.
She didn’t wish to be regarded as an extra luggage, and so, she decided to be cooperative, letting him sort his thoughts out for a while before bombarding with a thousand questions.
But that proved to be a tremendously difficult effort.
“Do you know your way around here?” she finally asked, curiously glancing at the oddly dressed people for the very first time.
Her eyes hadn’t been in front of her head for the last few minutes—in fact, she was not sure where her eyes had been. In her head, most probably?
Her head cooperated with her eyes, and suddenly, she was conscious of her own garment.
Surely, she wouldn’t be labeled as weird by the passersby for wearing this type of clothes, would she?
Her head was definitely bursting with questions. It was apparent, wasn’t it?
“Maybe,” he answered, churning her stomach at the probability of him reading her mind, which was not possible at all, “If what I saw was true, then good chance I’d know.” He stared at her amusedly, probably noticing her relief expression, but continued with a nonchalant, “And if you’re wondering, they couldn’t see us.”
He was definitely a step closer of decoding her mind’s secret code.
She could feel her tongue grew slippery. “The-then how come—”
“Lady Laura is a psychic,” he answered blindly. “The true motive of the assault. Not a nice trait to have when you’re living in this age.”
“This age,” she stopped, petrified, stonily looking aloud, before suddenly squealing in delight at the sudden realization. “It’s the 19th Century!”
He snickered.
“I was right,” it was hard to ignore the determination in her eyes.
And it was equally hard for Ikhwan to keep a straight face.
“Maybe we could give Sherlock Holmes a visit and asked for his view.”
He paused, staring at her quizzically. “He’s fictitious.”
“Oh yeah,” she said, realization hit her head again. “This is not the Victorian Era.”
“Are you listening to me?”
“This is the…” she scrutinized the passersby’s clothes freely, and squealed yet again. “Oh yes, this is Regency England!”
“Why are you so certain?”
“The fashions are a dead giveaway.”
“Why didn’t you realize that sooner?”
“Because,” she said matter-of-factly, “Unlike you, I’m still puzzled by this mystery. I learned nothing, you hear? Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
He aggravated her deeply.
“Well,” and it infuriated her because she was having second thoughts now, “Aside from the fact that there is a murderer who wanted Lady Laura dead more than anything else, but accidently killed the sister instead, then yes, I don’t really know.”
“Not accidentally.”
“Not?”
“It was deliberately done,” he said quietly, “Killed two birds in one stone, how appropriate.”
“Oh, that was dead on,” she nodded, “And I don’t think I’ve ever said the word dead so much in one day. Anyway,” her tone grew serious, “Will the murderer die in the end, then?”
“Everyone dies sooner or later,” he said casually, “Common sense.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
But instead of answering her question, although, it was not as if she was expecting his honest answer anyway, he abruptly stopped, standing exactly in front of a secluded area, which fully emitted eerie aura with its darkened atmosphere.
“Where—” Nadirah braced herself, bravely asked, “Where are we?”
“Where do you think we are?”
She bit her lips, and answered, “The scene of the crime?”
“You are good,” he raised his brows.
“Of course,” she said blandly. “It’s a no-brainer.”
He laughed, entering the building with no compassion whatsoever.
Or maybe he was just a good actor.
Nadirah on the other hand, was as breathless as the soul of Lady Laura’s sister. The interior was smaller than she expected, and she began to think that perhaps this was not the Stancliffe’s mansion—maybe it was just a private lodging of some sort.
But who’s? She didn’t know for sure.
She followed Ikhwan nonetheless, walking up the stairs, passing by several rooms until he stopped at one of the door, studying it speculatively. He grabbed the doorknob, twisting with his hand as Nadirah steadied her breath.
The room was deserted, a little dusty, and perhaps hollow, but neat nonetheless. Exactly what you would expect from a virgin’s room, with a little touch of femininity, but the rest were simple and practical.
Or maybe the owner wasn’t left with much of a choice.
He walked around, inspecting the room with his eyes, his fingers lightly brushing the contents of the room.
That was weird, because when Nadirah tried to hold a silver comb on the vanity table, it went right through her hand.
“I suppose you aren’t going to explain the case to me.”
