 
METAMORPHOSIS

by

Huda Ab Rahman

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Huda Ab Rahman on Smashwords

Metamorphosis

Copyright © 2009 by Huda Ab Rahman

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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METAMORPHOSIS

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pROLOGUE

Fatima has always known about things that deserved to be known.

She knows that she is special.

She knows that her late husband was special.

Yet she also knows that her children are not...as special.

Special they are, just not up to par, but they are still her lights, in the darkness of life, and if this is her shot in normality, then she shall embrace it during her journey.

Normality conquered the family's life for exactly twenty-one years, until her first daughter betrothed and tied the knot, as well as the rest stepping on the boat.

Again, she has always known that her children-in-law are quite ordinary.

However, her grandchildren are amusingly...on the contrary.

"Well." Najhan grabbed the last biscuit on the plate, his eyes glimmered under the fluorescent lights, "That's..."

He paused, his face void of any expression. Tossing the confection into his mouth, he held a finger to his head, a motion that was terribly foreign to the spectators' eyes, and devastatingly beleaguering—it seemed as if he was purging the answer from the biscuit—and he was about to utter another word when he suddenly froze, stupefied beyond recognition.

Five pairs of eyes smoldered their gazes on him, intensely waiting for his reply.

He let out a silent chuckle, hoping that the sheer gesture would wash away their inquisitiveness, but he knew—and so did the rest of his cousins in the room—that it was thoroughly impossible.

They wanted answers.

He slowly chewed the soft substance, savoring the taste of dried raspberry and white chocolate that lingered teasingly on the top of his tongue, baked to perfection by the chef most probably, or maybe his underlings? It didn't matter, because it was supremely delish, and truthfully, he was distressed at the thought of swallowing, because that was indeed, the last piece, but he swallowed anyway, washing the remains with a mouthful of tea, refilling his cup with a fresh brew from the pot, brushing the rim of his teacup with his fingertips—

"Come on, now."

"Dumb," he spluttered, startled at Zahari's unexpected outburst, "Dumb."

They groaned, they grunted, and one of them scoffed, which irked him even more.

If he wasn't too perturbed, he would have glared at Arina the scoffer.

But she made him quiver.

"Dumb?"

Arina wasn't one to hide her disgust, or any expression for that matter, and that was apparent when she loudly snorted, "Just so you know, we're not talking about you."

He squirmed at that.

Yet feigning ignorance toward his lovely cousin was perhaps the most appropriate thing to consider while countering her self-esteem, so he swallowed again, nonchalantly expressed, "Well," but perhaps it backfired, because he found his own self-esteem crumbling before his very own eyes, so he swallowed again, even if there was nothing more to swallow, and said, "Well."

He waited for the moment when the spectators would leave the matter at rest and open a new chapter in their discussion. He still held on that hope as he deliberately wasted their time, taking another big gulp of his tea. He didn't want to be the center of attention any longer, nor did he want the sudden affection that was bestowed upon his existence in that particular moment.

To his dismay, the rest of the audience seemed unaffected by his action, thoroughly oblivious by the gesture.

That, or they just enjoyed pestering the little sheep in distress.

Face it; it certainly was the latter.

"Well," he cleared his throat, his hasty attempt of fading into the wind failed miserably, "Well—"

"Such things would happen, obviously," Najwan, the savior he was, quickly came to his twin's rescue. "Freaks who married freaks will produce normal people. Normal people with freaks blood who married normal people with freaks blood will produce freaks." He snapped his fingers, relishing his genius moment. "Easy-peasy."

"Exactly," Najhan nodded eagerly, "So that is why—"

Again, the intense smoldering of curious eyes abruptly muted his voice, disallowing him to express his opinionated mind further. His eyes staggered, struggling to squeeze just another word into the chaotic world, and finally, he succeeded, albeit a little strained, "Dumb."

Unfortunately, the reply was not the one they seek, for the groaning, grunting, and not to mention scoffing, began to rise in the air yet again. He quickly took another gulp from his cup, wishing that his bladder system would betray him, hoping that he would be excused to use the loo...

They can tell in an instant that he didn't need to use the bathroom.

And they knew exactly that Najwan was being nonsensical.

Nadirah gave it much of a thought, and while her understanding toward the cousin in question was ludicrously low, she couldn't help but agree with his theory. The statement was indeed laughable, but it certainly was plausible.

Frankly, such things couldn't possibly happen as often as he thought. She could've gone as far as to say that it might only happen once in a blue moon. But of course, one can't deny the fact that ugly people could produce handsome people, and a beautiful couple's precious child wouldn't always be granted with the promise of an equally dainty face.

A thin nose might look appalling on the mother's face, while a pair of big eyes might look disastrous on the father. Yet when both were combined, their offspring might possess the dream face, the definition of beauty perfection, sought after by all those plastic-surgery addicts across the world.

A pointy chin on the other hand, might look mesmerizing on the mother, and a wide forehead might give an air of elegance to the father's entire presence, but when the two properties were coupled, it probably wouldn't match the standard perspective of current beauty.

What was the standard perspective of current beauty? Frankly, Nadirah didn't know for sure, and it was a tad exaggerating to generalize the entire world—perhaps part of the world would suffice— especially the part that had been tainted with her breath and presence. The part of the world that blatantly admitted how a precious lady should possess a pair of big eyes; milky white porcelain face, preferably smaller than a disc; sharp, thin nose that curved upwards; small, plump and moistened lips with curvy cupid bow; naturally rosy cheeks—

"What?"

The voice took her by alarm, causing her to unconsciously strew the papers in her hands across the room.

She can feel her heartbeat quickened by Najhan's sharp, monotonous tone, but he didn't seem to notice as he further demanded, "Why are you staring at me like that?"

Never in her right mind would she do such a thing, not even to detect the slight differences between Najhan and Najwan.

The differences were uncanny. Only the dumbest of the dumb would have difficulty in differentiating them.

Her reply didn't coincide with her thoughts though; she really didn't want to irk him further by rehashing the word _dumb_.

"I do not."

_I do not_ didn't equal to _I wouldn't dream of it_ , did it?

"You do."

That hearty, injustice accusation made her whole composure burned with rage.

Oh, how she loved to counter back with a brilliantly cunning reply that would crumble his self-esteem, bearing the fate just like those scattered biscuits' crumbs—

She must not.

After all, his self-esteem had long crumbled, hadn't it?

"Fine," she ground out, busily rearranging the papers back into her hands. Her heart was loudly protesting over her early withdrawal from a potentially hefty argument, but she shoved the thoughts away, letting her rage died down naturally.

Indeed, she didn't want to succumb to the evil side of her personality and made another human suffer just for her own pleasure. His unjust insinuation did make her heart suffer inside however, because truly, she didn't look at him in the first place—at least, not consciously.

She paused.

Now that she gave it much of a thought, her eyes might have absentmindedly fixated on his face during the flyaway of her mind.

But she couldn't be blamed, could she? Where else should her eyes rest during her brain's crucial assessments of Najwan's grand theory?

Oh, the teacup might've been a fine substitute.

"Fine?"

Zahari's response made her startled yet again.

This meeting was not good for her heart.

She glanced up, fully intended to stare Zahari directly in the eyes, taunting him to further read her mind, or perhaps, shut him off completely from uttering another word, anything to overpower his arrogant existence, but suddenly, an overwhelming sensation of attention mercilessly blinded her eyes.

The cousins had found their latest victim, or so it seemed.

They waited for her elaboration like they always did, waiting for miracles to blurt out of her mouth, and even if the said miracle was sometimes nothing but mere blabbers with close to zero significant, they never relented.

It was troublesome, it was definitely that, but her cousins had always loathed incomplete sentences, especially those that were out of their comprehendible mind. She truly had no choice but to bow down to their command.

She might as well do that, just for the heck of it.

Grinning, she stretched her lips in what she hoped was plain mockery, and said, "Dumb?"

The room erupted with frustrated anguish once more, and judging by their reactions, they were definitely on the verge of insanity.

And she enjoyed every second of it.

Still, she wasn't the cruelest person on earth.

Probably.

She sighed, and after regaining her composure, she bluffed her way out. "Dumb?" she deliberately creased her brows. "I don't understand."

At once, those fearsome eyes shifted their penetrating gazes back at Najhan.

She tried not to smile.

Najhan swallowed convulsively, his throat probably dehydrated from the excessive swallowing, or perhaps startled that out of all these people, she'd be the one who had the nerve of asking him about the significance of that particular word.

But he knew fairly well on how Nadirah equally hated the attention, so he held his chin high, mustering his confidence and repeated, "Dumb..."

Those eyes were still fixated on him.

He blinked, swallowing yet again, "Well, dumb—"

"Please," Widad sighed in a dramatic flair, but no one was oblivious to the pronounced irritation under her painted face, "The thought of sitting here all day long, hearing nothing but mere words with countless of pauses couldn't possibly be good for my brain."

Najhan nearly slurred the words as he hurriedly countered, "Dumb seems to fit the occasion—"

"Dumb seems to fit _your_ occasion, you mean," she sneered. "I wouldn't disagree with that."

The comment, insensitive as it sounded, did nothing to torment his soul. He was used to such insults from his own sister, but once in a while, it was nice to exchange the same irritation and let her taste the bold sensation of humiliation.

Unfortunately, his grand effort had failed yet again.

"That is not nice, dumb," he licked his lips nervously, his mind running in frenzies of brilliant ideas, but none were able to escape from his mouth, "I..." he blinked, swallowed loudly. "I..." he blinked again, but then he momentarily sighed. "I need a new word."

_Perhaps I really need to teach him another word_ , Nadirah thought, because the word _dumb_ had indeed, been quite old already.

It was high time he began muttering another word aside from that.

"Admit it," Najwan's voice gained Nadirah's full attention again, largely because it was dangerously smooth, challenging even as he locked his eyes with his cruel sister, "Dumb is the perfect word to describe the situation. I mean," he clasped his hands together, his tone was altogether pensive, "It's dumb for Grandmother to be amazed at such situations since clearly us, the grandchildren," he nodded at everyone in the room, his palm raising to his chest in profound gratefulness of his heritage, "Are bound to be awesome."

Zahari quirked an inquisitive brow.

"Before you ask any further," Najwan expertly cut him off, "I have every reason in the world to believe that what I've just proclaimed is true."

And now, both of Zahari's brows were up.

"Because..." he paused solely for the effect of suspense, "Because..." he grinned mischievously, "Because..."

When no one said anything, or did anything for that matter, he repeated again, "Beca—"

"Say it already!"He was taken aback by the unison outburst, but his expression never faltered from that arrogant grin of his. He crossed his arms, his eyes twinkled under the lights. "Do you seriously want to know?"

"No, I don't," said Arina flatly.

Najwan narrowed his eyes. "Then shut your filthy ears."

She scowled. "You're getting on my last nerve."

"You're always on your last nerve." He said that almost too casually, as if that was the most natural thing to say, "Shut up and don't listen."

Arina was about to open her mouth, probably to retort back with her usual scathing remark, but he quickly cut her off and proudly announced, "Because we are the phenomenal grandchildren!"

A unison sigh escaped from their mouths.

Najwan waited for the words to sink in their brain, for them to acknowledge his sudden genius streak, for them to gasp in admiration at his logical thinking, but after a few second, he got nothing of that sort, which prompted him to concentrate his attention fully on the decoration of the china teapot.

If anyone thought that Najwan could at least provide a solid basis to his blunt reasoning, then they were dead wrong.

After all, the phenomenal grandchildren were all likely candidates for the mental hospital.

Yes, each of them.

"Exactly," Najhan nodded in agreement.

To which he was agreeing on, Nadirah wouldn't know. Her cousins always had a knack of reading her mind, or so she thought.

Najhan averted his attention to Arina, shoving the empty plate under her nose. "Call your butler. More biscuits. Now. Same one. Tea is cold. Replace. I want coffee. And juice. With ice. Now."

"And fruits!" said Najwan.

"And fruits," he nodded, and added some more, "With ice cream."

Arina gaped at them in disbelief, nearly snarling, "No. My fridge is not yours."

Najwan looked at her innocently. "We didn't ask for your chocolates."

She huffed. "Biscuits only."

The twins sighed in a much identical and extremely exaggerated manner, obviously disappointed at the lack of agreement. But then Najhan murmured quietly to Najwan, "Later?"

He crooked a smile. "Tonight."

They grinned mischievously, which infuriated Arina even more as she further screamed on the top of her lungs, "Butler!"

"He has a name, didn't he?" Najwan inquired thoughtfully to Zahari.

Zahari didn't feel comply to even nod.

Moments later, the door creaked open.

"Yes, miss?" the butler stood rigidly against the door, his posture stoic, oblivious to any emotion thrown at his way.

Arina handed him the empty plate without much of a thought. "More biscuits."

He took the plate and after a swift nod, he murmured, "Yes, miss," before quietly shutting the door.

Sighing, Widad drained her tea with her extremely flawless etiquette. Or so she thought.

"Kids these days," her eyelashes fluttered toward Arina's direction, "Know no manners."

Arina ruminated on her earlier behavior, and shrugging, she faced the door, slowly enunciating the word, "Please," with the gentlest voice she could muster. She couldn't be bothered, and it was too late for her to scare the butler with her rare kindness anyways, but nitpicking was a tradition in their relationship, so upon hearing that, Widad heavily rolled her eyes, which caused Zahari to blink in amusement.

"Slow down, lady. Someone is maturing a bit too fast."

"Of course," Widad smiled sweetly, "Girls are not as callous as boys."

"Of course," he grinned gleefully, "Impossible it is for a boy to become a grandfather overnight."

The twins broke into a huge laughter, and as much as Nadirah was eagerly attempting of keeping her mirth to herself, she couldn't help but let out a little snort. She too adored the rare moments of Queen Widad's dethroning.

Yet the sensation was too short to relish.

For a moment, the binding power of Widad's lethal stare caught their breaths, suffocating their throats, blurring their visions with its magically nauseating sensation, waiting for them to bow down to the Queen.

Fortunately, the loud knocking from the door cracked the spell and interrupted the connection, sending relief down everyone's spine.

"Come in."

The butler suavely entered the room upon Arina's command, carefully placing a plate of biscuits on the table. "Anything else, miss—"

"No."

He bowed, readying to exit the room.

"Thank you," said Zahari, perhaps a bit too loud.

"Right," she muttered, understanding the gesture. "Thank you."

The butler politely excused himself, indifferent to the sudden politeness of his employer's daughter, or the sharp answer to his dutiful inquiry.

Once he was out of the door, Najhan, in his extremely uncouth behavior, popped another piece of biscuit into his mouth, munching with supreme vigor as if he hadn't eaten for days. Imitating his twin, Najwan popped another biscuit into his mouth as well, joking around until the whole room was booming with laughter.

Yes, her cousins were easily distracted.

For a while, Nadirah wondered if their whole enthusiasm in this whole investigation was just a scam, but then, they were indeed the one who specifically requested for her help, practically begged for her cooperation. It seemed lately that everyone was aware of the oddities in their lives, eager to unravel more of their own mysteries, to discover more of their true potential.

Naturally, she gladly offered her information. They did sincerely look concerned and thoroughly desperate.

But now, she wasn't so sure anymore.

Glancing warily at each of their faces, she asked, "Should I continue?"

"Ah," Widad—as if just remembering the reason for the gathering—nodded, and remarked, "Of course. We should carry on, honestly," which earned a whole lot of head nodding from the rest of the cousins.

Perhaps distraction overwhelmed the enthusiasm. It was a typical thing to happen in their odd household. They might've inherited the trait from their ancestors for all they know. She ought to understand that by now.

But she digressed.

Shrugging, Nadirah cleared her throat and resumed her reading.

If there is one thing that Grandmother Fatima has always known, it's the fact that her wishes, most of the time, if not all, have come true.

She wished that she will marry her husband, and she did.

She wished that her son will not marry his phony college sweetheart, and he didn't.

She wished that her children will become successful in their lives, and they did.

Grandmother Fatima knows that her specialty is amusing, yet she didn't feel compel to share the amusement with just anyone.

Perhaps, her spouse is excluded.

"So, it's not yet certain whether the late grandfather knew about this stuff or not," slurred Najwan, most probably due to the overload biscuits in his mouth, "I think yes. No secrets—no, scratch that, _nothing_ could escape the matrimony bonding." He shuddered. "Don't you agree?"

Nadirah shrugged.

"Which son was that?" Zahari was genuinely intrigued, his eyes sparkling in interest. "Was it my dad, or was it your dad? Oh," he grinned, unable to contain his excitement, "I bet it's mine."

Again, Nadirah opted to shrug.

"It doesn't matter," Widad brushed him off impatiently, "Hurry up to the good stuff."

Nadirah decided to ignore any further intrusion, averting her eyes back toward the paper.

Grandmother Fatima must have thought that she knows everything. However, she didn't know that her words are highly contagious and infectious. Nevertheless, when such words were coupled with the worse of the worse, surely, the good would appear, or at least, in the most twisted way.

When her sole daughter birthed a daughter, Grandmother Fatima looked at the eldest granddaughter and said, "Oh, this one will charm the world."

She tried to name her Widad, but her daughter persisted to call her Azwa.

In the end, they decided to let the baby choose, so they reached for her and cooed her name, hoping that the baby would side with them...

Of course, the baby responded to Widad.

"Of course," Widad beamed. "I'm a genius, right from birth."

The twins gagged, Arina clamped her mouth shut, Nadirah buried her nose into the papers, but Zahari decided to clap his hands and said, "Right you are."

They gasped.

"Shut up," snapped Widad, knowing from an instant that those three words were not exactly a compliment in any way. However, instead of tormenting Zahari further with her silent weapon, she proceeded to flash her icy, yet hypnotizing gaze at Nadirah, beckoning her to carry on.

Nadirah sighed.

Widad had always been an accomplished hypnotizer, or in this case, charmer, and it had always driven them up the wall.

Troublesome for others, but of course, convenient for her.

When her first son sired a son, she looked at the eldest grandson and said, "Oh, this one will see everything in this world."

She tried to name her Zahari, and it had been proven easy, since the parents of the baby liked her bossy.

Of course, the baby didn't mind the name, really.

"It's not as if I have a choice," muttered Zahari.

"Which wonders me," Najwan stared at him curiously, peeking under his face for a clearer view, "How do you manage to keep your fringe so long? I haven't seen your forehead in ages. I bet it has changed colors already."

Zahari looked at him in amusement, desperately controlling his laughter.

"Your teacher..." Najhan trailed off, clueless for a couple of seconds before finally finishing his sentence, "Must be angry."

He grinned, unsure whether he was being ironic or the opposite, but he answered just the same, "I styled it, of course. It's not as apparent when I keep it flat and hard. I can't bear to lose my fringe," he shivered. "Not if you have eyes like me."

"At least you know that you'll never have cooties," Arina snorted.

