Chapter 15
to obscure her identity from cameras and passersby. After a brief text exchange, she and Luciano decided to leave their MODA
phones behind in their rooms with the televisions on for noise, hoping to convince anyone listening at MODA that they’d both
stayed in.
She kept her fingers crossed in her pocket as she navigated the hotel, hoping no one would notice her. It was an old habit
from childhood that she fell back on when hoping for parking spots, restaurant reservations, and other fortuitous events.
She had no indication that it worked, and she almost crossed the fingers of her other hand to hope it did.
Luciano stood beneath the grand weathered clock that adorned the corner of the building—once a bank, now abandoned, its windows
boarded up and its former purpose long forgotten. The stone facade still carried an air of dignity, though time had dulled
its grandeur. Luciano’s long gray overcoat billowed slightly in the cool breeze, and a houndstooth scarf was wrapped loosely
around his neck. A black leather messenger bag hung casually over one shoulder. He lit up when he saw her. “Ciao, Aida!”
When he kissed each cheek, Aida’s heart thumped so loud she thought he must be able to hear it.
She willed herself to be calm and to mute the giddiness that bubbled up inside her.
God, she hadn’t felt like this since the first days when she was dating Graham.
Fuck that guy, she thought to herself, and gave Luciano a big grin.
“Come, let us walk, and you can tell me this news,” Luciano said in Italian, gallantly holding out an elbow.
Delighted, she took his arm and together they crossed the street and headed toward Soho. As they entered the vibrant neighborhood,
the festive ambience enveloped them. The streets were alive with a dazzling array of holiday lights, casting a soft ethereal
glow on the bustling sidewalks. Strings of delicate twinkling bulbs hung above them, weaving a tapestry of light that danced
across the facades of restaurants and shops. The December air was brisk, but she was warm inside, buoyed by Luciano’s proximity.
“So we know that more than two of us are working for MODA collecting happiness, right?” she said, continuing the conversation
in Italian.
“Sì, have you learned more?”
“What if I told you that there may be more than two hundred Collectors?”
“No!” he exclaimed. “Two hundred? But why?”
“That’s the mystery.” As they continued down High Holborn into Soho, Aida explained what Yumi had discovered.
Luciano guided her around the corner at Soho Street. “You said you had a list of people we can look out for?”
“Yes, stop for a moment, and let me send it to you.” They paused in front of a construction site where a hole in the ground
dominated what once must have been a public square, taking up the center block of the neighborhood.
“Wait,” Luciano said. “This place . . . something doesn’t seem right.”
Aida looked up. She’d been in this part of town several times before when visiting an old college roommate who once lived in the neighborhood, so she tried to get her bearings as Luciano led her around the edge of the construction.
On a corner down the street, one of the oldest buildings had a red banner around two sides with big yellow letters proclaiming House of Charity.
“I know that building,” she said. Her friend had lived just a block past and down the street.
“So do I,” Luciano said. He turned back to the dark hole in front of them. Running his hands through his hair as he stared
into the darkness, he began walking the length of the fence.
Aida followed him as he wandered the perimeter, weaving around pedestrians and dog walkers until they came to a stack of wrought
iron fencing leaning up against the chain-link barrier that surrounded the site. One of the pieces had a dented sign dangling
from a paint-chipped black bar. Luciano stopped in front of it.
“I knew it!” He turned back to her and began digging into his bag, before extracting a Moleskine notebook and flipping through
the pages. Sketch after sketch blurred by until he finally stopped and held the book so Aida could see. “This statue,” he
said, pointing at the sketch, “is of Charles II.” The Baroque-era king wore a long curled wig and sported armor. One arm was
on his hip and the other bent in front of him, empty of the great sword that his hand must have once held. “I drew it the
last time I was here. It was summer, and a concert was playing.” He pointed to a building on the perimeter of the park. “That’s
Paul McCartney’s office over there.”
Aida peered around him to see the words on the sign: Soho Square Gardens. She gasped.
“Wait, there was a brown-and-white gardener’s hut in the center of the park, wasn’t there?” she asked, remembering. “And a
bench that . . .” She paused, unable to grasp the words that seemed to be on the tip of her tongue. “Why am I having so much
trouble remembering?”
Luciano nodded. “It’s not just you. It’s me too. I think you might be right about the bench.” He stared at the park momentarily, then suddenly gave a soft “oh” in exclamation. “Do you think this could be tied to what you were telling me? About places disappearing.”