“You thought wrong,” he said earnestly. “I was about to.”
She said nothing to that.
“As Lady Laura had mentioned earlier, there was more than one occasion when they switched their lives and posed as the other. This was done because the sister loved the endless balls, while Lady Laura often has trouble cooperating with her specialty,” he smiled ruefully. “She needed the fresh view.”
Nadirah wondered how tough it was to live continuously in a world filled with illusion, and thought that it was tough indeed.
“Lady Laura lived in the family’s mansion, while her sister lived in the humble country with her governess. Their father, the earl, provided the home for the sister as she grew older, since the resemblances between them were uncanny to the point that claiming the sister as his ward was suspicious beyond words. That,” he pointed out, “Is what I gathered by seeing her illusions.”
“You saw that much just by seeing her illusions?”
“Her illusions are unexpectedly bursting with information,” he scrunched his face, “And that was why her death was sought by the murderer. She could be lethal if she were to nurture her ability any further.”
“What can she do?”
“Her illusions could come true.”
She gasped, wondering aloud if the world she was currently in was actually an illusion. “So this—”
“I wouldn’t know for sure.”
“I thought you—”
“I don’t have all the knowledge.”
To hear him blatantly admitted that was a surprise of its own, and for a moment, Nadirah was too startled to think of anything.
But she digressed.
She stood straightly, trying to change the subject. “So the sister,” she cleared her throat, “What can she do?”
“I don’t know for sure,” he exasperated, “But I assume she wasn’t as abnormal as Lady Laura.”
“Really?” she laughed nervously. “But she was killed nonetheless.”
“Preventing is better than treating, don’t you agree?”
She
gulped, and replied, “Well, the murderer was indeed such a cold-blooded person.”
“Yes,” he nodded. “The murderer wasn’t sure about the true potential of Lady Laura’s ability, so she held her captive, here,” his eyes bored at the interior of the room, indicating the location, “Waiting for the moment when she would unleash her true potential.”
“She never did, then,” said Nadirah, “Since she was not Lady Laura.”
“She was not,” he said haughtily, “And so, the reason for her months’ worth of captivity.”
“And prompted Lady Laura to conduct a search for the sister.”
“In her sister’s garbs no less, which caused her to being approached by the silver eyes man.”
“Right,” the name sounded oddly fishy, like a villain’s name, “The silver-eyes man.”
“The silver-eyes man,” he allowed, “Wasn’t being anything but generous. He simply lent his handkerchief, no more than that.”
So he was not the villain then.
Still, Nadirah shuddered. “The handkerchief…that I found.”
“Do you still want to keep it, then?” he asked, his expression softened with amusement.
“Oh I do,” she nodded, almost too eagerly. “Despite its wicked past, it is nothing but a piece of cloth.
He raised his brows.
“Which made out of silk,” she reluctantly added, “And originated from the age of Regency England,” she squinted her eyes, continuing, “And witnessed the scene of crime.”
She hated how he always had a knack of seeing right through her transparent soul.
Despite how he had continuously denied of being able to do so.
“Not quite,” he replied, which further proved Nadirah’s point, “It was fabricated.”
He wasn’t replying to her thoughts after all.
“Oh.” She shrugged. “That was expected.”
“Yes,” he stood by the window, averting his gaze to the streets, “The culprit saw the exact moment of an identical face wiping her tears with the handkerchief. And that explains why they decided to do something as dishonorable as fabricating the evidence. Our goal here,” he swiftly glanced back at Nadirah, his voice crystal clear, “Is to diminish any evidence that might lead to Lady Laura.”
Nadirah said nothing, flabbergasted by the sheer thought of rivaling against a cold-blooded murderer.
“Or,” he continued, “We can create an alibi for her.”
“Create?” she nearly screamed the word, “We-we are tempering with history then!”
“Not tempering,” he said patiently, “Perfecting.”
“Perfecting, what should we do, then?” she asked, fidgeting. “Surely, you’ll know since you saw yourself when you touched the handkerchief.”
His lips curved into a smile. “Oh, I do see myself. That’s why I’ve come prepared.”
“That’s why I’ve not.”