Not just cooties, he could even detect the miniscule imperfection of his artfully gelled hair, which made his statement of deceiving the teachers foolproof. Overly sensitive eyes, it was not a wonder that he was germaphobic, especially when he could see every single germs in the world. Spooky to their ears, but of course, much spookier to his eyes.

When her third son sired a daughter, she looked at the granddaughter and said, "Oh, this one will know every single word uttered in this world."

She tried to name her Nadirah, and her third son accepted without a question, for he knew very well on the hardness of changing her mind.

Of course, the baby just blinked silently and learned her first word.

Arina pinched her lips thoughtfully. "I thought the first word is the Adzan—"

"Well, you don't..." Najhan clamped his teeth, "You can't remember that anyway."

"Yeah," Najwan acceded, "It says, you _learned_ , not, you _heard_ , dimwit."

Nadirah was certain that she heard a tiger growling somewhere in this room.

Or perhaps it was their stomachs.

"I wonder if Grandmother has called you that before you were born," Widad looked at her, amused, and then began to say animatedly, "Like, oh Nadirah, how are you doing Nadirah, how do you like your psychic power Nadirah..."

Nadirah loved to retort with how her ears were probably fully covered with whatever there was in a mother's belly, which made it impossible for her to hear anything, but she just shrugged.

"Wow, I bet they didn't do that to me when I was still a mere fetus."

It was hard to detect the underlying motive behind Widad's sneering tone, and the bad thing was—Nadirah didn't know for sure if Widad was plainly fascinated, or viciously jealous.

It didn't help either when Zahari suddenly cringed, his words smoldered with loathing as he said, "Don't let me visualize any of those fetuses, especially yours."

She could predict on what would happen to Zahari next; the Queen's rancorous behavior was gruesome, humbly said, so Nadirah quickly averted her eyes toward the remaining cousins, who seemed to whine for her attention.

"And where is mine?" Arina munched her biscuit much in the same manner as the twins, but her eyes were forceful and deliberately large. "Don't tell me you've forgotten about me."

"Yours would be last, stupid," Najwan said matter-of-factly. "It's our turn next."

That was true; it was the twins' turn next. But she didn't feel compel to utter it aloud, not when Arina's cheeks were considerably red, and possibly hot.

"I'm just asking," she returned irritably, "Thanks for the extra courtesy, dumbo."

Yet another fancy fight to be forever engraved in Nadirah's brain.

The funny thing was, even if a million years had passed and she was miraculously still alive in this world, she would still remember the insults thrown about between her lovely cousins at this very room, perhaps even recite it flawlessly in front of them without breaking a sweat. Useless thing to remember, but nothing she can do about it.

Simple, she remembered all the words uttered in this world within the radius of her ears, and she had the pleasure of rewinding all those conversations to her heart content.

No one could lie to her face—that was simply impossible.

When her sole daughter birthed a pair of identical male twins, she looked at one of them and said, "Oh, this one will be the world's book of knowledge," and then, she looked at another and said, "Oh, this one will be the world's book of wisdom."

She tried to name them, but failed miserably.

Therefore, she let her daughter do the pleasure, and after a brief study in the list of Muslims name, they have decided to name the twins in nearly identical names, Najwan and Najhan.

Of course, the twins were oblivious by the absurdly identical names.

"So, which is which?"

Najhan looked at Arina suspiciously, unconsciously enunciating every syllable in his sentence. "Which is what?"

"The book of knowledge," she rolled her eyes. "And the book of wisdom."

"Ah," Najwan chuckled, "That." He smiled, motioning her to lean in. She contemplated for a while; unsure of his exact intention, but then decided to take the risk and lunge forward, conveniently placing her ear near to his head.

"That..." Najwan whispered, pausing for effect before finally continuing, "...is not for you to know."

Arina sat back on her seat, grunting in disgust. She shifted her attention to Widad, but before she could speak, Widad just waved her hand dismissively. "Don't ask me, I wouldn't know."

Najhan lowered his eyes. "You never asked."

"As if you could answer."

"I could," his hard voice took Nadirah by surprise, "If you could just..." he paused, or perhaps he bit his tongue, "If you could..." he blinked, and swallowed. "If you..."

"If you could just stop using your little charm and treat us as if we're your little minions then perhaps we can have an agreement." Najwan finished the sentence gravely, eyeing her with deep remorse.

"My charm," her voice was bursting with proud, "Is my specialty."

"Our secret," Najwan pressed, "Is plainly that. Our secret."

"Or maybe you don't have a clue."

Nadirah blinked, realizing that she had uttered her inner thoughts aloud. She raised her head, only to be startled yet again, but this time, she was feasted with a venomous glare from the other twin, Najwan, and not from Najhan, or their sister, or the other two, or anyone else for that matter.

Not that there were anyone else in this room.

"Just carry on," he spat impatiently.

It was rare of him to succumb to the evil emotion of rage, and for him to suddenly attack in such a ferocious manner made the situation terribly amusing that she couldn't help but smile.

"And stop smiling."

She couldn't resist the urge to snort either.

"And snorting."

She clasped her mouth with her hand, finding the situation far—actually beyond—amusing.

"And that too—"

"Shut up."

At once, no sound emitted from the room, all obeying the low, yet alarming command from the irritated Zahari.

Irritated Zahari was definitely terrifying.

Nadirah tried to regain her composure, burying her nose back into the papers. Still, she wondered if Najwan was truly clueless about his ability.

If there was something that remained a mystery in Nadirah's life, it was the fact that she had yet to crack the uniqueness of the twins.

Perhaps the only people who knew about their specialty were they, but it was not as if they were distant or aloof in any way either. Everyone seemed to be the twins' acquaintance, and everyone seemed to know them well. Yet their level of secrecy outmatched every single person in this room, who more or less, definitely were brimming with endless secrets themselves.

Nevertheless, Nadirah decided that it was time to read the last paragraph of her investigation, since a fidgeting and impatient Arina was never a good sight to behold.

Like brother, like sister.

They wouldn't like that.

When her first son sired a daughter, she looked at the youngest granddaughter and said, "Oh, this one will somehow...be like me."

Arina spluttered her tea. "What?"

"Shh," Zahari placed his finger on his lips, "Shut up and listen."

She tried to name her with a name that matched her own, but after continuously racking her brain for the most suitable name, she failed yet again, most probably due to her delighted mind. Therefore, her daughter-in-law took the responsibility, and named the baby, Arina.

Of course, the baby didn't mind that her name didn't resemble her grandmother's name.

"Thankfully not."

Zahari patted Arina's back. "Or else, your name might be Fatiha."

"That name is splendid and all," she retorted, not oblivious to Zahari's scheme of aggravation, "But my name suits me better."

He pondered over the possibility, and shamelessly asked, "And why would Arina become like Grandmother?"

"Because she's old?"

A loud spanking noise escaped from Najwan's back, but Nadirah tried to ignore that.

"Obviously..." Najhan blinked.

And there was a short silence.

As always.

"Obviously," Nadirah tried to finish the sentence, suddenly eager to get this done with, "Arina's words are as meaningful as Grandmother's—"

"Hey," the caustic voice caught her full attention, and as she stared at the bearer of the voice, she realized that Najwan was still narrowing his eyes at her. "That's supposed to be my job."

"It's not," Najhan replied nonchalantly, draining his cup of tea.

"It's not," Nadirah echoed playfully, reaching for a piece of biscuit.

"It's not," Arina joined the banter, spanking Najwan in the head again.

It should be noted that if Arina agreed on anything at all, that particular anything would usually mean the truth. Much resembled the unique quality of their grandmother; it was a no-brainer that her words were just as powerful as Grandmother Fatima.

Nevertheless, it was known that all of Arina's wishes were done in an unconscious mind.

Or was it?

Nadirah didn't care, for what mattered now was her job had finally done.

"So," she grinned, waiting for their outburst, "I am finished."

They blinked, and as if their head were suddenly knocked by an invisible force, they began to reach for her papers, skimming it directly and thinking loudly.

Najwan glanced at her papers, messily scattered from one hand to another, and decided to inquire suspiciously. "How could you find all these information anyways? I thought you can only rewind conversations. Is this even legit?" He sniffed the paper. "Smells fishy."

Her grin became broader, trying to ignore the last sentence. "I've undergone my own metamorphosis," she said triumphantly, "I've become a full-fledged freak."

"Oh," Zahari mouthed, and averted his gaze toward Widad at once. "Please don't embrace your ability any further than necessary."

She scoffed. "Are you talking to me or yourself?"

He raised his brows. "You are freakishly impossible."

"Haven't you heard?" she rolled her eyes. "Welcome to the world of freaks."

"Yeah," Najhan grinned. "Welcome to the world of freaks."

chapter 1

Five months earlier

"Your hair is hideous. It's the ugliest thing I've ever seen."

How hard was it to keep your most ominous thoughts—yet honest nonetheless—to yourself, and only to yourself, instead of announcing shamelessly to the world?

It couldn't be too hard, but when you had such a lecherous mouth as Nadirah, you knew that a painstakingly fierce practice and determination were necessary in order to diminish the natural habit.

She'd learned that it was wise to follow up a harsh critic with an equally helpful advice, which she always did by quickly amending her negativity with a consolation such as, "At least your toes are nice," but who cares about toes, really?

She'd also learned that it was wise to give an insightful advice, and she did try that in multiple occasions. In this case, she would say, "Maybe you should try some hair styling product," but no one cares. They had long since gone with tears in their eyes and rage on their faces.

Since then, she had given up trying to be the rude yet nice person, and opted to be the mute yet nice person.

At least, she had gotten rid of the rude trait, which didn't sound too bad.

But it seemed that instead of reaching toward the nice factor, her reputation began to slide into the snobbish and arrogant character.

Well, at least she wasn't openly creating havoc with her sharp tongue.

How dreadful.

More than that, she was ashamed to herself for not following the advice of an elderly person that she met at her grandmother's soiree. He was nice enough to bear with her antics, and even if she was being exceptionally rude with a person that was significantly older than her parents were, he didn't mind at all. On the contrary, he gave her some very insightful comments.

He knew about her ability of rewinding conversations. He knew about her uncontrollable urge of criticizing a human being. He even knew that she wasn't content with her life. She had no friends, at least, none that didn't share the same blood as her.

She knew how unwise of her to unlock her vault of secrets thoroughly to a stranger, much less the mother of all secrets— her unique ability— to anyone but her relatives, yet the grandfather, who never told her his name, proved to be such a gentle person to lean on, which she often yearned from her late grandfather.

"Rather than blatantly criticizing a person," he used to say, "You should take a moment to rethink about your words, and try to counter it with an equally helpful advice. None likes to be compared to a jackfruit's rag, but they always love to find a substitute to cover their bloat, even if they insisted that there are no such things."

Nadirah spluttered into a huge laughter at the soothing consolation, and even more when he said, "One day, you'll find a friend that wouldn't care for your imperfection, wouldn't care for your blatant remarks, and of course, most importantly, wouldn't care about your so-called freakish ability," he smiled. "It's just a matter of time, but when it comes, it is vital for you to recognize it at once, for such an opportunity often appeared once in a blue moon, and if you missed it," he sighed, "Then you might as well miss it." But then he smiled encouragingly. "I expect you won't."

"You don't know for sure," she retorted back, "I am conceited.""Glad for you to recognize your imperfections," he laughed, "Isn't that enough to prove your brightness?"

What should one say, when one was complimented in such a twisted way?

"Nevertheless," he continued, "I adore you, so I might give you a clue."

She held her tongue, rigidly waiting for the clue.

Yet the answer was both odd and foreign to her ears, because the only thing he said was, "Follow the butterfly," and how on earth would a butterfly lead her to the perfect friend of her life?

"Not only would you find a friend," he added, "You would find a journey that you would cherish, and you might even experience your own metamorphosis."

That did it.

Ever since that day, she had clamped her mouth shut from unnecessary criticizing, and concentrated on searching for the butterfly, whatever that meant.

Unfortunately, she had been clamping her mouth for as long as she remembered, to the point that her freedom of speech that once had been dangerously buttery smooth, had went on a rocky road and transformed itself into chunky peanut butter.

Not that she cared—her incompetence in the mechanism of speech had proven useful in more than several occasions, too useful that time seemed to stretch farther than necessary, because of her lack of social life.

What should one do, when one had too many times in her hands?

She admitted that she liked to read. She liked to learn new words. She liked to study the plot. However, if there was anything that none knew and only she—and possibly her cousins—was that she could recite an entire book flawlessly with her eyes closed. The words seemed to engrave forever in her heart rather than floating about in her brain.

It was truly an advantage in her part—she could rewind any conversations she heard within the radius of her own ears to her heart content, and even memorized every word that she saw without breaking a sweat.

Call it skill, call it talent, but Nadirah had a hunch that it was more than that.

What could it be? She concluded by recognizing herself as a freak.

After all, her grandmother often greeted her guests with the phrase, 'Welcome to the House of Freaks!' incredulously so, and her cousins had adopted the name and greeted the bewildered guests with an equally wacky phrase, "Welcome to the World of Freaks!'

None of the guests really knew what lied beneath the phrase—they never really displayed their level of freakiness to any of them, saved for those occasional outbursts or two. She liked to think that perhaps, in their minds, the freakiness really referred to their freakishly tight relationship, rather than the actual freakiness of their abnormal life.

Admittedly, their bond was great, but she couldn't be exempted from being envious.

Her other cousins shared the same abnormal life with their siblings, but her, being the sole child in the household, were left alone in the cold night in a house that consisted of only her and her normal parents.

At least her cousins treated her like their own sister, thus she didn't have much to complain. That was why visiting her grandmother's house was always blithely blissful.

That, and the fact that her grandmother's library was phenomenally humongous and amazingly stocked with countless of leather-bound books.

From the tales of Napoleon to the tales of the Islamic Prophets, she had it memorized by heart. The life in the ancient age had always enthralled her, mesmerized her with the delicate language and fashions, so much that she intercepted those qualities right into her real life. She loved to prance around the house with her petticoat, but of course, never to the eyes of the strangers. She loved to gaze at the articulate historical remnants, but of course, never to abduct them and lock them in her room. She loved to speak with such impeccable manners and bombastic words, but of course, only to...only sometimes, if she could speak at all, of course. Which she couldn't. Not without pausing for several minutes in order to concoct the sentence in her brain and out from her mouth.

Basically, she loved everything from the 19th Century, and it drove her mother crazy.

Yet, why was it that the one who met the psychiatrist was she?

Oh yes, her lack of enthusiasm concerned her parents, and so she was sent to the hole of the shrink.

Acknowledging about her state of mind was not such a devastating action, for feeble as she was, she was intrigued by the idea that she might suffer from a mental disorder, resulted by her own negativity and unsocial life.

However, she knew that admitting it aloud would probably shorten the lifespan of her parents, so she decided to be a good girl, showing improvement in her chart in order to release her parents from the tension of forking their hard earn cash on the overpriced doctor.

She liked the doctor, but the friendship wasn't cheap.

It was a good thing that the doctor's upcoming house party was free—providing you have an invitation—and Nadirah had decided to attend, forcefully so by her cousin Widad, who wanted to have a piece of the party for herself.

She didn't mind. Arguably, it was nice to have a companion to the party and enjoy the free food, rather than having none and filling the stomach with some typically bland meal from the fast-food restaurant.

"Hey."

Widad abruptly snapped her fingers right in front of Nadirah's face, and while she wasn't supposed to be startled, she startled anyway.

She was about to say, 'I am perfectly aware of my surroundings, thank you,' but the word that flew out of her mouth sounded something like, "What?"

"Yes, I know that I haven't said anything," Widad smugly smiled, "I'm just checking out if you're still in this world with me. I wouldn't want you to miss my spectacular remark."

Nadirah doubted that Widad's spectacular remark would prove satisfactory when she had her as the companion.

"Oh, I know," Widad sighed matter-of-factly, and Nadirah touched her cheek, wondering if her face wasn't as inscrutable, "My creative juice doesn't flow that well when talking to you. But," she hastily skimmed the hanging clothes on the rack—outrageously so if one might add—that for a second, Nadirah shuddered for the fate of the fabric and potentially her own, since it might provoke the lioness side of the boutique's assistant, thus chasing them away from the boutique, or worse, banning them forever from the store, and she really, really wouldn't like that.

Yet that seemed unlikely. Not when you had Widad here to hypnotize the assistants persistently that they were framed for such act, so it was a good decision to scratch the thought from her head because such thing would be impossible to happen if Widad was by her side. Furthermore, Widad was rattling around like a rattle and Nadirah only caught halfway into the speech which sounded like, "—a girl. So tell me," she unlatched a one-piece garment from the rack and laid it on an invisible body, if there was an invisible body, but Nadirah doubted there was any, but anyway, Widad hadn't stopped talking, "Isn't this pretty?"

She stared at the garment, examining the bodice, scrutinizing the decorations, trailing the stitches, gawking at the frocks—

Widad snapped her fingers again, taking Nadirah back into reality before she could lose herself in the world of frills and bows.

"Now tell me about this dress."It should be noted that today was Widad's 3rd Anniversary of flying solo, and in commemoration of such event, it had been their tradition to spend the entire day in a mall that was filled with countless of expensive guilty pleasures. Granted, it had only been three years, but it felt as if the tradition was long established since they were children, or maybe it was, since it had only been formalized three years ago.

Rebellious and hot-blooded, Nadirah wasn't certain about Widad's true intention, except that she was going to prove to their grandmother that she would become a spinster until the end of her life if she were to wait for the prince in shining armor instead of hypnotizing the first person she met with her love charm.

She was surprisingly adamant about the whole turnabout, much more certain than her college graduation.

Truthfully, there was no explanation as to why she needed to act that way, since indeed, she had only reached the mere age of eighteen.

If she were a woman who reached the unpleasant age of twenty-eight without a partner, then Nadirah would have understood.

Human was such a complex creation.

Moreover, if there was anything more that she couldn't understand, it was the fact that Widad had been hinting her interest in a frilly dress.

Nadirah wondered if all those boiling blood had went to Widad's head, and in her attempt of cooling down the blood system, she obeyed the queen and ran her hand over the fabric, vaguely answered, "Silk?"

Apparently, that was not the answer Widad had in mind, because she too was taken aback, and after a short glance with a gentle caress of the fabric, she said impressively, "I suppose it is, different label sure can make you blind—"

"Or cotton—"

"You're not serious, are you?" Widad narrowed her eyes.

Nadirah nonchalantly smiled, expressively insinuated her lack of talent in differentiating types of fabrics.

"Cotton feels coarse." Widad enunciated the words slowly, "Silk feels soft."

Funny, that. Nadirah had always thought that almost all of her clothes consisted of fabrics that felt both coarse and soft at the same time.

What was she wearing all this while?

It was not her concern anyways.