A throat cleared near them, and they turned to look. A woman stood a few feet away, her hand on the chain-link fence. She
was breathtakingly beautiful, seemingly ageless and round of face, with ruby lips and coffee-brown hair coiled tightly in
several elaborate braids against her head. Her clothes were elegant, with black riding boots over her jeans, a suede coat,
black earmuffs, and a scarf resembling cashmere. She peered into the blackness of the construction site. “You’re both right.
There was a bench in that park. A memorial to Kirsty MacColl. Now it’s gone. A tragedy, don’t you think?” Her voice was measured
and clear.
Aida wasn’t sure if she meant the missing park or the singer’s death in a motorboat accident in Cozumel. In high school, Aida
had gone through a phase of loving The Pogues, and “Fairytale of New York” quickly became her favorite Christmas song. MacColl’s
death had left her feeling a deep sadness. “Yes, a tragedy,” she agreed.
“Interesting. You seem to know about the disappearances,” the woman said, turning to them. It wasn’t a question.
For a moment, Aida couldn’t breathe. Was this woman from MODA? Luciano must have come to the same conclusion because he tensed
next to her before hastily closing his sketchbook and returning it to his bag.
“What do you mean?” he asked, his tone brusque.
The woman exhaled, glancing around the square as if confirming something. “I’ve been following disturbances like this all
over the city. I was drawn here because something about this place felt . . . off. Hollow.” She looked back at them, her gaze
sharp. “And then I saw you two. That made it even more interesting.”
Aida exchanged a glance with Luciano. “Why?”
“This park is gone, much like so many other London attractions. The Twinings tea shop burned down a few months ago. Madame Tussauds is long shuttered. Gunnersbury Park is being turned into a cemetery. No one is skating at Somerset House this Christmas.” She shook her head.
“Too much is wrong. The balance is tipping.”
A light switch flipped on inside her with the mention of Madame Tussauds. “Dear god, the old folk’s home . . . and that juvenile
hall. That was where the wax museum was!” Of course. She’d gone there once with her parents when she was ten, and seeing the
figures of Henry VIII, Queen Elizabeth I, and Marie Antoinette had fueled her interest in history. How could she have forgotten
it? But even as she thought about the museum, the sudden bright memory the woman had given her became hazy.
The woman peered at her. “You’re already starting to forget, aren’t you?”
“I don’t want to forget it . . .” Aida put her hand to her head. “What’s happening to me?”
Luciano touched her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
Aida drew herself up, the memory sliding away. “I think so. What were we talking about?”
“Places disappearing,” Luciano said. He pointed to the Soho Square sign.
“You only remember that because there’s a reminder in front of you,” the woman noted, looking at the dangling sign. “But something’s
ripping these memories from your minds. None of this is right.” She put her hands on her hips and sized them up. “Yes. It
seems it’s a good thing I ran into the two of you today. You clearly know more than you’re telling me. Come, I want to understand.
My favorite Thai place is nearby, and I would like to hear your story.” She started off down the street.
Aida exchanged a look with Luciano, who gave a slight nod. “It’s probably the same place I was taking you. We might as well
hear her out,” he whispered. “But be careful.” He held out his elbow once again.
She hadn’t needed the warning. And as much as Aida was intrigued by this stranger, she was also disappointed that she wouldn’t be sharing the meal alone with Luciano.
The hostess recognized the woman and immediately led them to a table in the back corner of the bustling restaurant. Once they
were seated, the woman regarded them. “You don’t know each other well, do you?”
Aida’s mouth fell open, and she closed it again.
The woman chuckled. “Ahh, I’m intruding on your evening. You’ll have to forgive me for that.”
“Who are you?” Luciano asked.
“My name is rather challenging to pronounce. You can call me Sophie.”
“Sophie who?” he pressed.
She smiled. “Just Sophie.”
“You’re with MODA, aren’t you?” Aida blurted out.
Sophie’s gaze flicked around the restaurant, her expression unreadable. Then, without a word, she raised her hands, palms
up, and swept them outward in a slow deliberate arc as if shaping something unseen around the table. The air seemed to tighten,
the murmur of nearby conversations dulling to a hush. “That’s better. Your devices will no longer work, and no one nearby
will overhear us now.”