He gave it much of a thought, and decided to reply, “It’s hard to explain, so I rather let you experience it yourself.”
“Wise choice,” she scorned, “Or else I’ll doubt your sanity if you suddenly say that we’ll be going to England right this second.”
“Will you?” his eyes twinkled.
She clicked her tongue. “Maybe not. At this rate, our sanity shouldn’t be questioned. We are fighting against a murderer and we are invisible.” She tried to touch the drapes on the window, but her hand went right through the fabric. “And hollow. We’re supposed to be catching a thief, but we are hollow.”
He shrugged, feigning ignorance toward Nadirah’s sarcastic outburst. Crossing his arms, his face bearing the smuggest expression she’d ever seen, he said, “This is what we’ll do.”
Nadirah walked around the City, gaping over the carriages and wondered if this place was indeed, the ancient version of ghetto. She marveled at the distinctive environment, pondered over the state of this land once the Victorian Era came by.
Perhaps nothing much will change, considering how carriages still existed during that era. But that was just something that she read, not what she witnessed. And what she witnessed right now, was the spectacular amount of carriages, flashing by her eyes.
She was tempted to ride in one of the carriage, and she did just that, creeping inside the crested carriage, her legs hanging around as she squeezed herself into the spacious compartment.
“Where was she when the crime took place?”
Nadirah’s ears caught on that particularly nasal inquiry, and after stumbling herself a couple of times due to the bouncy carriage, she finally managed to comfortably sit besides the inquirer, watching the two men in profound interest.
The man in front of her took off his hat, revealing a set of pale grey eyes. Ruffling his hair, he answered irritably, “Somewhere you ought not to know.”
It didn’t seem as if the nasal voice man was ready to admit defeat. “The police found her wasted on the street,” he tilted his head, his eyes searching for answers on the man in front of him, “Drained from searching for her sister, I presume.”
“Quiet!” the grey-eyes man hissed, leaning forward at once, “We need not acknowledge that fact aloud, much less to have anyone suspect her real identity.”
The nasal voice man nodded. “Indeed. She is the bastard now, not the aristocrat.”
“And she shall live her last breath as that,” he nearly choked from uttering that aloud, “The marchioness would love that.”
“Yes, she would,” the man agreed again, “However, there is a little rumor circulating around.”
The pair of grey eyes widened in alarm. “Rumor?”
“Something regarding a certain sparkling butterfly.”
Nadirah was mentally impressed. Rumors sure spread faster than fire.
“What sparkling butterfly?”
Apparently the fire seemed to miss the grey-eyes man’s head.
“Who knows?” the nasal voice man quirked a brow. “Someone overheard her mentioning that to the viscount.”
At once, the world began to still, along with the grey-eyes man’s face, void of any movement at all.
Oh, it was just the carriage halting its steps.
Nadirah groaned. She hadn’t fully relished the sensation of carriage riding, and she wasn’t ready to leave her seat yet.
But she supposed she had a bigger task needed to be done.
She jumped from the carriage, studied the emblem, and once the two lads were out from the box, she followed them right into the picturesquely ancient house, trying her hardest not to gape in astonishment.
No doubt, those ancient English houses she saw in the books were beyond spectacular, but to see the real deal right in front of her eyes were just…breathtakingly magnificent.
They entered a splendidly decorated drawing room, and after comfortably sitting on one of the chair, she heard the grey-eyes man said, “I have a sunken feeling that someone is trailing us.”
Nadirah bit her lips.
She left the seat, running toward the window and tried to see her reflection.
She couldn’t.
Sighing in relief, she stood in front of the two gentlemen and said, “Hello?”
The grey-eyes man startled.
“Did you hear that?” the man spoke again. “I thought my ears caught on something.”
“Hallucinating, aren’t you Avery? There is nothing here, saves for a couple of insects. They could not possibly talk, could they?”
Nadirah’s eyes roamed across the room, and suddenly, she noticed a butterfly flying right in front of their noses.
That gave her an idea.
Summoning her utmost ominous voice, she spoke, “Hello, Mr. Avery.”
That made him blanched.
Nadirah stifled her laughter.
And continued to spook him again. “What’s the matter, Mr. Avery?”