Her impression of the dress was her main concern at the moment apparently, because Widad was getting impatient as she repeated, "Now tell me about this dress!"

Honesty was not Nadirah's strong virtue any longer. "You don't like this," that sounded harsh, "...type of clothes."

"I don't," Widad made no effort to hide her resentment, "But you do."

"I do," Nadirah raised her brows, "So?"

"So," Widad echoed her word, her face glowed underneath the soft fluorescent pink lights, "Wear this to the house party."

Nadirah was tempted to retort with a 'Have you gone insane?' or at least, 'Are you out of your mind?' or 'Are you nuts?' for the sake of it, but decided not to because that was such a mouthful and possibly didn't worth her saliva.

She glanced at the lovely garment, back to Widad's eager face, again at the splendor dress, and finally back to Widad's beleaguered face—most probably sparked by the long seconds she'd wasted for her single reply—before finally answering, "Nah."

Not such an amiable reply, but the word alone conveyed her utmost reluctance in agreeing with her cousin.

"What do you mean by, _nah_?" she mockingly mimicked her tone, yet Nadirah found it to be exceptionally endearing. Nevertheless, if it were anyone else, she had long unleashed her vilest glib tongue to the imbecile prat.

"Clothes," she surveyed the hanging racks, "I have them."

"Of course you do," Widad rolled her eyes.

Nadirah wondered if one day the pair of eyes would roll all the way back to Widad's head, rotting and messing with her brain, and Nadirah further wondered about the corruption of her own brain that permitted such diabolical thinking to trespass her mind.

She blamed it on Zahari.

Zahari's hobby was badmouthing Widad, you see.

"Who doesn't?" continued Widad.

If Nadirah didn't know any better, she would've thought that Widad was blessed with the special talent of reading her mind.

Widad wasn't that blessed, thankfully.

Nadirah stared at Widad intently, watching her as she examined the one-piece thoroughly, checking every single detail—defective merchandise didn't sit too well with Widad, even a stray thread can get on her nerves—while concocting a simple sentence in her mind.

Taking a deep breath, Nadirah spluttered, "Why are you buying me stuff? I'm not the—"

"Yes, it is I who is the rebel," she lazily intervened, waving the garment in front of Nadirah's figure to have a good measure, "But it is you who is going to the house party."

Nadirah wanted to retort with 'So do you,' but her words came off as, "House party..." she turned over as Widad measured the garment on her back, "Is just...a house party."

"House party," Widad replied scathingly, "Is not just a mere house party. Not when I'm attending. Especially with you. We must look equally mesmerizing. Wait," she called a nearby assistant who'd nearly succeeded in escaping the likes of her cousin, but alas, it wasn't possible under the clutches of Widad, "What do you think of this dress on her?"

Upon closer inspection, it should be noted that the assistant wasn't trying to unleash himself from the clutches of Widad, but rather, he was attempting to flee before the entire population of this store could blame him for unconsciously infecting them with his feverish virus. Nadirah wasn't certain if his nose was red underneath the half-mask on his face, but judging by his watery red eyes, it did look dangerously infectious.

"It looks good," he answered, and judging by his coarse voice, Nadirah had no doubt that she might be the next great contender for the flu since she had weak body resistances.

"See?" Widad said triumphantly, oblivious to the danger state of her health.

But one would expect such things from her since she was not Zahari, or at least, possessed the same ability like Zahari. Nevertheless, she did possess a much more lethal weapon than he, and she was using it now when she icily said, "It looks good, and don't," she jabbed her forefinger at Nadirah warningly, "Say that you don't like it, because you obviously do. Now," she tossed the garment literally on Nadirah's head, "Hold this. I need to find some other options."

Nadirah pulled the garment away from her head, half-wishing that she was at least as tall as the mannequin was. That way, she could top her cousin and piled all those revenge on her head, and not only that, she would have the great advantage of buying her clothes straight from the mannequin if the clothes had been sold out. She could demand even, although she wasn't sure how she would fare in the demanding department...

It was not until much later did she realize a pair of eyes gazing intently at her. It might due to the amusing fact that she was pretending to be a dazed mannequin, or her cold manners toward another human in sight; nonetheless, the staring was annoying at its best, so she swiveled her attention to the masked assistant, haughtily said in her customer pride, "We are still browsing." So shoo. "So shoo."

She didn't mean to openly chase him away, treating him like a stubborn feline, and she was halfway trying to amend the sentence with a much more hideous concoction, when the assistant swiftly cut her off with his not quite brittle yet not quite daze voice, "Yes."

Something must have knocked him on the head, because his tone started to change into a much more compromising state, "But I let you know," he pointed at the piece of garment in her hands, "That is our store's exclusive dress. Limited edition, only one in production and the lucky one," his eyes flickered to the garment, "Is in your hand. Better grab it fast."

"Oh," she grinned, "Hot from the oven."

"Technically, yes."

"Oh," she wasn't sure why she was grinning, but it seemed appropriate and highly ironic, and might've been a little dry, although that wasn't her intention, "So I am lucky."

He contemplated on answering, overwhelmed by the dryness most probably, but he replied with a polite, "Yes."

"Well—"

"You like it, don't you? I can see it from your face."

Nadirah touched her cheek again, dreading the fact that she definitely wasn't as inscrutable as she liked. "Maybe I should wear a mask," she answered, much honestly than sarcastically, but she was reminded by her sudden danger in being too honest, so she quickly amended, but unfortunately, it came out as, "Like you," which came out as dry and insensitive anyways.

She never had been good with amending her words.

She should have known that by now and memorized it in her heart to never, ever amend her words.

But she hadn't been amending her words for years, so that was odd. It felt as if something was unlatching in her heart, revealing the contents for the world to see.

Her Pandora box.

She shook her head, and concentrated on the assistant.

Strangely, the assistant wasn't pissed at her insensitivity. She didn't see him tearing up, although that might due to his eyes already watering down by the virus, but those said eyes were crinkling into a smile, smugly said, "I have my reason, as obvious as it is."

"Why don't you take your day off, then?" the words felt like butter, smoothly spreading out from her mouth. "That'll save our lives."

Oh no.

"I have," he answered, "And I was just trying to exit the door when your sister drags me over."

"My cousin," she corrected him. "You should leave. You wouldn't get paid for doing overtime anyway."

That was conspicuously blatant, and again, she wasn't intending on shooing him like a mighty empress.

But she just did.

"You're right," his voice was strangely strangled—with what, Nadirah couldn't tell. Maybe he was affected by her remark? She hoped not. Maybe he can read her mind? Impossible.

Well, nothing was impossible, but she sure hoped that if there was a tiny impossibility left in this world, it would be this.

"But if it helps, I truly think that you'd look spectacular wearing that." He must have smiled under the mask, but it was hard to see, and before long, he had politely excused himself and out of the door, leaving Nadirah quite pink in the cheeks and a sudden lemming toward the little dress.

The assistant certainly was an expert in negotiating, and she wondered if her gullibility was worse than she thought.

She needed to bury that trait down, along with this stupid Pandora box.

"So I think—" Widad stopped sidetrack, craning her neck left and right. "Where's that assistant?"

"Dismissed," Nadirah was still dazed, lovingly staring at the dress.

"Why?"

"Sick." Obviously.

Widad hastily nodded, beginning to pile a truckload of frilly clothes on Nadirah's hands, "So I think—"

"This," Nadirah gestured to the exclusive dress, "Will suffice."

Widad's lips curled into a smile. "I know you like that all along."

She liked that all along, but not enough to buy it.

Now, she wasn't so sure. She might as well love it, but she opted not to reply.

Yet, it would be quite a mood-breaker to not answer, so she tried to steer the conversation to the converser—a great trick she discovered when one was unwilling to discuss about oneself, "You?"

"Me?"

"Yours?"

"Oh," she smiled secretively, "Mine is not here."

Of course, it would be a nightmare if Widad were to show interest in the overly sweet Métamorphose collections. She would be caught dead before wearing any of these frilly dresses.

_"_ _Not your store," Nadirah stifled a chortle, "Of course."_

_Widad laughed tauntingly. "Not mine, but yours." She had always been the woman of elegance and simplicity, and Nadirah knew that the thought of pastel and overwhelming decorations were not Widad's cup of tea. She was about to retort on the blandness of Widad's high taste, when a foreign voice pierced their ears with her gentle, "Excuse me," which ultimately saved Nadirah from further fooling herself with the future useless amending nonsense._

_Not that she needed that. She had always bitten her tongue before uttering the amendment aloud._

_Except that one minor slip with the male assistant, of course. That was a special case._

_They swiveled their head, only to see a smiling assistant handing them a decorated basket._ "Would you like a basket?"

"That's not necessary I'm afraid," Widad took no notice of the assistant's mannerism, and instead, absentmindedly unloading the pile of clothes onto the assistant's hands. "We're ready to pay."

Her eyes widened in surprise, staring down at the garments. "All of these?"

"Of course not," Widad laughed incredulously, her finger pointing at the garment in Nadirah's hands. "This one."

"Oh." The way the assistant pronounced the word was tactfully suspicious that Nadirah felt a cold slosh of anxiety splashing all over her face. It was probably due to her sudden premonition of Widad's future behavior toward the assistant, because her skin was further prickled as the assistant added, "But—"

"I know, I know," Widad deliberately shook her head in such a regrettable manner, "I would have liked to buy all of these," she reluctantly pointed at the mountain of clothes, desperately thinking of a way out, "But my father freezes my account." She was proud of her deceiving lie—Nadirah could tell—and even more so as she sighed dramatically, "What to do."

Again, the assistant squeezed a loud, "Oh," in an unmistakably apprehensive and mundane demeanor, yet she wasn't admitting defeat, as displayed by her repeated, "But—"

"So that is why," Widad grabbed the garment from Nadirah's hands, "I demand a discount."

Nadirah half-expected the assistant to continue with her _oh_ and _but_ exclamations, but she did no such things, except for widening her eyes and nearly spat in such a flabbergasted way. "I beg your pardon?"

"Look," Widad was on the verge of utilizing her advantage, but she wasn't as cruel, but she wasn't as nice either, "I was entitled for a 50% discount if I were to shop here," she said smugly. "Call your boss if you need confirmation."

"Which boss, exactly?" asked the assistant, unconvinced.

The question teleported Widad to the state of disbelief, and as she grunted impatiently, she ground out, "Oh, it doesn't matter. Just call any of the executives in this company and mention my name, remember," she stepped in front of the assistant, attempting to let the assistant swallowed her name, "My name is Widad, and can you please deliver my message, it says, I'm going to claim my discount."

The assistant was thoroughly intimidated by the unexpected blow by Widad. Her hot-blooded rebellious blood was no longer visible, but instead, was replaced with a soul of Widad's underlings, and she did resemble them greatly when she squeaked, "Yes, miss." She tossed the pile of clothes on a nearby assistant, and quickly made her way to her desk without sparing a glance at the perplexed assistant. He might have been new, since he stared at the cousins, discouragingly ground out, "What should I do with these?"

"I don't know, I'm not the worker," answered Widad flatly.

He glimpsed at Nadirah, his face probably matched the blankness of her own, and upon seeing that, every honest thoughts about the inexperience assistant vanished, and she found herself helpfully suggesting, "Put it back."

He considered for a while, and simultaneously shrugged, "Okay."

He left their sights, possibly missing Widad's nearly intelligible mumbling. "Inexperience workers...who are they hiring nowadays?"

Nadirah snorted, disparagingly said, "It feels...as if she was...trying to—"

"Say something? She was trying to distract us, I'm sure," she said loathsomely, proceeded to continue her mumbling. "Sleazy assistants."

Nadirah nodded, contemplating for a while.

Then she decided to ask, albeit a few seconds later, "Do you know the boss?"

Widad smiled coyly, which answered her question more than words combined. "Of course I do," her tone lowered into a whisper, "And of all people, I would think, you," she placed her hand on Nadirah's shoulder, "Would know better."

Nadirah was tempted to stay muted, yet staying muted meant that Widad's point had failed to deliver, so she replied with a mere, "Oh."

Widad opened her mouth yet again to unleash more of her self-appreciation, but abruptly closed as the previous female assistant reluctantly approached them, forcefully stretching her lips into a bearable smile. "Yes, Ms Widad is entitled for a 50% discount in this store," she hesitantly said, "You are our special guest."

"I told you so," Widad sneered, yet it was unclear to whom the sneering was intended to.

"But—"

"What's with the excessive buts?" Widad nearly shrieked, hotly if she may add.

"But this dress," the assistant spluttered, "Is not catalogued yet."

"Then why did you hang it on the rack?"

"I—" the assistant was clearly abashed by her faulty, or maybe it was due to Widad's cold tone, or maybe she was ashamed by her inability of conjuring a snide retort, or maybe it was because of a different reason altogether, since all she answered was, "I don't know how it ends up here." She made a great effort in composing herself, "But it has not—"

By this time, Nadirah had learned that Widad's current hated word was _but_.

It was up to her to save the day from prolonging the unnecessary bickering, but it was easier said than done.

No, for Nadirah, said was no easier than done. She truly didn't know what to say, but she truly sympathized the assistant, despite how hideous her eye makeup was.

She can feel her Pandora box creaking open.

"Can't you do it now?" as in, wipe your eyes from those clumpy spider legs?

They had no idea how hard it was to contain those words from bursting out of her mouth.

The assistant took a long breath, apologetically informed, "It would take some time."

"It doesn't matter," replied Nadirah in one breath, in one go, zooming as a bullet train that it sounded muffled than comprehendible.

Really, it truly mattered for her to see the assistant sporting a more neutral and subtle eye shadows.

"How long will it take?" Widad impatiently tapped her feet, oblivious to Nadirah's diabolical interpretation of the words. It didn't help that Widad decided to shoot daggers at the assistant's poor eyes, which ultimately indicated the similar intention between the two of them, even if it was not.

"At least," the assistant gnawed her lips, dreading the answer, "An hour."

Nadirah decided to distract her attention to the nicer part of the assistant, which lied on her shoes.

Her shoes were lovely.

Yet she couldn't continue to stare at the bottomless pit, could see? So Nadirah raised her head and decided to focus her attention to the entire facial structure of the girl, and saw that the assistant's face was churning uneasily, probably readying herself for the lioness attack.

She was wrong. Widad was a slithering snake, not a feisty mammal.

Widad's voice was low and dangerous as she asked, "Why does it take so long?"

"It's a new piece," the assistant was sweating, and her voice was all over the place, "Just arrived this morning, I need to inspect it further—"

"Miss," Widad's eyes landed on the assistant's nametag, "Lily," she smiled sweetly. "Forget the 50% discount."

"P-pardo—"

"We'll pay full cash."

"But the price has yet to be determined—"

"Double," said Nadirah instinctively. "She'll pay," she pointed at Widad, "Double."

Nadirah grinned at the glare from the Queen of Snakes aka Widad.

Could a snake glare, she wondered? Well, this one could.

"Well yes, I'll pay," Widad nearly choked from uttering the word aloud, "Double." She cleared her throat, "But please," her smile had morphed into the sugary sweet and everything nice with a cherry on top that was exquisitely alluring type, "Just jot down the brief information, then we will pay, and then, you'll do your little..." she smacked her lips distastefully, "Work."

The assistant said nothing, but her head flailed upside down like a robot nodding.

"And if you," Widad lowered her eyes, "Need anything, just call me."

The assistant again, said nothing, but continuously nod.

"We'll take this now, and," Widad wasn't finished, "You will give us the minimal price required."

"Okay," finally, she croaked, her hands reaching out for the garment, and once it was safe in her hands, she quickly ran to the cashier's desk.

"Can't wait?" Nadirah asked teasingly.

"Can't be bothered," she sighed, but looked at her grudgingly. "Can't be left out?"

"Nope," Nadirah grinned, "Too amusing to miss. But," Nadirah knew that it was hazardous to stand on her cousin's evil side, so she made every effort of abashing Widad with sweetened compliments, "You were good. Handy, you were."

"I was, wasn't I?" she giggled, and that concluded on Nadirah's effort of getting on the good side of the bad side.

And the box ceased to rattle.

She supposed she should tightly close the Pandora box now, and burn it to pieces.

It didn't take more than five minutes for the assistant to gather the important details and store it in their file storage, and before Widad could unleash more of her sugary sweet fake nature, she found herself paying the standardize price for a one-piece, happily exiting the store with her cousin, who was also happily carrying the carrier bag.

At least, she thought Nadirah was happy.

Nadirah was happy, she was always happy to have another addition to her _Métamorphose collection. She loved the store, not because of the label, but rather, the store was the only place that reinforced the idea of a 19_ _th_ _Century fashion in their tailored creations. Their clothes were not exactly Gothic, not exactly Lolita, not exactly Elegant Gothic and Lolita or anything in between, but it was simply, 19_ _th_ _Century fusion with the 21_ _st_ _Century, elegant, feminine, frilly, bows, and all of that jazz._

_Okay, it might've been Lolita, but if she didn't feel like a Lolita, then it might as well not be a Lolita, right?_

_Nadirah decided not to think further, for she feared of having the misconception of Lolita in general, and so she decided that she was not a Lolita, because no Lolita would think of herself as a non-Lolita, and even if she was a Lolita, she wasn't technically one. She didn't go to a tea party, although she wondered if one needed to go to a tea party to become a Lolita. Truthfully, she really wanted to experience those tea parties, despite the fact that she knew how she couldn't possibly say anything to the host, much less to her tea companions without strangling herself about their wacky coordination—_

_She decided again that if she thought she wasn't a Lolita then she wasn't a Lolita._

_Furthermore, her obsession wasn't entirely due to the apparent theme of the Victorian Era's fashion; in fact, it was mainly because their stores incorporated the enchanting butterflies as their trademark._

_Follow the butterfly._

_Nadirah was more than willing to follow the advice, especially when it concerned the great store of Métamorphose that was not restricted to Lolita only. Or Gothic. Or anything in between. Or...yes._

_She was affirmed to that idea, and she didn't think about it when Widad made her own grand selection in her favorite couture boutique. But when Nadirah was back in her sheltered home, in her snug room, rearranging her precious clothes in her two-door wood closet, she was quite perplexed about the whole matter._

_She wasn't sure why, but she could sense that something was oddly wrong about her newly acquired dress, especially when compared to her other clothes._

_And everyone knew that her clothes were all the same label._

_Métamorphose, naturally._

_She wondered if her Lolita's sixth sense had awakened and now telling her that the dress was not entirely Lolita._

_How could that happen? How could she let that happen?_

_No, she was not referring to the dress being not entirely Lolita._

_Nor did she refer to the awakening of her Lolita sixth sense._

_Actually, she didn't know what she was referring to—her mind was too fazed to even conjure a coherent thought._

_Therefore, with all respect, she quickly brought her dress and went to see her cousins at the recreation room._

_As per usual for a close-knitted family, the family of Widad was having one of their gathering moments at her parents' house. Arguably, their house was a few hours away from here, but since today was the start of the school holiday, they had decided to stop by before visiting their grandmother's house, giving them a reason for convoying together, which would make the grandmother very happy indeed._

_That was also the reason for Widad's ulterior demand of accompanying her to the house party. She liked to attend various functions and events, so to speak, and unlike Nadirah, she basked in the sparkling attention rather than shying away from the lights. Thus, upon hearing the news of the invitation, Widad couldn't resist but demand to be tagged along._

_Nadirah was always thankful that she had Widad by her side to garner the entire spotlight, leaving her to stand in the dark, because she truly couldn't handle the blinding lights._

_How negative, but she liked the darkness._

_Oh dear, she was leaning toward the instinct of a Gothic now._

_She shoved the thoughts away, her senses perking up for the presence of the twins. Nadirah really didn't want to disturb Widad with this matter, because she knew that in the end, the one who would feel very much disturbed would probably be the assistants at Métamorphose. And she wouldn't like that. At all._

She was relief to find Najhan leisurely lounging on the sofa, his eyes deeply immersed in the television commercial, which meant that he wanted to be disturbed.

His eyes flickered toward Nadirah, blinking rapidly. "Humor me."

"Alone?"

He sighed.

"Where's Najwan?"

He shrugged.

"With Widad?"

He gagged.

Her eyes wandered idly, carefully constructing a sentence. "Care to be disturbed?"

She was fairly proud of herself for the beautiful sentence she'd just concocted.

He grinned. "How can I help you?"

_She smoothed her new dress in front of her cousin, rashly asked the question she had rehearsed, "Does this look like Meta to you?"_

_"_ _Of all the things—" Najhan grunted, but then he paused like he usually do, probably counting the birds in his brain, because his eyes weren't exactly on the dress. However, as if reading her mind, he abruptly glanced at Nadirah, back to the dress, back to her again before finally at the dress, croaking, "I don't know."_

_"_ _Okay," Nadirah was more than used to Najhan's bizarre antics—she too possessed her own wacky moments, so his dopiness wasn't her big concern. She signaled him to wait, and went to grab for her other Meta one-piece in the closet in her room._

_Moments later, she reentered the recreation room, bearing the other one-piece and laid it down on the couch, side by side with her new one-piece._

_"_ _Now?"_

_"_ _Difference?"_

_"_ _Yeah?"_

He arched his brows, silently skimming the fabric. His muttering was nearly intelligible, but Nadirah could decipher it all the same, which sounded like, "I'm not Zahari."

_Nadirah tilted her head thoughtfully, pondering over the option. "He'll notice?"_

_"_ _Don't know."_

_"_ _Maybe?"_

_"_ _Maybe."_

_"_ _You?"_

_"_ _What?"_

Nadirah wasn't certain whether it was due to their strikingly similar weakness in the power of speech, but they understood each other well just by uttering a word and no less. So, it wasn't such a difficult task of communicating with him unlike others in their league. _"See?"_

_"_ _Oh." He cupped his chin with his knuckles, his eyes concentrating on the garment, yet his face was thoroughly ambiguous. "Well," it was hard for him to convey his thoughts, so patience was a definitive necessity during the brainstorming of his part, "Well."_

_"_ _Different," Nadirah interjected, because she knew how people like her needed a handicap at some point in a painful conversation, but she also knew how people like her often resented the insensitive act of cutting through their words, so she added, "Right?"_

He nodded, oblivious to the psychological manipulation.

Yet what she wanted was a valid point, and for the sake of rummaging into his brain, Nadirah deliberately skimmed the garment, distressfully hinted, "I think..."

"Stitches."

She had succeeded.

"Stitches," his face was thoroughly blank, the blankest look to ever grace a human's face. Truthfully, blank was a synonym word to be associated with him, for he was always _blankly happy, blankly confused, blankly exhilarated, and while it was definitely blankly odd, he continued his sentence with an equally blank voice, "Is that the word?"_

Nadirah was tempted to retort with something that concerned the word blank, but she knew that it will forever be her personal joke and none would understand, so she just nodded and echoed, "Stitches."

_"_ _Does Meta's stitches..." Najhan indulged in his favorite blank expression again, which made Nadirah wondered if the mask of blankness was actually his hidden ability rather than a natural habit—perhaps it was supposed to ward others off his life, much like her sister's ability of hypnotizing others under her spell. However, that couldn't be true. It was definitely unintentional of him to display such a rigid exterior, in fact, Nadirah wagered he didn't realize of his static persona, since none could really see the face that one's make during a candid conversation unless we were in a dance studio that were surrounded with mirror walls, but anyway, he continued, "Differs?"_

_She didn't know for sure._

_Admittedly, she didn't have an extraordinary vision like Zahari, nor did she have the ability of recognizing clothes that were made by famous designers like Widad. She just wore the clothes for her own pleasure and nothing more, with the pleasure being the ancient fashion and a truckload of butterflies._

_She signaled him to wait again nonetheless, and reentered seconds' later, holding another dress in her hand._

_Words were not needed when concentration engulfed their presences, and after a thorough examination, they nodded simultaneously, understanding each other's suspicions._

_The connection didn't stay for long, it quickly wavered as they startled by the loud bursting of the door, revealing a duplicate image of Najhan hanging at the doorframe._

_"_ _What are you doing?" Najwan approached the two of them, curiously gazing at their experimental items. "Looks like fun."_

_There was a painful silent._

_Nadirah decided to break the ice. "Uh...we," she gnawed her lips, "Are trying to..." she wandered, her gaze meeting Najwan, "We are trying to spot—"_

_"_ _The differences of the stitches," finished Najhan._

_"_ _Yeah," she grinned, mentally impressed at Najhan. "That."_

_Najwan bended himself slightly to have a closer look, conveniently asked, "Can I see?"_

_Nadirah gave him some space to let him inspect the garments thoroughly with his senses, and as he sat on the floor and briefly examined the three garments, he blatantly asked, "Well, surely this store has more than one tailor?"_

"Yes, but—" again, it was hard for Najhan to part with his beloved blank expression, yet for some reason it wasn't as rigid, which might be contributed by the sturdy presence of his twin, " _Style does not differ."_

Nadirah nodded absentmindedly, waiting for the next outburst, but when it retained its silence atmosphere for a good couple of seconds, she raised her head, only to discover that her comment was the most sought-after by the twins, since she indeed, was the expert for everything concerning _Métamorphose._

_A few more seconds evolved into an exactly full minute._

_"_ _Meta is famous for the style," she finally answered, which was true._

_Najhan nodded and pointed at her new dress. "This," he further repeated the action by pointing at the rest of the clothes, "Doesn't match the others."_

_Najwan considered the answer, and after a few seconds ruminating on the possibilities, he stared at Nadirah, glinting wickedly, "You've been conned then?"_

_She shrugged. "The assistant said..." she tried to remember the exact conversation, subconsciously rewinding the entire words until the right one popped into her head, echoing in her ears._

" _It's a new piece, just arrived this morning, I need to inspect it further—"_

"New piece," she repeated, pointing at her new dress.

_"_ _Might have been mixed up with some other stuff, then," said Najwan._

_"_ _But," she quickly pointed out, "The other one said..." Again, she rewound the conversation, her head ringing with the voice of the stranger._

" _That is our store's exclusive dress. Limited edition, only one in production and the lucky one is in your hand. Better grab it fast."_

"Exclusive, limited, one," she echoed the words in her head, deliberately imitating a dictionary robot.

_"_ _So it is," Najwan scratched his head, confounded by the whole mystery._

_"_ _But he's sick," she pointed out again._

_"_ _Well, he might be in a daze then."_

That was plausible.

_"_ _Or maybe—" Najhan's infamous blank pause appeared yet again, and she wondered if anyone had the nerve to actually mock him for his vulnerability at school or anywhere of that sort, "He's..."_

It might be the never-ending pause, or maybe the pause prompted her to break from her shell, because she found herself dryly muttered, "Dumb?"

The situation called for it, she sincerely couldn't help herself.

The halfway-open Pandora box. That must be it. The looseness of the lid made her mouth had a mind of its own.

She blamed it on the dumb, half-masked male assistant.

Najhan narrowed his eyes, gravely continued, "Maybe..." the blank expression graced his face again, but this time it was adorned with a small sighed and a short sentence, "It doesn't matter."

Nadirah stared at him in disbelief, her head unconsciously drumming with multiple insults, jamming the road to her mouth, waiting to be squeezed out like a jumble of vintage stuff in a garage sale, but thankfully, Najwan saved her from potentially surrendering to the power of her mind as he hurriedly said _, "Maybe this is Meta's new style."_

_"_ _Yeah," Najhan nodded, perfectly accordant to his brother. "Test the..." he wrinkled his nose, searching for the right word. "Water. Is that it? Water?"_

_She smiled at his reply, but abruptly, the corners of her lips stretched down heavily as she stared at her clothes. "New style..."_

_"_ _You don't like it?" asked Najwan._

_"_ _Love it."_

_"_ _Then what's the problem?"_

_"_ _None."_

_"_ _Then wear it," he said matter-of-factly, flummoxed at her lack of enthusiasm. "It's pretty, anyway."_

_"_ _Yeah," Najhan suddenly burst into laughter, "And it's free, anyway."_

_Najwan lowered his voice, menacingly whispering into the stillness of the night, "Widad wouldn't know if she's been conned."_

_"_ _True," Najhan acceded, "But if people ask..." he scowled, glancing sideway at Najwan, cueing him to finish his sentence, which Najwan faithfully obeyed with his remark, "Aside from the label, you couldn't confirm the authenticity in front of those die-hard suspicious Meta fans." He laughed quietly. "Widad will surely act like them if she knows this."_

_"_ _Right," Najhan nodded. "Good thing," he grinned, "You're not Widad."_

_"_ _Or else she'd haul this dress right this second and demand a refund," Najwan snorted, shaking his head like a civilized person that he never really was._

_"_ _Refund," Najhan was boiling in mirth, "Double I expect."_

_Nadirah smiled, thinking that she might as well join in the fun. "Make it triple."_

_The room burst into laughter as they made more fun of each other, breaking the noisy house of cheerfulness with more mirth from the fountains of youth._

_She really needed to glue the lid of that Pandora box._

chapter 2

HYPOCRISY.

By Suri

_Sorry for the out-of-the-norm post today. A recent occurrence prompts me to think about something out of my usual subject, but don't worry, I will resume my beauty posts later on. But for now, I wonder...what do you think of hypocrites? You thought that they are made of sunshine and sugar, but what if they are actually made of rain and salt? Or it claimed to be made of such high quality, but instead, it's just a cheap knock-off?_

I'll be frank and admit that I think I've been conned by one of my favorite stores. It did disappoint me at first, but later on, I don't want to cause such a scene and let it slide. Everyone made a stupid mistake sometimes, but what about hypocrisy? They tend to constantly live in a façade they are not, what are your thoughts on it?

Well, I'll be the first to admit that I've been a hypocrite once in my life, and I hope I'm not alone to say that every human has at least experienced living in a hypocrite's shoes...at least for a second.

There were those moments, those times when lying was crucial. And even if that wasn't our intention, sometimes, it was inevitable.

But what is it that truly confined hypocrites to be amongst the lowest human beings in the planet? Is it due to their pretentious ability of draining the trust and faith that was once built lovingly by the one who cares? Really, to have the truth slapped on your face must have felt as if a stub knife was stabbing you from the back.

Nevertheless, before any of you would lunge forward and attack the poseurs with your very own cunning words of wisdom, let us take a deep breath and think it through before making any hasty action.

Everyone deserves a second chance, and everything has a reason, whether you believe it or not. If you live your life sincerely, then sincere is what you'll get. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps somewhere far in the future, but providing you didn't end your life till then, big chance you will experience it.

For now, I just need to convince myself that it's fine to wear a meta knock-off.

You need not understand that.

Until then, bye bye!

_Nadirah couldn't remember how she had gotten a non-paying job at the internet, much less a site that dealt with the youth of today, but she liked it anyway, because it provoked the creative thinking out from her secluded mind. If she couldn't utter it aloud, she might as well write it down._

_She enjoyed the internet life. At least here, she could become her true self instead of relishing her hypocrite manner. At least here, people were listening to her, and she wouldn't know if they were secretly tearing up or burning with rage. That was a good thing._

_Funny how an internet persona wasn't supposed to reflect the real you, but Nadirah wasn't ashamed to admit that her online identity was more Nadirah than Nadirah in real life._

_Confusing, and she was certain that no one could understand it._

_She wasn't planning to let anyone know about this secret avocation, though._

_It wasn't as if she knew the real identity of the staffs here anyway. Admittedly, she had been employed for over a year, and she truly remembered the condition of the site when she first laid her eyes on it, which was honestly...crappy and cheap. Low hits, crappy designs, free site, and pretty much...dead._

_The columns intrigued her however, and despite the inferior exterior, the dishes were unexpectedly scrumptious. The site covered quite almost everything, ranging from the latest music in Africa to the blockbuster hit from Germany, from the life of a ghost-hunter to the method of tightlining your upper eyelids._

_She had decided that she wanted to be a part of the staff after reading the ingenious entries, and she was supremely blithe when she was hired that she didn't mind how the routine had taken up half of her life._

_It wasn't as if that particular half of life consisted of anything educational anyway._

_She lived her days watching her beloved site grew, from a small free site to a prepaid site, out in the recycle bin were the hideous graphics, and into the codes were the new fashionable ones, replaced skillfully by the talented graphic designers, programmed neatly by the perceptive webmasters. They gained more hits as they advertised their site in various forums, and by discussing about the current matters of the world, they had firmly established their foundation in the hectic virtual world._

_Before she knew it, the site had gone exclusively trendy to the point that the readers were deemed chic and stylish._

_Or maybe it was because the site provided a weekly review for the current trendiest show for teenagers._

_That might be it._

_She didn't care. At least she was part of the trendy staff._

_The staff had always been her second family, and she was proud to have the pleasure of knowing them all, despite the absence of face to match the name._

Well, that wasn't quite true, for there were a couple of names that had helpfully provided a face to match their witty column, yet the ratio of that to the rest of the staff wasn't the least remarkable—

Her eyes went rigid on the computer as she scanned the heading, her lips tempted to stretch and spew the mirth out of her system.

Metamorphosis.

She was definitely taking the advice too far, yet she couldn't help it. It had somehow become a habit of hers to notice anything that concerned a butterfly.

_METAMORPHOSIS, WHAT LIES BEYOND THE SCIENTIFIC NAME?_

_By xyru_

_Metamorphosis is definitely an infamous term, known worldwide as the spectacular transformation of a small creature into a positively enthralling new creation. Magical, enigmatical, yet if we were to live in the 15_ _th_ _Century, the age where knowledge in science were limited and the entire world was engulfed in the practice of mysterious energy, no doubt the process of transformation will be counted as black magic. That wondered me greatly; would we burn all these butterflies? Will they bear the same fate as Joan of Arc? I sure hope we wouldn't be as foolish and cruel._

_Butterflies, history...it couldn't get any better than that._

_Who could have thought that a single, slimy worm could evolve into a much inspiring piece of art in the form of a butterfly, fluttering away in front of our faces with its delicate grace? Whereas its old counterpart was scorned upon, prompted it to humbly escort itself out from the open. The ability of changing has definitely inspired many young teenagers out there, all for the sake of maximizing their life, and I have heard a lot of those stories—from a girl who shrunk herself from XXL to XS, to a guy who fought against his weakness and was suddenly on the top of his game—the list could go on forever. How great it'd be if our transformation is received by all humans alike, and how awesome it'd be if we could undergo our own metamorphosis as well. But I wouldn't dwell much thought into this, since I believe this is the wrong section. (We should leave all these transformation things to Suri. She's the expert.)_

_Nadirah let out an unbelievable snort, secretly flushed at the honorary mention of her name._

_She liked when others acknowledged her virtual presence; it made her all warm and cozy inside. But that statement was definitely misleading, since she was in no way an expert in transforming a slimy worm into a beautiful butterfly._

_Well, maybe she was, exteriorly speaking._

_Regardless of us changing the image drastically like the bug, or subtly underneath the persona, I am led to believe that each of us will experience metamorphosis one time or another. So why don't we take the chance to reconsider and explore to our heart content?_

_Why do we change? What is the core that triggers the other side of us?_

_Have you wondered?_

_If you do, then I'd love to hear all about it, and I'm also here if you need a third-person opinion._

_All emails are disclosed from the public, only revealed to the staff so rest assured, your secret is safe with us. Unless it is your desire to publicize the matter, then we would gladly oblige._

_So take this chance to reevaluate yourself, and do tell me about your surprising findings._

_Honestly, Nadirah didn't think that she had experienced any of those life-changing moments, except maybe for the sudden awakening of her Lolita sixth sense, which she still doubted whether it was truly Lolita or something else entirely. But now that she gave it much of a thought, the amount of big changes in her life conjured up to...none._

_Unless they counted the change of personality that she purposely did in order to satisfy the swinging moods of others, then yes. But it wasn't positive, at least not to her, so that didn't sound plausible. If we were to consider the minimal ones, well, let's just say that as much as Sherlock Holmes loved the trivial details, she wasn't one to snoop over miniscule matters._

_If there were anyone who loved to snoop over trifle things, it would be Ty, who was one of her closest friends in the site, who was coincidentally the administrator of the site, who was also, the hotshot writer on the site._

_She scrolled down the page, clicked his name and read his latest entry._

_Famous celebrity went astray_

_By Ty_

_M nose has been snooping around, and scooped around it has, just in time to hear a certain celebrity went to a dreadful state of MIA! Which could only mean that he's either eloping with a forbidden lover, or discreetly owes a huge amount of money to the government, or, or—_

_Nay, I am messing with you._

_See? I am nicer than the nicest person on this site! At least I told you when I'm messing with you. (xyru is not nice, I am nicer!)_

_..............._ _._

_So._

_Undeniably, some of you must've been widely gaping at the excruciating headline, while the rest of you might display a deadening face in protest over the dull subject, but since you are here, and before you could escape from my clutches, I will spit the rumor to your face and let it manifest your brain! :D_

_Rumor has it that a certain celebrity's mind has been deteriorated, and I'm sure that you too were wondering, what's with his sudden awry?_

_Why yes! Apparently, the celebrity and his fans were conned right in front of their faces by a chronic bone cancer patient, who disguised himself/herself as the celebrity's ultimate fan!_

_Little are known about the fraud fan, except that according to the sources, the fan is actually a male, not a female as he had indicated earlier. Furthermore, he had died from a bone cancer!_

_Well, supposedly._

_Of course, the death of a person is not a light matter, and I believe the fraud fan didn't dishonor it in any way, since he did say that the character has died, which obviously meant that the character he portrayed in the fan club community has died._