At once, he grasped his friend’s shoulders, agitatedly said, “I think someone is calling my name. Didn’t you hear that? Didn’t y
ou?”
But before the reply from the man could land in his ears, Nadirah quickly whispered, albeit sinisterly, “That is true, Mr. Avery. Believe it.”
That was too much for him to bear.
“Did you hear that?” he gasped, his eyes widened.
“Avery—”
“No,” he tried to calm himself. “No. I’m fine.”
Nadirah snickered. “You’re hardly fine, Avery.”
She could see the terror flashing on his face.
“Are you sure, Avery?” asked the other man concernedly. “I could—”
“No, I…” he staggered. “I…”
It took him a while to sort out his thoughts, before finally releasing his hands, subsequently announced, “I think I will call it a day.”
“But Avery,” the nasal voice man laughed, “The day is still young.”
Avery returned the laugh, albeit nervously, “I must have been getting old.”
“Would you like me to ring you some tea?”
“You’ll do that,” he nodded vigorously, “I will forfeit to my chamber.”
With that, he left the room, never sparing a glance toward the souls in the room.
Nadirah grinned, proceeding to stand close to the stray butterfly. She held her hand, and as if recognizing her presence, the butterfly sat on the top of her finger.
She sniffed herself. “Does my fragrance enchant you so, to the point that you noticed my discreet existence?”
The butterfly fluttered her wings, flying all over her body.
“It’s not always I become a ghost,” she chuckled softly. “Let’s haunt Mr. Avery! Or is it Lord Avery? Oh!” she squealed in wonderment, noticing the empty drawing room. “And where is Mr. Nasal Voice? He’s gone, I suppose. Too bad.”
Shrugging, she began to exit the room, creeping slowly around the halls. She ascended the stairs, her eyes opening wide for any potential clue, and as she was leaving the corridor, she saw a certain housemaid, opening a chamber’s door to present a tray filled with refreshments.
She hoped her luck was on her side.
Swiftly like a cat, she dashed into the room, just on time to see a youthful man retiring to his bed.
“Put it away,” he ordered, closing his eyes with his arms.
Nadirah waited for the maid to leave the room, and once the door was firmly shut, she began to spoke. “Hello, Mr. Avery.”
Avery abruptly stood up, his eyes staggered wildly as he closed his ears with his hands. “Go away.”
The butterfly left Nadirah’s finger, fluttering softly in front of his face.
He gasped—too loud, if she may add—and maniacally spluttered, “No, you. Is it you who talked?”
Nadirah exchanged glances with the butterfly.
Shrugging, she flatly answered, “I guess so.”
“Wh-why—”
“It’s fairly easy to understand,” she said smugly, amused at the thought of an agitated man, “I am here to haunt you, for you have killed me.”
His mouth fell, blood thoroughly drained from his head.
“Yes,” she tried to make her voice sounded majestic, “I am she.”
It did feel nice to act as another person.
But Avery apparently didn’t return the same sentiment. “I didn’t kill you!”
That was true, she supposed.
But she must act her part. “The marchioness killed me, but you are not exactly innocent.”
“I—” he wetted his lips, sweats trickling on his forehead, “I merely stalked Lady Laura, I have nothing whatsoever to do with you—”
“Mr. Avery.”
That caught him off-guard. “Y-yes?”
“Do you want me to tell your brother about your mischief?”
He pursed his lips. “Please, please don’t—”
“So you will listen to me.”
“I-it depends.”
“Or should I backlash you to the marchioness?”
The name—or rather, title—was like a bucket of ice, shivering his bones to the core, letting his vulnerable side emerged from his sensitive soul. “Please don’t! Please don’t!”
He left her with no choice.
“Then you will do as I say.”
“If it didn’t cost my life,” his lips were chapped by extreme distress, “I will listen to your words.”
“Either way, it will cost you your life.”
His eyes flashed in terror, bogglingly staring at the butterfly.
It was true, though. She wasn’t making that up.
Sided with the brother, and the marchioness will hunt him down.
Sided with the marchioness, and the brother will hunt him down.
He was basically…doomed.
He sat erect, and after hesitating for a while, he finally croaked, “What do you wish me to do?”