_Died he was, but the ghost still roamed the earth apparently, because the celebrity unconsciously (Is that legit? Is that believable?) gave the fan his heartfelt treasure as some sort of a memorial (after being notified by his other fans about the fraud's drastic death). The other kindhearted fans on the other hand, donated their hard-earned cash to a charity for the dead fan, which was to be sent to the fan's family._

_Supposedly, the fan is a scoundrel. Surely, the family wouldn't exist as well?_

_Now, now, now, the once lonely but phony fan has turned rich overnight indeed!_

_No one really knows about the significance of the treasure, but if it makes the celebrity to cease action in his field of choice, then it must've cost more than any price in this world!_

_Yet, there's also this harsh rumor on how the treasure was not his in the first place. What's the deal, really? What really happened that led the celebrity and the fans to give just about anything to that one fraud fan in the most conspicuous manner? I have no idea whatsoever dear readers, but hopefully the police wouldn't stay in the dark any longer than necessary (you know they do) and catch that stupid, yet genius thief, because this celebrity is one talented person. It sure is a shame to see him no longer embracing the rare talent!_

_It had come to Nadirah's attention that while Ty's articles tended to lean on the conceited side, he never reported false news. So, there was no reason to doubt the authenticity of this rumor, since everyone knew that it was the truth._

_That was the main reason for his longstanding achievement in the area of internet's gossip rags. His articles were the hit of the century, spot-on meals that were genuinely unique and fresh from the oven. In a way, if you wanted fresh new gossips, tune in to Ty and you would be served with the very first bite of the scandalous dish._

_Yet she knew that the first bite had undergone a few modifications of its own, so in order to obtain the rawest of the raw, she needed to confront the chef himself._

_Truth to be told, Nadirah wasn't the least privy to gossips like this, but the upcoming family gathering sent shivers down her soul, for she knew how she'd be bombarded with multiple attacks by Arina the infatuated gossiper._

_Therefore, in order to avert the continuous assault, preparation was what she needed._

_What was a better idea than to churn the information from the mastermind himself?_

_Her eyes peered down on the list of the online members, and once she had pinpointed the pseudonym of the administrator—which was hard to miss with the loud bolding color—she swiftly clicked his name, wrote a comment under his page and clicked_ _Make Public to Staff Only._

_> Suri says:_

_Please tell me the identity of your newest victim._

_Thank you for your cooperation. :)_

_She patiently waited for his reply, and after a couple clicks of the button_ _Refresh_ _, a new reply emerged from the bottom of the thread._

_> Ty says:_

_Well good day to you too Suri XD_

_As you may have known, and your cousin as well, >.> my sources are confidential, and let me make myself clear, ALL OF THEM ARE HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL!_

_I bid you good day._

_Not the least shameful, she decided to aggravate him further, sending her message and let it fly through the realm of the virtual world._

_> Suri says:_

_I see. I take it that you have no idea either, then. :)_

_The next reply was seemingly fast. The content was glaring menacingly at her face that she felt tempted to laugh aloud._

_> Ty says:_

_What do you mean I don't know? How could I not know? It is I who wrote them! It is I who did the research! D <_

_Nadirah sniggered._

_Prickling Ty was an enjoyment of its own._

_> Suri says:_

_I wager you have no idea whatsoever in that pea-sized brain of yours._

_:D_

_> Ty says:_

_Oh yeah. I don't know. So why don't you run along and investigate it yourself. >.<_

_It was a good thing that she couldn't see the face of the administrator at the moment. She feared that if she could, her gripping sense of cunningness would fly out of the window instead of waltzing into the technical world._

_> Suri says:_

_If I was my cousin then maybe I would. And stop sulking. You don't want to be more hideous than you are now. :)_

_> Ty says:_

_I'm not sulking!_

_She couldn't contain her mirth any longer. It felt as if her whole existence was ripped open, and she found herself laughing to her heart content. But as she was preparing herself for another reply, a new comment was added under their comments, curiously staring down at the wacky pair._

_> xyru says:_

_Why do you care so much? O.o_

_Nadirah smiled, her fingers typing the exact piece of her mind._

_> Suri says:_

_You don't have a cousin, don't you xyru?_

_His next reply sent her grinning idiotically at her computer screen._

_> xyru says:_

_No, but I have a sibling. o_o Does that count?_

_> Suri says:_

_Then you would understand the blood-relative war. I need to obtain the full information, or else she'll pester me to no end, so before I let her pester me, it's better for me to pester Ty first, and now that you are here, let me pester you as well, so tell me, do you know the identity of the celebrity in Ty's latest article?_

_Such a lengthy reply, but the real Nadirah indeed had an elaborate mind._

_> Ty says:_

_I'm an only child~ ;o_

_> xyru says:_

_@Ty_

_..._ _okay. xD_

_@Suri_

_Well, I only know that he's an evergreen person, so unless your cousin is into classical, she might not know him. I can't say I know who it is though._

_> Ty says:_

_HOW DID YOU KNOW THAT? >.>_

_> Suri says:_

_@xyru_

_Never in my mind would I suspect that you are a gossipmonger as well...I am shocked, very shocked, sir._

_> xyru says:_

_I could replace Ty as the gossip columnist, right?_

_> Ty says:_

_Hey! I own this site!_

_> xyru says:_

_Now that I've supplied the information, you should help me in return._

_Nadirah froze, her fingers grew rigid and cold due to the chilly morning breeze. She contemplated on the most amiable reply, but then decided to scratch them all and hastily typed a quick message._

_> Suri says:_

_;o_

_Oh dear, look at the time! It is time for me to log off, so goodbye everyone~!_

_She wasn't such a coward to shut the browser quickly from her laptop, she still had her dignity—wait, maybe she was a coward for refreshing the page instead of shutting it close._

_> xyru says:_

_Don't move, Suri, or I'll hack your beauty page._

_Nadirah cringed at his blackmailing, ruefully loathed the idea of someone manipulating her section._

_> Suri says:_

_Dear xyru,_

_You've burst your bubbles. You're hardly kind. In fact, you're kind of boring. And I don't think you have a single good bone in your system either. You've obviously blackmailed those who complimented you._

_You sir, disgust me._

_But since there's still some respect left from me to you, I will lounge here for a couple more seconds and hear your proposition._

_I am nice, unlike you._

_She was desperately trying to ward him off. Yet she had the fleeting feeling that she was going to fail...miserably._

_> Ty says:_

_If you need my help, then I'm right here! ^.^_

_Her previous good deed toward someone on the site had led to a disastrous chain of events, and she wasn't all that thrilled to recollect that exact memory. Thus, since then, she had learned to avert the attack of the overtime errand, and truthfully, she had successfully managed to evade every single request._

_But now, she didn't feel the urge to flee like the cowardice she was._

_She sat on her stool for a couple more seconds, her mind frantically ordered to neglect the favor, but something about her instinct forced her to glue on her seat, at least to see the detail of his request._

_If she didn't like it, she could always flee the scene. Or pretend that she never read such a thing._

_It was the internet—everything could be bluffed._

_> xyru says:_

_I overestimated my column. >.> I have a mountain of emails, way out of my hands. So help me reply them._

_PLEASE._

_She tried to ignore the screaming bold letters._

_> Suri says:_

_I'll be frank and admit that advising is not my strongest virtue._

_> xyru says:_

_No comment, but surely you have some common sense? XD_

_Nadirah was tempted to close the browser right this second to show her protestation, but she realized that it wasn't as dignified._

_That, and once she saw the reply from Ty._

_> Ty says:_

_Why does everyone neglect me so? ;O Let me cry a river, let me cry at a corner~ Forever extinct, forever unaware~_

_> xyru says:_

_Hi ty._

_> Ty says:_

_Hi xy =D_

_> xyru says:_

_Will you help me?_

_> Ty says:_

_Sure =D_

_> xyru says:_

_TQ._

_> Ty says:_

_Is that all? O_O_

_> xyru says:_

_Yes, Mr. Admin, that is all._

_> Ty says:_

_How so? O_O_

_> xyru says:_

_You are not as persistent, so to speak._

_> Ty says:_

_Should I become more persistent?_

_> xyru says:_

_Nay, I would hate to persuade you as well._

_> Ty says:_

_;O_

_Aye, you wounded me young man._

_> xyru says:_

_*barf*_

_The free show had succeeded on taming the hot-blooded Nadirah, and despite how the temptation of escaping from the misery still running strong in her veins, she always liked to earn more points in those comedians' books. After all, the two of them were indeed, amongst the popular writers on the site._

_> Suri says:_

_Fine, I'll lend you my favor, but a tiny amount of it, and no more._

_> Ty says:_

_How come? O.o_

_> Suri says:_

_Unlike you, my dear friend, I actually have a life. And I'm breathing in it...in case you've forgotten what it's like to have a life, that is._

_> Ty says:_

_Oh lol But what about your column? D:_

_> Suri says:_

_I thought I've told you that my column will take a supplementary break._

_> Ty says:_

_Oh yeah. You did. Oh well. Happy vacationing =D_

_> xyru says:_

_@Suri_

_Thank you very much. And don't worry, I'll try to manage the latter. It's just that my motivation's been running low every time I saw that humongous number on my email's inbox. *shivers* If you don't mind Suri, could you take the last ten, and Ty, you can take the last ten, and I will manage the rest._

_Am I clear, or am I confusing? D:_

_> Ty says:_

_Crystal clear!_

_> Suri says:_

_Never been clearer._

_> xyru says:_

_Good. I'll give a message regarding my email address and password to both of you later then. Thanks again. I need to log off, I also have a life you see 8D_

_> Suri says:_

_Surely you will not ask for our help if you didn't have one..._

_> Ty says:_

_Oh no Suri are you logging off as well? D:_

_Well, she hadn't taken her breakfast yet._

_> Suri says:_

_Is there a problem boss?_

_> Ty says:_

_Yeah, I want to be the first to log off! Bye bye Suri!_

_The administrator can be a tad insane sometimes._

_Nadirah wrote her last words of farewell, and after closing the browser, she exited her room and headed to the kitchen. She was only halfway through her destination when she noticed Widad in the living room, freshly dolled up with her dewy make-up, elegantly clad in her brand-new yet expensive clothing._

_Widad was glamorous—Nadirah knew that much. She was even certain that if Widad were to become a beauty writer just like her, she will steal her readers in a snap._

_"_ _Let's go!" Widad was beaming with excitement, her high-pitched voice echoed throughout the room._

_Nadirah peered at the nearby wall clock. "It's 9—"_

_"_ _I know," she rolled her eyes, closing the distance between them, "But the party will start on 11!"_

_"_ _It's not yet—"_

_"_ _11, I know, but we couldn't arrive exactly at 11 if we didn't go now!"_

_"_ _Well," Nadirah licked her lips nervously, "Her house—"_

_"_ _Is not that far, I know, but it's not that often we get a chance to go there! We can do some sight-seeing first and then," she said indignantly, "We can visit her house!"_

_Nadirah was constantly reminded on why talking to Widad was such a pleasure._

_No, she wasn't being sarcastic. In her own twisted mind, she adored the prospect of having others finishing her thoughts, because she'd often get confused with the tedious mind of her own._

_Obviously, all those years of managing Najhan had taught Widad on how to handle an easily confused person without breaking a sweat._

_"_ _Fine," it was no use for Nadirah to object Widad's powerful persuasion, "Let me change—"_

_"_ _Don't forget to wear your Meta!"_

_Nadirah waved her hand lazily._

_"_ _And your make-up—Oh!" Widad leaped at her,—nearly literally—loudly exclaimed, "Let me do that for you!"_

Nadirah stared into Widad's eyes with utmost ferocity, loudly wishing that her face wouldn't be painted by her cousin's hand. Undeniably, Widad's makeup skills were far than satisfactory, but if she were to be in complete control and become Nadirah's makeup artist for the day, she will no doubt use the colors from Nadirah's very own extensive makeup collections. Knowing Widad, she will know no mercy, and waste a handful of shadows at a mere sweep.

Widad was not someone who had deep appreciation for money. She simply bathed in them.

Nadirah wouldn't mind much if the shadows belonged to Widad—what's with her ignorance of value and such—but no, Nadirah definitely bought every single thing with her own limited cash. Thus, she clearly pointed out with every emphasis in each syllable, "Not necessary."

_"_ _Necessary," echoed Widad—much more staccato than Nadirah had ever produced—before quickly switching her voice into a much alluring substance that was heavy lidded with menace, "Because I said so."_

_No matter how hard Nadirah tried, she could never release herself from the clutches of Widad._

_No matter how persistence she was in defying Widad's gravity, this was inevitable._

_"_ _Fine."_

_There was truly no point in arguing with this diabolic charmer any further._

_Nadirah didn't realize how slow the time was, or how fast their movements were, because by 9.30 am, she found herself comfortably seated in Widad's luxurious car, already out on the road while listening to her favorite CD._

_Favorite CD?_

_"_ _Arina gave me that," said Widad quietly, probably sensing the odd tingling in Nadirah's head like the psychic she was._

_Nadirah raised her eyebrows, silently agreeing with that statement. Arina was severely addicted to music, so much that if there were anyone who can recognize all the celebrities on earth, it would be her. And Ty of course._

_Ty's column had always been Arina's favorite place on earth—despite how such a place didn't really exist on the earth itself—and Nadirah could feel the doom world approaching closer as the time ticked by, patiently waiting for the moment of her final showdown with Arina at her grandmother's house._

_It also made her realized that she didn't have much of vital information regarding the celebrity, only for the fact that he was apparently evergreen and classical._

_Oh well, at least she had a head on._

_As she dwelled further in her upcoming battle with Arina, she couldn't help but notice the subtle humming by Widad, which was quite bizarre, even for Widad's standard. Nadirah was tempted to ask, but decided not to since human's emotion was very complex and surely, a different approach could do wonders in order to crack the ice._

_"_ _Sounds good," Nadirah tried to steer Widad in a good direction, secretly maneuvering toward her own spell._

_"_ _Yeah," she muttered gravely, "Not so bad."_

_It was no secret that Arina's types of music were Widad's mortal enemies._

_"_ _She said that I will like this," answered Widad._

_Suddenly, everything makes sense._

_"_ _And I do," she sighed, "Dreadfully so."_

_"_ _Live with it," Nadirah was trying hard to suppress her laughter._

_"_ _I am," she answered dryly, "Still, hopelessly addicted."_

_"_ _Avoid her—"_

_"_ _She caught me off guard," she replied glumly. "I didn't have the time to unleash my natural charm."_

_Nadirah stared at her in awe, her mouth couldn't resist but utter a huge, "Wow."_

_It wasn't always that Widad was bested by a fellow human._

_"_ _Yeah," she echoed in disdain. "Wow."_

_Widad didn't feel comply to stretch the matter further, and Nadirah didn't feel the need of wasting her saliva more than necessary, so she just sat back and enjoyed the view, trying her best to resist chuckling at her cousin's unlikely hum._

_Minutes later, they'd finally arrived at their destination, and as Nadirah peered at the time, she blinked rapidly before further leaning her head toward the digital clock._

_The time had just stroked 10.40, and she wondered if the slow time had decided to hasten itself._

_Truthfully, it wasn't too bad, since indeed, they only had twenty minutes left to spare. But still, Widad's capability of leisurely wasting time on the road with her roguish car did impress Nadirah, more or less._

_Nadirah had been to the doctor's house with her father before, and it didn't take more than half an hour._

_"_ _So," chirped Widad cheerfully, "Which is the house?"_

_Nadirah arched her brows._

_"_ _Well, we couldn't possibly do some sight-seeing now, could we? There's not much time, so," she clicked her tongue, "Since we're already here..."_

_"_ _Oh," Nadirah pretended to understand the notion, even if she thought her cousin had been acting rather odd._

_Too odd, to be frank._

_"_ _Searching for the house might've taken a longer time than we really thought," she pointed out._

_Nadirah just nodded._

_"_ _So," she tried to recover her nervous tone with a smile, "Where is it?"_

_Nadirah unzipped her bag, plunging her hand down amidst the messy content and took out a slightly crumpled invitation card._

_She held the card tightly with her fingers, her eyes deeply scrutinizing her cousin. "Widad."_

_"_ _H-huh?"_

_It wasn't until Widad finished stammering did they realize that they had somehow exchanged personality, the hypnotizing CD possibly being the culprit._

_Widad was never speechless, never stammered—at least, not beside Nadirah—in her life._

_Suddenly, Nadirah felt superior to her cousin, and it was prominent in her speech as she said, "You don't have any hidden agenda, do you?"_

_She can feel the Pandora box rocking its way out._

_Widad staggered on her wheels as she exchanged nervous glances with Nadirah, uncertain whether she was mortified by Nadirah's prim tone or by her own dishonesty. She opted to cease speaking, channeling the typical Nadirah's trait by airily laughing to prove her point._

_Yet it proved nothing, except that it definitely added more fuel to the suspicious fire in Nadirah's head._

_"_ _Of course not," Widad smacked her lips, noticing the impatient stare from her cousin. "Why did you say that?"_

_Nadirah shrugged. "No reason."_

_Widad smiled sheepishly, but as she stared at her cousin again, she was constantly tormented by Nadirah's overly placid face that she couldn't help but blurt out, "I-I like to be the first guest!"_

_First guest. That was almost laughable._

_Nadirah wasn't in the mood to ascertain whether the words were truthful or merely an excuse, and truthfully, she didn't feel comply to argue, so she was thankful that the house was in view, and that was the truth._

_Yet her newfound confidence—or maybe it was just the agitated box—was boiling hard in her soul, beyond overbearing that she couldn't resist but to snidely remark, "Seems like you're not the first guest."_

_It was true. The house was easy to spot since none of the other houses in this neighborhood had an open parch with food trays and chattering people, donning their best clothes._

_"_ _Seems so." Widad sighed disappointedly, opening her car door and absentmindedly gazed at the humble house in front of her nose. She looked disappointed, and as they walked side by side to the gate of the house, not a word escaped from her mouth, only that of sighs and pained expression._

_That confounded Nadirah. She wasn't sure whether Widad genuinely cared of being the first guest for every gathering, or she just had an uncanny hidden talent in the theater department._

_Nadirah went with the latter._

_She could be nice, in her own twisted way, of course._

_"_ _Nadirah!"_

_The familiar voice grabbed her attention. As she swiveled around, she was overwhelmed by the friendly face of her psychiatrist, quickly shortening their distance until they were in an acceptable range for a friendly hug and pecks on the cheeks._

_"_ _How are you today?" the psychiatrist gently asked, her hands still clutching on Nadirah's arms._

_It was vital to keep a stabilize persona when dealing with your healer._

_Nadirah adopted her utmost prim façade, her voice carefully structured to avoid any flyaway menace. "I am fine." She released herself from the clutches of the doctor and began to tug Widad's arm forward, saying the rehearsed words carefully, "This is my cousin, Widad."_

_Widad shook the doctor's hand, her face plastered with her serenest smile. "It's nice to finally meet you."_

_"_ _Nice to meet you too," the doctor replied with the same enthusiasm. "Nadirah mentioned a lot about you."_

_"_ _Really," Widad's face unconsciously stretched into a bigger forced grin, not out of impressiveness of course, but rather due to the painful unawareness of the subject in question. She adored the spotlights most of the time, but the thoughts of her name circling around stranger's head behind close bars didn't sit too well with her, especially when one of her cousins were involved. She didn't need others to know about her private affairs, certainly not to this doctor, and Nadirah knew that much. The thought made her smile._

_The doctor obviously noticed the slight change in her expression—or maybe her tone—nonetheless, it was expected since she was an expert in humans' emotions, because she further added, "It's nice that you're being so supportive of her."_

_Supportive was not Widad, even she knew that much. Nadirah just happened to be the better female cousin than Arina, and that was what made her likeable, since admittedly, she was more reserved and secretive, not at all bossy or demanding, the perfect companion for a day out in a mall._

_Everyone knew that._

_"It's," it seemed as if Widad's face was forever engraved with the faux smile, "It's my pleasure."_

_Nadirah grinned, thinking aloud that maybe Widad ought to have a session with the doctor to nurture her sudden stammering._

_However, she was also quite aware that if she were to announce that malicious thought aloud, her session with the psychiatrist will possibly be prolonged, and the rueful stare from Widad would defiantly be prolonged as well._

_It was a good thing that the doctor gestured them inside, chirping like a bird as she said, "Please, help yourself—"_

_Her eyes bored toward something behind their backs. But before they could follow her gaze, she shifted her attention back to them, her voice sounded awfully hurried, "If you'd excuse me." She briskly smiled before leaving their side to greet the other guests, most probably the ones behind their backs._

_Nadirah wasn't paying much attention to her psychiatrist. She was still in awe over a house party, unexpectedly crowded with guests, especially when the party had just begun and hadn't reached the peak time yet. It was odd alright, but she had concluded that maybe everyone shared the same sentiment as Widad—the conclusion being that it was nice to be the first guest._

_Maybe it was nice to come early because then, the food would be fresh from the oven and the cutlery had yet to be used by strangers alike, which probably meant less gross and gruesome._

_That will sound appropriate to someone like Zahari, not Widad._

_Oh well. To each of her own._

_Nadirah was enchanted by the house garden, filled with trays of foods and chattering people, and as she tugged Widad along to the said destination, it proved to be solid hard, which confounded her brain._

_It was then when she noticed how Widad was actually standing rigidly, thoroughly statuesque that she wondered if one of the guests was actually Medusa in disguised._

_She curiously followed Widad's gaze, and almost instantly, she saw the origin of interest—a guest that was currently being greeted by the psychiatrist with exuberant enthusiasm._

_It didn't seem as if the doctor was affected by the Medusa's hard gaze, however._

_"I-I—"_

_"Since when do you stammer?" Nadirah eyed her playfully._

_"Since," Widad gulped. "Since now!" she snapped, suddenly hissing in such a vicious manner. "Listen. Follow me, no word, none at all, you hear?"_

_Nadirah shrugged, her face glowed with idiotic grin, brimming with adrenaline over her superiority of outranking Widad, mentally noting the day of history, possibly rejoicing over the thought of disclosing the information later to the twins, and several other things began to fly about in her head, but then she softly yelped as Widad tugged her hand hardly, leading her toward a bushy tree, dismissing all the other concoctions her brain had helpfully made, specially for her, and now she had forgotten all about it._

_She grunted._

_"Okay, here is what we'll do," her lips stretched into an overly sweet smile, engulfing Nadirah with the overly familiar sickening sensation, "I will wait in my car, and you will manage on your own in the house."_

_Her voice was buttery smooth and dangerously alluring. Nadirah didn't particularly appreciate her lack of immunity over the charm, but she just answered sincerely, since she didn't have much of a choice. "Okay."_

_And it seemed like her brain had refused to cooperate. Sulking, perhaps._

_"_ _Now run along," she released Nadirah's hand, patting her back, "And happy eating."_

_"_ _You?" Nadirah managed to croak._

_"_ _Fast-food's always available."_

_It was no use forcing Widad out of her will._

_Widad quickly ran off, unaware of obeying her own order instead of watching Nadirah succumbed to her mighty finger. She barricaded herself inside her car, locking in the total solitude, and never glanced upwards—something that she seldom did._

_Actually, it was something that she never did._

_Sighing, Nadirah walked back toward the house, emitting negative vibe to everyone that passed by her, loudly muttering in her head,_ _do not talk to me, do not notice me, do not talk to me..._

_She stacked a pile of food onto her plate, never stopped from emitting her hostile vibe. The connection abruptly crashed however, as she noticed a pair of eyes strangely staring back at her._

_The staring went deeper, and she could feel the eyes penetrating into her irises, or maybe it was hers all along that penetrated onto his, but she couldn't resist the vague sense of familiarity—_

_"_ _Sorry," he blurted out. "I thought you looked like someone I know."_

_Nadirah blinked rapidly, unaware that the object of attention had shortened his distance and now standing right in front of her._

_"_ _Ah," recovering her conscience, she waved her hand dismissively, "I believe I also thought that you look awfully familiar."_

_"_ _Y-you do?" he didn't look much comfortable, but he tried to hide it with an unmistakably nervous laugh. "Are you sure?"_

_"_ _Of course," Nadirah had never been more serious—or perhaps she had—but of this she was quite certain, "You are Ikhwan."_

_His eyes widened as he spluttered, "How do you know my name?"_

_Her last statement didn't sit too well with him, and that was obvious by his loud, awkward fidgeting, but Nadirah didn't pay much attention to the odd behavior._

_It was a no-brainer that he was familiar, since he indeed was her primary schoolmate who she thought had nice hair._

_Funny, that. She didn't realize that she could have one minor positive thought about something entirely unimportant._

_"_ _Of course, you are my primary schoolmate who I—" she could barely manage to stop her tongue from uttering her inner thoughts aloud, which was quite odd, because it hadn't happened for quite a long time, "I-I sat next to."_

_The awkward fidgeting was gone, and his face was genuinely surprised. "Oh, you are—"_

_"_ _Na—"_

_"_ _Nadirah." His face softened, probably gloating over his accurate guessing._

_Somehow, that made her quite over the moon happy._

_"_ _Yeah," she grinned._

_He sighed in relief, looking overly content for a reason that she couldn't actually comprehend._

_Maybe the thought of remembering a long lost friend had such a great impact on him, you'd never know._

_Humans were such complex species._

_"_ _No wonder you looked so familiar," said he, "It's been bugging me."_

_Nadirah could tell that it was bugging the hell out of him._

_"_ _So you," she eyed him carefully, "You have—"_

_"_ _Have what?" his tone was rigid and too self-conscious that it caught Nadirah off-guard._

_She began to think that maybe she shouldn't be so straightforward, especially on the first meeting, so she amended her inquiry and asked, "Are you by chance an acquaintance of the doctor?"_

_"_ _Oh," his tone was a lot softer out of a sudden, "She knows my father."_

_"_ _So you come with your father then?" she asked, despite not knowing who his father was._

_He shook his head. "No, my brother," he tilted his chin toward a certain person in the background, and Nadirah followed his gaze as he spoke, "My father's schedule is quite booked—"_

_"_ _Oh!" she squealed loudly._

_"_ _What?" his voice was oddly startled and tense._

_She didn't realize that her excitement hadn't been subtly verbal, so she toned down the surprise with a mere, "Oh," and continued, "I saw him outside."_

_"_ _I saw you too," he commented. "With your cousin. Where is she?"_

_"_ _She—" her words stuck in her throat as she stared at him suspiciously. "How do you know that she's my cousin?"_

_He clamped his teeth. "You don't have a sister, not that I remember."_

_"_ _True," she acceded._

_"_ _She looks like you, so she might be more than a friend."_

_"_ _You're lying."_

_He shrugged. "Maybe I am, maybe I'm not. So," he was desperate to change the subject, and by the look of his face, it was resolute, "You are friends with the doctor as well?"_

_She snorted._

_He arched his brows._

_"_ _I am the patient." Nadirah loved to acknowledge the unstable state of her head freely without restriction, and to finally have someone hearing it aloud was such purely bliss. "I have a mental disorder."_

_"_ _Oh," his face darkened with shame. "That's," he cleared his throat, "That's rather unfortunate."_

_No!_

_"_ _No," she blurted out. It truly wasn't shameful of having a problem with your head, oddly amusing to say the least, but he was looking at her with such a strange expression that she rather not piled him more with her weirdness, so she added, "The doctor has helped me a lot."_

_"_ _That's good to know," no microscopic ears were needed to hear the relief in his voice, "She's a good doctor."_

_"_ _Yes," she agreed airily, didn't feel comply to mention about how her recoverability was not more than 50%, since she still have difficulty in speech—_

_Wait, she didn't._

_Weird, she had been able to compose complete, perfectly normal sentences like a typical human being without squirming for mercy._

_Maybe it was due to her victory over Widad. Never had she seen her so helpless by a human's presence before, prompting Widad to beg for shelter at the opulent car._

_It must have something to do with the baffling arrival of Ikhwan's brother. Or the stupid Pandora box. She can't even feel the rattling box anymore._

_No. It must be the former._

_"_ _Who's your brother?" she asked, and realized that the inquiry wasn't as remotely nonchalant as she hoped it would be._

_The box. Oh, it was certainly the box. No wonder she can't feel the rattling; it'd been widely open._

_How could that be?!_

_He looked at her quizzically._

_She stilled._

_And then she remembered her previous question._

_"_ _It seems like my cousin knows him," she added in a deliberately thoughtful manner._

_"_ _Oh," something clicked in his mind perhaps, "He looks like he knows her too."_

_"_ _Exactly," she snapped her fingers, "Who is he?"_

_"_ _My brother Danial," he shrugged, "Is just a college student."_

_"_ _Danial."_

_"_ _Yes," he roamed his eyes over the attendants, "Who's your cousin?"_

_"_ _My cousin Widad," she shrugged, "Is just a college student."_

_"_ _Widad."_

_"_ _Yeah," she grinned. "Frankly, it's none of my business, but she is quite weird..."_

_Nadirah went into a deep thought, measuring the level of weirdness of her cousin, comparing to her own weirdness, taking account of her other cousins' weirdness, because no doubt, they were a couple of weird humans to roam the earth, pretending to be normal, and she pondered over the possibility that their grandmother was the core of their weirdness—_

_"_ _My brother is weird as well."_

_"_ _Pardon?" she spluttered at his sudden outburst._

_"_ _I think everyone is weird in their own ways. I should have rephrased it to unique, but weird is possibly more accurate," he clamped his teeth. "Some are outright weird, some are more subtle, some are conveniently hidden," he exhaled a sharp breath, "Depends on your perspective of weirdness."_

_Nadirah said nothing, but she felt oddly blithe over the fact that her weirdness could pass up as unique._

_"_ _I am weird," he continued, "But I try to not announce that to the whole world."_

_She scoffed, blatantly remarked, "I do try to not announce that to the world, but that is not possible."_

_"_ _That can't be true."_

_"_ _Surely you think I'm weird?"_

_His face was pained as he replied, "No, not at all."_

_"_ _Well," she stared at him pityingly, "Someday you'll know."_

_"_ _Know what, exactly?"_

_Her eyes fell onto her plate. "That I'm going to eat."_

_"_ _Someday I'll know that you're going to eat?" he snorted, a faint chuckle escaped from his lungs._

_She tilted her head side by side, ascertaining for the perfect reply, but gave up and just answered, "Precisely."_

_"_ _Okay," he sighed disbelievingly, "You are weird."_

_"_ _Good," said she, stuffing her mouth with food to emphasis her weirdness, which further made him having difficulty in suppressing his laughter._

_"_ _I'll say," she swallowed, "You always know the right thing to say."_

_He looked genuinely startled, but quickly hid it with a small smile. "I get that a lot."_

_"_ _That is nice," she said seriously, "Minimum chances of you getting an enemy."_

_For a while, he said nothing, but then he sighed sharply and replied, "I hope so."_

_"_ _Why?" Nadirah's voice was muffled over the stuffed mouth, "Are you anticipating for an enemy?"_

_He snorted again. "Not really, well, like you said, it's not as if I know what it feels to have an enemy—"_

_"_ _But you were saying—"_

_"_ _Life is not that short, not that long," he let out a heartfelt sigh, "Mysteriously enigmatical."_

_"_ _Yeah," she stared at him incredulously, "You really know the right words to say."_

_He smacked his lips, barely containing his mirth. "No, I'm struggling to be one, can't you tell?"_

_"_ _No."_

_He narrowed his eyes. "You are very straight-forward."_

_"_ _I am struggling to be one, you see."_

_"_ _I find that very hard to believe, but anyways, you have succeeded."_

_"_ _In front of you, yes, but in front of—"_

_"_ _Ikhwan."_

_Suddenly, the box shut close._

_Nadirah swallowed hardly at the distressed sound in the voice, but as she met the eyes of the voice-bearer, any trace of distress on his face faded away in an instant, replaced by a softened expression. "Assalamualaikum," his voice was gentler as well, "Friend of my brother?"_

_If it weren't for her naturally blank look, it would've been quite a phenomenal sight to see her gaping over Widad's supposedly archenemy, who was quite a charming lad._

_"_ _W-waalaikummussalam, uh..." she exchanged glances with Ikhwan, resisting the urge of saying that his brother looked better upfront than from far away. And he didn't resemble Medusa in any way either. Well, it was not as if she saw Medusa before, because, if she did, surely she won't survive? Thus her only reply was, "Uh...yeah."_

_"_ _I'm Danial, Ikhwan's brother."_

_His manners were impeccable and dangerously suave that Nadirah pondered over the true reason behind Widad's extreme intimidation._

_Maybe that was it; he looked terrifyingly intimidating._

_It might have taken quite a few minutes for Nadirah to do her once-over on the charming lad, because she didn't realize the painful silent between the three of them until Ikhwan decided to intervene, "Her name is Nadirah."_

_"_ _Oh-h," she answered in realization, forgetting that she had yet to introduce herself, for all she could think of at that time was Medusa, "Yes, my n-name is...uh."_

_Danial stared at her deeply, probably curious for her odd behavior. Little did he know that his penetrating gaze did nothing to sooth her trembling words._

_"_ _N-Nadirah."_

_"_ _Nnadirah."_

_"_ _No," she lashed out quickly, "Nadirah."_

_"_ _Well, nice to meet you, Nadirah," he smiled politely. "Although, quite an odd sight to see a girl like you all alone at a function, saves for my brother."_

_"_ _She comes with her cousin," said Ikhwan._

_"_ _Cousin?" Danial raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. "Where is she?"_

_"_ _She's...,"_ _Nadirah bit her lips, "She's," she swallowed the useless words, and spluttered, "N-not well."_

_"_ _I noticed that," he nodded. "I saw both of you outside, and your cousin did look quite...green."_

_She liked to say that the greenness of Widad's face was definitely caused by his very own grand appearance, but she just replied, "Ah."_

_"_ _Widad, isn't it? I think I know her."_

_She liked to say that she was not blind in recognizing the intensity of their relationship, which was definitely not just a mere acquaintance, but she just replied, "Oh."_

_He curled his lips mischievously._

_Nadirah wasn't sure whether he could read her mind or was he indulging in his own thoughts, but her assumptions were quickly scratched from her mind as he said, "If you don't mind me, I'd like to borrow my brother for a while."_

_"_ _B-borrow?"_

_His choice of word dumbstruck Nadirah, for what was there to borrow? She for sure didn't claim full ownership of Ikhwan in the first place, and Danial might as well snatch him right there, right then. It wasn't as if she had the power to make him stay anyway._

_Nevertheless, she perfectly understood that Danial was being polite, and polite should be returned with equal politeness, so she tried to concoct a plausible excuse, anything satisfactory that'll put his mind at ease. Unfortunately, she failed, so she tried to buy some time by slowly constructing her words, hoping that the idea would miraculously popped out, "S-sure. I," she gulped, ascertaining her next words, "Need," she roamed the room discreetly with her eyes, "To use," she licked her lips, "The," she was getting desperate, but thankfully, a piercing ringtone struck her ears, "Phone," she finally said, quite out of breath._

_"_ _I'm sure you do," said Danial quizzically. "Your phone is ringing."_

_"_ _Yeah," she cleared her throat, "I'll," she stepped back, smiling nervously, "Take this."_

_Ikhwan looked at her in concern, bewildered at her sudden change in personality. "Are you okay?"_

_"_ _Fine," she gasped, quickly moving away from their view._

_Even if she wasn't fine, a legible doctor was available here for their aid._

_She truly hoped that it wouldn't come to that. She had enough embarrassment for one day, and perhaps another was on the way, judging by her agitated phone. She didn't need to peer at her screen to know that it wasn't a ringtone for an incoming call, but instead, a ringtone for her messaging system. Still, she was thankful for that. At least she had successfully escaped from the dragon's lair._

_She pressed the button with her finger, skimming the message lazily._

_Have you read Ty's new entry yet??!!_

_Nadirah had no idea which entry Arina was referring to, but since Arina was basically glued to the computer screen almost all the time, then maybe this particular entry was posted just seconds ago._

_She pressed the button expertly, composing a reply to Arina._

_No, I'm out. Why?_

_Seconds later, a new message popped in._

_You know that celebrity who lost his precious thing? His fans filed a police report but he canceled it! The fans are furious. Do you know who he is??!! OH I'M DYING HERE!_

_Nadirah sighed, her fingers maniacally pressing the soft keypad._

_He's old, that is all._

_That ought to do the trick._

_Old? Oh. Okay. Fine, then._

_That did the trick._

_She flipped her phone close, slowly returning to her original spot, but as she became nearer, she couldn't help but overhear the brothers' conversation._

"Danial, I assure you that I've done exactly what you've told me to," Ikhwan lowered his voice. "Really."

"Really?"

"It's about time that you place your faith in me."

There was a short pause, before Danial started whispering, "I've always believed in you."

"Well, maybe you should increase it a lot more then," Ikhwan patted his brother's back, "You don't look too well, anxious, huh?"

Danial cleared his throat. "Well—"

"Why don't you clear up your mind, sort out your problem—"

Danial stared at Ikhwan suspiciously, before sagely replying, "I guess so."

"I still have some matter to discuss with Nadirah."

"I see," he raised his eyebrows, "I better not intrude."

"But if you insist—"

"No, don't worry," Danial smiled. "It's a private matter after all. It can wait." He was about to leave, when his eyes abruptly flew toward Nadirah, or maybe it flew right across Nadirah, she wouldn't know, "I just need to..." he sighed. "Do something."