“Provide an alibi for my sister.”
“How is that possible?”
“You stalked her, didn’t you?”
He swallowed.
“Tell them that she gave me the handkerchief.”
He swallowed a whole lot more.
“Tell them where she really was during the time of the murder.”
“There is no one who could prove that!” he roared.
She plugged her ears, dropping the volume of her voice until it resembled a lethal hiss, “Are you sure?”
He gnawed his lips nervously. “I-I might have an idea.”
“Good,” she grinned, feeling victorious. Her smile instantly faded away as her ears detected footsteps heading toward the chamber, thus quickly, she added, “I shall leave you alone then, I torture you too much.”
“I-It was nothing.”
Nadirah opted to not reply, but instead, concentrating on ways to exit the chamber. She ran toward the balcony, hesitating for a while.
And decided to jump.
It was not as if any of the hard substance would leave a dent on her body.
Yet, something happened, and instead of landing on the solid ground, she found herself falling into the pit of darkness.
Startled, she opened her eyes, and further gasped as she saw the modernized version of Mr. Avery’s house.
Oh. It was just her grandmother’s.
She sighed.
“Welcome home,” smiled Ikhwan, curiously peering at her.
“The home,” she said dramatically, “Is too dazzling for my eyes.”
“Come on,” amusement was an understatement to describe his expression right now, “You’ve only been to the past for a second.”
Her mouth flew open.
“A second?” she mouthed. She looked at her wristwatch, and true enough, the time didn’t flow that much during her absence. She couldn’t give the exact verdict however, since she certainly didn’t consult the watch before heading to the world filled with horses and bonnets.
“You did great,” he nodded proudly, “Kudos to you.”
“Yes I am on the verge of insanity due to my clueless mind of differencing the world of reality and the world of illusion.”
“Mr. Avery is real,” said he, “The butterfly is not.”
“The butterfly is you?”
“No.”
“You sent it?”
“Of course not,” he clamped his mouth, controlling his laughter. “Why would you say such a thing?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Well, you know, butterfly…and butterfly.”
It felt as if she might become nauseous of the whole butterfly species any moment now.
And now that she thought about it, the whole butterfly incident did become quite a drama. Sure, it wasn’t nice to spook a clueless person, but it wasn’t as if Mr. Avery was a total innocent.
Indeed, during the time of the handkerchief lending, Mr. Avery had reported his grand finding to the marchioness—whoever that was—in hope of increasing his fortune. The marchioness apparently upgraded his task from being a mere stalker to a full-fledged actor then, ordering him to befriend the real Lady Laura,
in order to obtain more information about her—the girl with the identical face.
That was what Ikhwan gathered from inspecting the murder scene.
She wasn’t sure how, but at least he gathered that much.
They visited Laura thereafter, inquiring about the identity of the man, and without another thought, she volunteered to show the face of Mr. Avery, complete with his full history. Thus, the plan began, and as Nadirah wandered the streets in her usual daze fashion, she stumbled across the carriage with the identified emblem, and quickly snuck in.
It was thrilling.
No, not because she had finally found the associate.
It was because the carriage ride was supremely marvelous.
Ikhwan had offered her to stay behind with the lady, all for the sake of gathering more information, but really, who would want to stay in a cell when you can inhale the fresh air of 19th Century?
Besides, what kind of information can she gather anyway? She was not particularly good at that. At the very least, the only information she can extort from the lady was how to live like a lady, which Nadirah wasn’t sure if the lady could answer that herself, false pretense and whatnot. They probably will play around with the lady’s illusion in the end, bored to death by the lack of discussion. Or the lady will be bored to death by Nadirah’s continuous 19th Century inquiries, prompting her to conjure her own illusions and steered Nadirah’s mind away from the captivating era. One of those.
Ikhwan would certainly fare better in that situation than her, no question about that. At least, he can read the illusions deeper, possibly igniting more questions regarding the case…
Wait.
“Did Lady Laura send the butterfly?”
He snickered. “Took you long enough.”
She creased her brows, an expression of loathsome began to shade her face. “You don’t need to use her illusions after all,” said Nadirah. “Mr. Avery can sense me just fine.”
“It’s a precaution, in case things will go wrong.”