_"_ _Okay," Ikhwan said jovially. "Have fun."_

_"_ _Not fun, I'd think," he murmured gravely, but he gave her a warm smile, before disappearing into the crowd._

_"_ _You are a smooth-talker," Nadirah sneered playfully._

_He grinned. "And you're not."_

_"_ _Yes, I'm aware of that," she muttered in annoyance, "Your brother is—"_

_"_ _Also a smooth-talker, defiantly better, but not as persuasive."_

_She studied his face incredulously. He just took the exact words from her brain._

_"_ _Exactly," she blinked, and stared forward again. "He's like the current generation devil-may-care."_

_"_ _He's a weirdo, and that's his exact weird point."_

_"_ _I don't think I understand," admitted Nadirah truthfully, "And I don't think a few minutes worth of idle chattering fares a lot to me in understanding him."_

_"_ _Not," he smacked his lips, boiling with mirth most probably, "When it include several painful pauses and stuttering."_

_"_ _Not," she narrowed her eyes, "That I can help it."_

_"_ _Not," he grinned devilishly, "That I know of."_

_She scowled distastefully. "Since when have you turned hateful?"_

_"_ _Ah," he looked at her smugly, "I am someone...who say the right thing all the time?"_

_"_ _Almost."_

_"_ _Almost," he echoed. "So big chance that I—"_

_"_ _Say the right thing."_

_"_ _Exactly."_

_"_ _Of course," she muttered._

_He laughed. "People are such open books."_

_"_ _And I'm halfway open."_

_"_ _What makes you say that?"_

Out of a sudden, she felt triumphant. "You can't read me entirely, can't you?"

_"_ _Why yes," he clamped his teeth. "I do have some difficulty in that."_

_She smiled haughtily, concentrating on her plate._

_Ikhwan didn't appear as if he wanted to let the matter rest however, and it was apparent in his tone as he said, "I don't think I've mentioned that," he arched his brows. "How do you know?"_

_"_ _Well," she couldn't possibly confess out-front that she could rewind his speeches, but maybe in this situation, it wouldn't sound terribly out of place._

_"_ _No, I'm struggling to be one, can't you tell?"_

_"_ _You were struggling to say the right words to me," she said proudly._

_He scoffed disbelievingly. "You have great memory."_

_"_ _Always did," her grin grew wider, "One of my special trait, if I may say so myself."_

_"_ _Don't tell anyone."_

_"_ _About my special trait?"_

_"_ _No," he laughed bleakly, "About my weakness."_

_"_ _Your weakness being—"_

_"_ _Look," he quickly cut off, "Your cousin is here."_

_She swiveled her head, and sure enough, her cousin was striding proudly amidst the guest, gracious like a precious peacock, before finally landing just in front of them with that sickly smile of hers._

_"_ _You," Nadirah stared down at her, "Here. Why?"_

_"_ _What?" Widad asked incredulously. "I was invited."_

_"_ _I thought you—"_

_"_ _Change my mind," her eyes roamed across the room, and in a slight miniscule moment, Nadirah thought that she saw the fall of Widad's smile. But Widad braced herself quickly, smiling broader than before, "Or not." Her attention shifted to Ikhwan as she mechanically said, "It's a pleasure to meet you I'm sure, but she couldn't lounge here any longer."_

_"_ _He's not," Nadirah lowered her eyes, "The host."_

_"_ _I know that," she hissed._

_"_ _Nice to meet you too," Ikhwan returned her smile. Then he faced Nadirah, politely smiling, "Well, I hope I'll see you again."_

_Nadirah was about to say the same thing, but her hand was suddenly tugged by a loud force, scurrying her out of the house._

_"_ _Relax," said Nadirah. "You don't want," she took a deep breath, "More wrinkles."_

_"_ _I don't have any wrinkles!" she snapped._

_"_ _You will," she exhaled her breath, "If you keep," she tried to match up with Widad's pace and not being led like a cow, "In a bad mood."_

_"_ _I am not," she said distressfully, "I just don't—" she pursed her lips, continuing slowly, "Feel good."_

_To that, Nadirah didn't feel the need of wasting her energy for a comforting reply, since comforting reply didn't sit too well with Widad. Thus, she opted to stay in silence and relished in the solitude as she was dragged by the cranky witch into her broomstick, which actually resembled a car..._

_It was a car._

_"_ _So who was that? A friend of yours?" Widad was much composed now, firing the engine away and dashed into the busy streets._

_"_ _Yeah," Nadirah glanced at her, and decided that she might have the upper hand in prickling her annoyance, "Ikhwan. I also met her brother, Danial."_

_Widad choked._

_Nadirah hid a devilish smile._

_The box rattled._

_"_ _That's his brother?"_

_She deliberately answered in a voice full of ignorance, "Yeah, his brother's name is Danial."_

_"_ _Oh," Widad cleared her throat, summoning her supercilious self, "Of course."_

_Nadirah wasn't going to let the opportunity slid from her fingers. This was too good to ignore. "He said he knows you."_

_Widad tapped her fingers impatiently at the steering. "Your friend?"_

_"_ _He too."_

_"_ _He too?" she asked wearily._

_"_ _Ikhwan said he saw you, Danial said he knows you."_

_Nadirah had the wildest thought that Widad would turn into a stone right this second and thus unable to control the steering._

_Thankfully, she was still alive, because she tried to respond nonchalantly, "Is that so?"_

_"_ _Yes," she answered. Despite the fact that she knew how her life was in Widad's perfectly manicured hands, she couldn't resist but to poke in the fun. "Danial said he saw you outside, and commented on how you look quite green. He also said that he thinks he knows you."_

_Nadirah gaped at herself, secretly clapping at her vast improvement in speech._

_Widad didn't seem to notice, however._

_She clutched the steering a bit too tightly with her white knuckles, probably having difficulty with breathing if one were to judge by her sudden purplish face. She glimpsed sharply at Nadirah, coarsely said, "Listen, Nadirah."_

_Nadirah could tell that Widad was unleashing her little charm, and so she indulged in the leather seat and let the sickly sensation caressed her muscles._

_"_ _You will not mention this to anyone."_

_Nadirah nodded._

_"_ _Not to Zahari."_

_"_ _Not to Zahari," she echoed._

_"_ _Not to the stupid twins."_

_"_ _Not to them."_

_"_ _Especially not to Arina!"_

_"_ _Not to any of them."_

_"_ _And Ikhwan! Definitely not."_

_"_ _Not to the brother as well."_

_"_ _Yes," she gritted her teeth. "Don't ever tell him that I told you this."_

_"_ _Sure," the effect of the charm had worn down, and so Nadirah added, "I don't know him anyway."_

_"_ _Of course you do," Widad stared at her incredulously. "He's your friend."_

_"His brother is my friend—"_

_"Danial is your friend?"_

_Nadirah realized how the whole affair had turned Widad ridiculously agitated, prompting them to have a missed communication, which was beyond absurd, considering their reputation. "No, Ikhwan is my friend."_

_Widad let out a sharp breath, her face changed its color again to plain pale._

_She did look quite pitiful, so Nadirah said slowly, "I will not ask."_

_"_ _Thank you," her voice was raspy, relieved by Nadirah's lack of concern._

They didn't exchange a single word all the way back home, and as they entered the house and received much exclamation from their parents on their early return, Nadirah swiftly excused herself, claiming that she had much work to do in preparation for the trip.

She didn't, of course, but the errand for xyru suddenly looked far appealing than answering typical questions from her parents with odd concoctions.

She very much wanted to say that they left early because they met Medusa, but that was not believable.

They were still alive, weren't they?

And that way why she sat on her stool, opening a browser in her laptop and keying the address of her cherished site.

A new message popped in, notifying that she had a new personal message. Undoubtedly, it would be from xyru, so she clicked the button, watching as the screen automatically flashed into a new window.

_She skimmed the message, and after mentally noted the gist, she opened yet another browser and key in the email address, absentmindedly signing up with the given password._

_Nadirah couldn't help but gape at the outrageous amount of emails in his inbox._

_She wasn't sure if the inbox had its own spring-cleaning lately, but surely, not all of these mails were from his column alone?_

_Yet as she skimmed the first page, the subject did mention about the whole Metamorphosis issue, and so, adamantly certain, she clicked the last page and began to copy the ten emails into her laptop._

_As soon as she'd done just that, she closed the useless browsers and started to concentrate on the given task._

_Just one brief look at the first mail's subject, Nadirah decided to skip the content thoroughly due to the obvious confession of a happy-ever-after marriage._

_It was not as if a kid like herself would understand the joyous transformation from a bachelorette to a housewife._

_Nevertheless, the most obvious reply for a confession of heaven would be; Thank you for sharing your story, we hope we could experience the glorifying sensation one day in our life, and may your life continue to live in its glorious form._

_What else was there to say?_

_The second mail nagged about her inability of transforming into a butterfly, while the third mail exasperated on her inability of remaining as a worm._

_Living in denial was no strange issue to Nadirah's ears, since she was undeniably in denial herself, but in this situation, positive words were needed, and so she replied, life is not too short, life is not too long, so embrace for what you are, and try to live your life to the fullest._

_Somehow, she was thankful that she met the righteous Ikhwan._

_The fourth email had quite an odd subject. Nadirah was definitely intrigued by the sheer absurdity of the words._

_The sparkling butterfly has yet to be seen._

_Yes, and that was why she had yet to follow the invisible butterfly._

_Anyways, the subject wasn't exclusively talking about the problem. One would think that judging by the subject alone, surely, it would discuss the fact that the mailer's life was stuck in a high tower, waiting for her prince charming to rescue her, or better, for her own ability to flourish and save herself from the solitary confinement, but alas, it has not happen..._

_It could be something to that extent, yet the mail was too bizarre to understand._

_Where is the sparkling butterfly? My hands are still bare, my eyes are clouding with illusion, over the slight memory of the sparkling butterfly._

_For years, the snatching thief had captivated the butterfly. For years, I have waited for the butterfly to flutter her wings towards my lap. But where is it now, why must they torture me so? I don't appreciate prevarication, my dear grandson, so do what you must, but once it has safely kept in your possession, return it to me at once._

_Do it wisely, and I'll be sure to release you from my wrath._

_She wasn't exactly sure as to how the message was meant to be digested._

_She sat rigidly on her stool, ascertaining the probability of her intruding a personal mail._

_Probably not. After all, she wasn't the one at fault. She had been given the permission to trespass someone's private mail, and that was why she thought it would be best to tell xyru about her shameful encounter with the apparently private message._

_However, she was certain that no matter how jovial xyru was, the fire in him would at least flicker in belligerence over the unprofessionalism displayed by the two of them._

_Truthfully, Nadirah didn't feel as if it'd be such a big deal if the mail didn't mention the word possession, wrath and grandson. But it did._

_Especially possession, whatever it meant._

_Yet, if she didn't tell him, she would forever live in guilt._

_The least he could do was to avoid her entirely, which didn't sound remotely caustic, considering how it would only happen in the virtual world that was filled with imaginary people and faceless names instead of the real world with real identities and real emotions._

_Tell or not tell, both of them were guilt-inducing._

_Truth to be told, she didn't know why she cared so much, since it was thoroughly not her fault. If he asked, then she might as well fibbed on how she saw it, skimmed it, realized it was a private mail, ignored it, and forgot about it._

_The mail was located on the farthest page in his inbox, so if it was something important, then Nadirah would like to believe that he already knew about the bad news. You couldn't rely entirely on emails nowadays, could you? Grandmothers ever so often summoned their minions, and Nadirah knew it too well on how true it was, because her own grandmother was a great example to the mighty finger of doom._

_Granted, the fact that her grandmother was often true to her words may add to the factor, but she was certain that grandmothers in general didn't have much patience in waiting for an email reply._

_Still, it didn't feel right._

_Nadirah opened the browser and entered the site's address, reluctantly composed a new message to xyru._

_I've included an attachment of my replies for your mails._

_There's only nine, not ten, since one of the mails is quite confusing._

_Perhaps you should check it out yourself so that you would know the right way to handle such a situation._

_Anyway, hope you like my advices._

_And yes, I do have common sense. Thanks for enlightening me._

_Nadirah closed every applicant, and proceeded to lie on the bed._

_It wouldn't matter._

_Internet life never mattered as much as real-life. You can always create a new identity if your previous one was about to crumble. You can never do that in real life._

_Either way, he might live in the other side of the world...or not._

_She didn't know him anyways...or not._

_Nevertheless, she had no idea._

_Still, there was no reason for him to track her down._

chapter 3

_"_ _Have you heard?"_

_It was a pristine Sunday morning, the perfect time for a little tea sipping and occasional gossiping at Grandmother Fatima's living room._

_Perfect, if you were at least half-century-old, which the cousins were most certainly not._

_It wasn't as if the cousins couldn't find any remotely interesting thing to do, why, their fathers often went to who-knows-where on every gathering, no doubt to catch on the latest news. Their mothers often inhabited the kitchen as their personal private room, no doubt to share the latest gossips of their own, so it was definitely absurd to insinuate such things._

_There were things to do, things to say, but when you had met each other for practically all of your life, eventually the excitement effect would wear off, and you find yourself plainly don't care, since what was the point? They all knew pretty much everything they should know about one and another, and even if they were to indulge in a friendly match of a perfectly innocent game, it wouldn't be such a joyous activity, not when each of them had a freakish handicap under their wings._

_Therefore, you could guess that when you were breathing in the same living room with a couple of elderly splashed with some roguish teenagers, immaculate manner was a necessity. All you can do at the moment was listening to the conversation while quietly sipping tea._

_"_ _Heard what, exactly?"_

_Nadirah wasn't sure the name of the elder woman, since she rather called herself Grandmother Bee than her full name._

_Too much of a hassle, she used to say._

_"_ _Maznah's hairpin," Grandmother Mona was truly a fine example of an accomplished gossiper, "Have you heard what happened to it?"_

_"_ _I do," her grandmother interjected, "Poor thing."_

_"_ _What?" Grandmother Bee hissed impatiently, annoyed by the lack of explanation and attention._

_Yet the two grandmothers kept on feigning ignorance over the clueless Grandmother Bee and animatedly continued, "She was going to retrieve it back, the last time I heard."_

_Grandmother Mona gasped. "Her plan failed then?"_

_"_ _Seems so," Grandmother Fatima nodded distressfully. "One would expect that such a thing would draw a lot of attention, since it is the daintiest thing I've ever seen."_

_"_ _I heard of it," it was hard to ignore the triumphant tone in Grandmother Bee's voice, "The butterfly hairpin, is it not?"_

_"_ _Yes, butterfly," sighed Grandmother Mona, "With those clear-cut gemstones."_

_"_ _Sparkling, is it not?"_

_"_ _Very much so," Grandmother Fatima filled in her cup with more tea, "That's why it's called the sparkling butterfly."_

_The word caught Nadirah's attention, and as she placed her cup on the saucer, she was further intrigued when Grandmother Mona sighed in envy, "Sparkling butterfly from the 19_ _th_ _Century."_

_That caused Nadirah to nearly lose her composure. "S-sparkling butterfly?"_

_She resisted the urge to echo the remaining sentence. She was afraid that her excitement would cause her next words to shoot out horrifically from different direction and ended up having dual-meanings or none at all._

_It wasn't fair to the poor ears of the innocent spectators._

_"_ _Why yes," Grandmother Fatima had always liked it when one of her grandchildren showed interest in their highly intellectual conversation, or so she thought, "Every speck of the butterfly sparkles underneath the dazzling sun, much expected from a piece of accessory that were adorned with multiple gems." She cupped her chin thoughtfully. "I'd been enlightened with the exact types of gems on the butterfly, but I believe my dementia has gotten the best of me."_

_Nadirah just smiled, even if her inside was bursting at the sound of the precious gems._

_She truly loved gems, as much as butterflies and history, in fact._

_"_ _You are her childhood friend, are you not?" Grandmother Bee placed her full attention on Grandmother Fatima. "I would think that you'd know the true value of the treasure."_

_"_ _I assume it is priceless, it's a historical piece of art after all," answered Grandmother Fatima firmly. "I would've thought that the hairpin will already make its way to the market, but alas," she reached for her cup of tea and brought it close to her lips, "The thief has better eyes than I thought."_

_Nadirah composed a well-thought sentence in her head, and as she cleared her throat, she nonchalantly asked, "The nickname," she deliberately scrunched her face for the curious effect, "Is sparkling butterfly?"_

_The exact direction for her theory was still hazy and blurry, but if the mentioned sparkling butterfly were indeed, the sparkling butterfly in xyru's mail, then surely it would mean that..._

_Nadirah had never dreamed that guilt could haunt you in a matter of seconds._

_"_ _Oh yes definitely," Grandmother Mona gazed at her intently, "Something as dainty as that deserved a name that is equal to its beauty, don't you think? Truly a spectacular piece, Maznah has chosen the right name for it."_

_"_ _Who—" Nadirah bit her tongue, constructing her sentence so that it would sound less-offensive, since amending was definitely not her strong-point, "Which one—"_

_"_ _My dear Nadirah," Grandmother Fatima chuckled softly, "Are you telling me that you've forgotten Grandmother Maznah?"_

_Quite so._

_"_ _Come now, she's just a child," Grandmother Mona beamed, cutting Nadirah off before she could even reply, which she was forever grateful, "Maznah's image must have slipped from her mind."_

_Nadirah grinned nervously._

_"_ _Widad will surely remember her," added Grandmother Mona, "Don't you think so, Fatima?"_

_She just nodded. "I expect she would."_

_"_ _I would?" spluttered Widad._

_"_ _Of course!" exclaimed Grandmother Bee. "It'd be despicable if you didn't remember—"_

_"_ _Well—"_

_"_ _Danial's grandmother," provided Grandmother Fatima sternly. "Now, if you still do not remember, then you have ashamed me severely, young lady."_

_"_ _Oh." Her mouth abruptly flied open, but then she smacked it tightly, "Of course."_

_Nadirah swiveled her head, her eyebrows arched._

_"_ _Yes," said Widad sweetly. "I think his brother is your friend."_

_"_ _Really?" Grandmother Mona gushed excitedly. "Ikhwan is your friend?"_

_Nadirah staggered, uncertain whether Widad had purposely locked her in an Amazon lair full of ferocious piranhas or actually being the good person she never was—_

_Oh, forget it. It was definitely the former. She was dealing with Widad after all._

_Nevertheless, lying and not lying had the same outcome, so she replied, "Uh...yes."_

_"_ _What a splendid coincidence!"_

_"_ _Ah, I remember now," Grandmother Fatima clasped her hands together, "Both of you used to go to the same school, isn't that so?"_