“Or maybe, it’s just an excuse for you to scrutinize her further.”
“Maybe,” he grinned, losing in thoughts.
He shook his head.
And continued his sentence. “I’m just amazed on how her illusions can stretch that far,” he said truthfully, “Even to the place that you went.”
“The butterfly has wings,” she retorted matter-of-factly. “Of course it can fly there.”
“Maybe, but amazing nonetheless.”
“Of course, or else the marchioness wouldn’t want to kill her, would she?” She shrugged, her eyes landed on the piece of cloth. “This handkerchief has lived for 200 years. It’s amazing how it’s still intact,” she nudged the little cloth with her fingers, “Or is this just a mere illusion? Yet how could she project the illusion if she had already died? Surely, she had died? She couldn’t possibly live for more than 200 years, can she?”
He snorted.
“Well, aren’t you glad you sold the dress to me,” she said indignantly, “Or else the daughter of the earl would never claim her justice,” she stopped, thinking aloud, “Although I don’t know for sure if she ever claimed one in the end, but let’s pretend that she did.”
“Well, if the buyer wasn’t you, I can always call the store and fib about the defective of the dress.”
“What if they didn’t buy your fibbing?”
“Apart from you, who doesn’t?”
“You are overly confident.”
“Confidence is vital for a job well done, don’t you think?” he grinned. “If not, you might not be able to rewind the conversation that is unreachable within your ears.”
“Oh yeah! How mysterious…” she smiled dreamily. But then, as if waking up from a heavy sleep, she bolted upright, smacking her head, “Oh right, the foreign language writings. So,” her eyes flickered at Ikhwan, staring at him intently, “That Latin phrase. Was it written by the uncle?”
“No,” he shook his head earnestly, “He didn’t write anything on it.”
She creased her brows. “Then who? Surely you’ll know?”
“Sure.”
She waited for a couple more seconds for another word to rise from his throat, and a few more seconds to give him the time to sort out his thoughts, but when he remained silent and ignored her thoroughly, she mockingly echoed his words, “Sure,” and further added, “I should know by now that you wouldn’t tell.”
“It is vital not to tell.”
“Then who was it that stole the butterfly first? Or are you telling me that it’s a secret as well?”
His eyes glimmered with ambiguous glints. “It wouldn’t be interesting if I were to tell you that now, wouldn’t it?”
Nadirah had the sudden urge of smacking her head on the table.
No, she rather smacked his head on the table.
But she relented.
Still, she couldn’t help but exasperate, “Why do I often have to deduce it myself?”
He thought for a while, and gave an answer that sounded like,“I don’t like to explain all that much.”
That prickled her nerve. “Yeah. You didn’t even tell Lady Laura about the silver-eyes man’s real identity.”
“She will know who he is sooner or later.”
“But will we?” she asked his desperately. “You did promise her, which means that we,” she pointed at her and him, “Will meet him.”
He was reluctant to reply, but after a couple hesitations, he decided to take the plunge. “I am simply gambling here, but I do know that his name is Viscount Vincent Ventris.
Suddenly, the world was dark yet again, and the words, “Keyword accepted, Viscount Vincent Ventris, keyword accepted…” rang in her head again.
She whistled.
“Wow,” she stared sideways at Ikhwan, the only thing visible amidst the darkness, “That’s a lot of Vs.”
He snickered, and retorted, “Suits him well, doesn’t it?”
She shrugged, hiding a grin.
She couldn’t tell how much the name suit the owner, since indeed, she had yet to meet the person.
Nevertheless, the case was getting weirder by the second, and she pondered over the possibility of the thief knowing about their time traveling situations.
Perhaps that was the reason for his odd instruction of acquiring the key items. Maybe the items could lead him to the past. Maybe when all of the items were present, they could live permanently in the past. Maybe that was why he didn’t sell the sparkling butterfly in the first place. He wanted to live in the past.
The butterfly held no significance to him. Maybe that was it.
She didn’t know, but she braced herself anyway, listening to the computerized voice asking yet another question, opening more possibilities of future enjoyment in the 19th Century.
Or at least, she hoped there’ll be future enjoyment.
chapter 7