_Nadirah smiled forcefully._

_"_ _Indeed you do!" Grandmother Mona squealed. "Now tell me, how—"_

_Her voice was drowned by the loud shrilling cry from the phone, the perfect cue for Nadirah's departure from the piranha's lair, but auspiciously, as she stood up to receive the call, Widad decided that she too wanted to take part in the race._

_This could not happen. Nadirah would never allow it._

_"_ _The phone," Nadirah spluttered. "I-I'll get it."_

_"_ _No, I'll—"_

_Nadirah knew that she must resist Widad's presence at all cost before the sickly sensation could engulf her and turn her into Widad's idiotic puppet, so she made the drastic decision to...just run._

_She succeeded of course._

_Phone in her hand, she greeted breathlessly, "Assalamualaikum, how can I help you?"_

_She sounded cosmically exhilarated; it made her felt perplexingly bewildered._

_She decided that she was just full of confidence from outranking Widad yet again._

_The voice began to pierce her ears from the other line, "Waalaikummussalam, I am from the—"_

_"_ _Hello?"_

_She wasn't sure why, but she felt the sudden urge to be friendly._

_It might due to the adrenaline rush that was still on top of her head, or maybe because the voice on the other line was awfully scratchy._

_"_ _Yes?" said the scratchy voice, which further confirmed Nadirah's account on the voice being fishy._

_"_ _Your voice is distorted," she remarked blatantly. "Is there something wrong with the line?"_

_"_ _Distorted? I don't know what you mean—"_

_"_ _Distorted, definitely," she added sagely, "And quite static."_

_"_ _Maybe it has something to do with the line—"_

_"_ _Not my line. Yours, probably."_

_There was a short pause, before he finally replied, "Maybe—"_

_"_ _Oh yes, how can I help you?"_

_"_ _Much appreciated if you could connect me to Mrs. Fatima—"_

_"_ _No need to be cranky," she laughed. "It makes your voice sounds a lot more static."_

_There was a small pause. "It does?"_

_"_ _It does!" she exclaimed. "Who is this, anyway?"_

_She could hear the hesitation from the other line. "I'm afraid I can't reveal the disclosure, it's highly confidential."_

_"_ _Confidential?"_

_"_ _Yes, I'm afraid it is."_

_"_ _But previously, you were saying that you are from the..." her voice trailed away, indicating him to finish her line._

_"_ _Did I?"_

_"_ _You did," she said accusingly. "I remembered."_

_"_ _Of course you do," he muttered._

_"_ _You are exceptionally bright."_

_"_ _I wouldn't know if that was meant as a compliment or an insult."_

_"_ _Take it as you may," she grinned at the obvious belligerence in his voice, and continued, "But you have yet to introduce yourself."_

_"_ _My apologies," he muttered. "I've been distracted."_

_"_ _By me?"_

_"_ _Clear as day. Anyway, I'm from the Friday's Journal, and I'd like to propose an interview."_

_"_ _Not to me, obviously."_

_"_ _Clear as day."_

_"_ _You are so hateful."_

_"_ _I take that as a compliment."_

_"_ _Twisted, as well."_

_"_ _As you say so, miss."_

_"_ _Why do you need to interview my grandmother?" she asked, genuinely curious. "She's not a celebrity, just so you know."_

_"_ _It's our custom to interview successful woman in their golden age, very inspirational for our readers."_

_Nadirah understood that. She was a freelance writer as well, despite how her writer job was quite on the standard of a newbie, in the virtual world no less, but at least she had her own column._

_Yet there was something about the voice that tickled her instinct, so in her attempt to avoid letting her grandmother being conned, she said into the receiver, "Wait, let me get my grandmother."_

_She proceeded to run toward the living room, breathlessly announced, "There is," she gasped, "Someone," she gulped, "On the line."_

_"_ _Of course there is! It wouldn't ring otherwise, wouldn't it?" said Grandmother Bee flatly._

_"_ _Stop badgering her, Bee. Now," Grandmother Fatima looked at her granddaughter curiously, "Who is it?"_

_Nadirah tilted her head side by side, carefully said, "Friday's Journal's journalist."_

_"_ _Friday's Journal!" squealed Grandmother Mona; her eyes sparkled as she gushed up to Grandmother Fatima. "They are going to interview you!"_

_"_ _Is that so?" Grandmother Fatima exchanged nervous glances with her friends and Nadirah. "They are going to interview me?"_

_Nadirah shrugged, pointing at the phone._

_"_ _Well, their request shouldn't be unheard," she quickly left her seat, striding across the room and passed Nadirah in the process._

_Nadirah smiled politely at the rest of the grandmothers as her sign to be excused, before hurriedly running up the stairs to grab the other receiver of the connected phone._

_She placed it on her ear, just in time to hear the suspicious male voice clattering his way up into her grandmother's brain._

_"_ _I'm from the Friday's Journal, this is Mrs. Fatima, am I correct?"_

_"_ _Certainly, yes," her grandmother sounded awfully flustered, "This is she. How can I help you?"_

_"_ _It's an honor to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Fatima. I've heard splendid tales about your success in life, truly inspirational to the team."_

_"_ _Is that so?" it was obvious that Grandmother Fatima was beaming, "I am flattered."_

_"_ _I'm sure that someone like you would prove to be as inspirational to the readers as much to us, and that is why we would like to ask for your cooperation in holding an interview with you."_

_"_ _Interview?" it was hard to hide the excitement in her voice, but she cleverly morphed it into an expression of amuse, "What was there to interview about? I don't believe I have many secrets to spare."_

_She had too many secrets that she couldn't possibly spare any of them._

_"_ _Our readers are content with just a justification in their life, and if you could somehow ignite the fire in them, it would suffice, Mrs. Fatima. It just shows how your life doesn't need to be secretive in order to be successful."_

_If there were a family who was more secretive than the others were, it would be hers._

_"_ _Of course," she sounded pleased. "If you could please share me the details—"_

_"_ _Yes, well," there was a slight sound of pages ruffling, "When will you be free, Mrs. Fatima?"_

_"_ _Oh, anytime," she replied. "Elder woman like me, too much time in my hands," she chuckled softly. "The question here is where, since I believe I am not as youthful as I used to be," she whispered, "You will experience it later in your life, although I do wish for your health to be in supreme condition even in your golden age."_

_"_ _Why, thank you Mrs. Fatima," he hesitated. "That was a kind notion. Anyway, I might have a solution."_

_"_ _Yes?"_

_"_ _Your mansion is such an articulate creation, and I know how lots of people are mesmerized by the exquisite architecture, so maybe, if you are willing, we could conduct the interview right there?"_

_"_ _Including my house, you mean?"_

_"_ _Exactly. How does the idea fare with you?"_

_"_ _Oh," there was a short pause, "Well—"_

_"_ _I assure you, it would be such a thrilling experience for our readers. Possibly could ignite their inner strength in having the same persistence as you in order to secure a grandeur mansion just like yours."_

_"_ _Well," she cleared her throat. "I am delighted to be able to spark some interest in young entrepreneurs in order to gain the same achievement, but this house did not include in my list of success, you see."_

_"_ _Ah," said the voice, "So the rumors are true, this house was built by your father, am I right?"_

_"_ _There is such a rumor?" she blurted out unthinkingly._

_"_ _I'm afraid so, Mrs. Fatima. One couldn't resist gossiping about your stupendous mansion, which is to be expected. Your father must have been a man with superior talent and vision."_

_"_ _He was," she said proudly. "He loved architecture. Every chamber in this house was articulately built with exquisite details that I'm sure it rivals even that of a five-star hotel."_

_Nadirah glimpsed at her environment, and finally decided that it certainly was anciently spectacular._

_However, she had been accustomed to the house since birth, so it was not a wonder that such thought would escape from her mind._

_"_ _How intriguing! That, I must see."_

_"_ _Oh you must," she acceded. "You should come."_

_"_ _I love to inspect your father's crafts, but are you certain?"_

_"_ _Of course," said she. "See it with your own eyes, and you'd be surprised."_

_"_ _I have no doubt that I will," he chuckled. "Does this mean that you will allow us photograph your resident?"_

_"_ _Oh," her voice wavered, "That's—"_

_"_ _I'm certain your father would be proud," he was undeniably a smooth-talker, "I myself would be proud too if someone were to photograph my masterpiece."_

_"_ _I would too," said she, "And I think you're right."_

_"_ _Please, take your time to think."_

_"_ _I think I have used my thinking time," she chuckled, her voice grew warm by the second, "Sure, we have an agreement."_

_"_ _Thank you very much, Mrs. Fatima. I'm sure the readers would be ecstatic to see how the interior fares over the enthralling exterior."_

_"_ _I hope they would," her voice was jubilantly happy. "When will you come?"_

_"_ _When do you propose is a good time?"_

_"_ _My children are still here, so I believe it is best to conduct the interview after they have returned to their houses," she whispered. "My family is quite large, and can be quite demanding, you see."_

_"_ _Is that so, Mrs. Fatima?"_

_"_ _Yes," she said seriously. "They would return by the end of this week at most, so any day on the week after would be fine."_

_"_ _I see, well what about," there was a tapping sound at the other line, might be his pen tapping on his notebook, "Next Saturday?"_

_"_ _Next Saturday would be splendid."_

_"_ _Great! Then I'll see you later, Mrs. Fatima."_

_"_ _Same to you, and oh, I don't think I have the pleasure in learning your name."_

_"_ _My name? Oh," he laughed nervously. "My name is Wafi, and thanks for your patronage, Mrs. Fatima."_

_"_ _My sentiments exactly, Wafi."_

_Nadirah stared at the receiver, pondering loudly._

_Wasn't the name supposed to be confidential?_

_Why would he lie to her, but not to the Mrs. Fatima?_

_Nadirah wasn't aware that a journalist name was exclusively reserved for the ears of the interviewee only._

_The possibility of the journalist adopting a false name was high, since what would you expect from a person who used a voice-changer over the phone? If there was a trait about Nadirah that no one really knew, it was the fact that she could remember every single voice there was, and if there were a voice that she felt overly uncustomary, there was only one simple explanation for that— the voice didn't exist._

_Nadirah knew that she was an intelligent person, and so, in uncovering the slimy fraud of a journalist, she tried to rewind the conversation, in case she could find a certain hole in his testimony._

_She must had been using too much force, because suddenly the conversation flew out of hand, and instead of starting at the beginning, it went far back, recollecting on a conversation that she never knew she had with the mysterious man on the phone._

" _I saw you too, with your cousin. Where is she?'_

_Her nerves must've been throbbing madly with bewilderment, and so prompted her ability to rewind further than necessary._

" _But if it helps, I truly think that you'd look spectacular wearing that."_

_She gasped, her eyes widened by the new discovery._

_"_ _Suri hasn't updated much, hasn't she?"_

_Nadirah peered at Arina over her laptop, nonchalantly shrugged._

_"_ _Her last entry is about hypocrites," she skimmed the article, scoffing aloud. "I doubt there's a reason for Zahari's constant tormenting towards me. He lies at my face all the time. He's definitely a psychotic hypocrite."_

_"_ _There_ _is_ _a reason," said Widad. "You're an easy target, that's the reason."_

_"_ _Psycho, then," provided Nadirah._

_"_ _Definitive psycho," Arina acceded. "Sometimes I wish that I was an only child—"_

_"_ _No," said Nadirah flatly._

_"_ _Okay, maybe not that extreme," she amended her words, "Maybe not to have an older brother but a younger brother instead—"_

_"_ _No," said Widad coldly._

_"_ _Okay," Arina's voice went slightly high-pitched, "Older sister—" her eyes flickered toward Widad, "Maybe not."_

_"_ _Why are we here again?" Widad sipped her coffee impatiently, her eyes clearly bored as she cupped her chin on the air-conditioned café's coffee table._

_If it wasn't for the noticeably sour faces of the two cousins, the café would have retained its tranquil and peace atmosphere. Yet that was not possible, not when they'd been unwillingly forced to accompany Arina by the vicious words of her own, all for the sake of her daily internet dose of celebrities' gossips._

_Not exactly unwilling on Nadirah's part; she truly needed the connectivity more than anything right this second. But she tried to keep a blasé front. She didn't want the two of them to pry into her little affairs if her true colors were to burst out-front._

_"_ _Don't pretend that you don't know," Arina muttered, "It's a matter of life and death."_

_"_ _It is?"_

_"_ _Of course it is," she snapped, but then her eyes brightened as she shook Nadirah's hand. "I'm right yet again!"_

_Nadirah creased her brows. "Huh?"_

_"_ _I challenged Ty," she said jubilantly. "I won, yet again."_

_"_ _You—"_

_"_ _Always won, I know! Ty said it himself," she grinned mischievously. "But no one has such luck with Ty."_

_"_ _Matter of life and death," muttered Widad._

_Arina ignored her completely, animatedly conversing to Nadirah. "I bet Ty is furious right now."_

_Nadirah shrugged._

_Truthfully, Ty had expressed his annoyance toward Arina more than once in several occasions._

_No one in the virtual world knew that both of them were related. The only thing that they knew was that Suri had an extremely nosy cousin who loved gossips more than anything—the reason for her continuous pestering toward Ty— but never in their mind would they assume that the person in question was no other than Arina herself. For that, Nadirah was thankful that such confidential information was out from their ears, especially Ty's._

_However, now that the fleeting suspicion of xyru breathing in the same place as her had been more prominent as the time ticked by, she wasn't so sure anymore._

_Widad sighed. "I should've asked my mother to install the internet at Grandmother's house."_

_"_ _Why?" asked Arina, flummoxed by her cousin's lack of interest. "This place is nice, the Wi-Fi is free, honestly," she leaned in, "You have nothing to lose."_

_"_ _Oh yeah, nothing to lose," Widad rolled her eyes, "Except for a couple of mere notes for overpriced coffee."_

_"_ _You drink it all the time!"_

_"_ _I do," she admitted, "But I usually pay for one, not for three."_

_"_ _You have your personal income!"_

_Widad scoffed. "You don't?"_

_"_ _Allowances and personal income are two totally different things," Arina pointed out firmly, "Much, much different."_

_Widad stared at Arina in a mixture of pity and supercilious, "Which planet are you living in, dear cousin?"_

_Arina decided to feign ignorance, shifting her attention toward her other cousin, who undoubtedly, not as grouchy. "What are you doing anyway?" she nudged Nadirah on her elbow. "You look pissed."_

_Not as pissed as Widad. That was for sure._

_Nadirah staggered slightly on her seat. "I do?"_

_"_ _Maybe you don't," Arina scrunched her face, "Sleepy, maybe."_

_"_ _Sleepy," Nadirah echoed. Sighing, she pointed at her laptop. "Mails."_

_"_ _Ugh, I hate mails. All those spams and junks," she shuddered. "I just delete everything most of the time."_

_"_ _Of course you would," Widad said dryly. "Your emails are junks anyways."_

_"_ _They're not."_

_"_ _They are," her tone was undeniably smug, "I'd bet your inbox are filled with computer-generated notifying messages from those various forums you visit every single day."_

_"_ _That," Arina grabbed her tumbler, bringing it close to the brim of her lips, "Is true, but who use emails anyway, nowadays?"_

_"_ _Uh," Nadirah peeked from under her laptop screen, "Me?"_

_"_ _Present company excluded," she took a swig of her coffee._

_"_ _Your dad?" provided Widad, snickering._

_"_ _Blood relatives excluded!" she said hotly, which might due to the steaming coffee._

_Widad cocked her head toward a neighboring table. "That person?"_

_"_ _Present company excluded," Nadirah grinned, her tone was staccato at its best._

_Arina grunted grudgingly. "Okay, fine. Everyone uses email but me," she said dryly, eyeing Nadirah flatly. "Do you have a lot of mails?"_

_"_ _Kind of," Nadirah pointed at her pendrive. "Copying."_

_"_ _Oh," Arina shrugged, proceeding to fixate her eyes at her own laptop screen. "My download will finish in just another 15 minutes."_

_"_ _Good, this chair is killing me—" Widad's eyes abruptly flew toward Arina. "What are you downloading anyway?"_

_"_ _None of your concern, and I happen to think that this chair is comfy."_

_"_ _I'm just bored then," she twirled her tumbler around, "I have no laptop to occupy myself with."_

_"_ _Here," said Arina eagerly, "Watch my music video collection. I have tons of them."_

_"_ _I d—"_

_"_ _You'll like them!"_

_"_ _I don't—"_

_"_ _You like them."_

_Nadirah snorted, quickly replacing the uncouth sound with a little coffee swigging, avoiding from being Arina's next victim._

_Being distracted was the last thing she wanted at the moment._

_Nonetheless, they didn't lounge at the café more than necessary. After Arina had successfully brainwashed Widad with her horrid choice of music, they returned home with much contentment, except for Widad apparently—the sound of the said music manifesting her stereo did nothing but beleaguer her._

_Nadirah walked toward the open garden, proceeding to open her laptop in the outdoor's picnic table. She had forwarded all of xyru's emails to her own email address, deleted any evidence that may linked to her file transferring, and after pinpointing the related mails, she had come to a total of eight mails. Excluding the first mail, she had seven messages waiting to be intruded and invaded by her own eyes._

_She was such a nosy person. She never knew._

_She doubted anyone would though, considering how her personality was the reserve and oblivious type._

_It was a good thing that her inner thoughts were muted against the ears of mere mortals._

Subject: A butterfly with no wings 11.04 am Sunday

What is a butterfly, if one cannot flutter the wings and let it fly with the wind?

You must find her wings, ransack the house if you must, but please, let the butterfly find her way back to me.

Do not waste any more time. I have more contacts than you can imagine, so there is no reason for you to meet a dead end.

I cannot live in wrath, and I know that you are dying to escape from my wrath.

Subject: The sparkling butterfly is crying diamonds 10.00 am Saturday

Why do I feel as if the butterfly is aging and shredding its skin? Granted, it is not a snake, so a mild shredding is like a throbbing pain. Please, do not let the skin completely shred. You need to hurry and save the butterfly, or else a phoenix I will be, and none of us would appreciate that.

Subject: The butterfly is still on the loose? 8.00 pm Friday

So I am told that there is a witness who could aid our way.

I have organized the rest; you will receive your invitation momentarily.

Do not rests assure, since the case has yet to rest.

Subject: Where is the scent of the butterfly? 5.00 pm Friday

The blackmailing of the butterfly has not escaped my ears, yet I have not seen the sheet.

I need to see it now, my dear grandson. I need to see it now.

Subject: The hunt for the butterfly is still going strong 11.01 pm Thursday

I have crucial information waiting to be shared.

Do kindly visit me at my house.

Subject: The captivators of my sparkling butterfly 10.25 pm Thursday

I need a list of the potential kidnappers. Who would dare to keep my butterfly in their custody, suffocating my butterfly with the terrible fragrance of death, engulfing the cage with their most loathsome scent? They are the lowest human beings, and I detest them greatly.

_For the longest time, Nadirah did nothing but stare at the mails, her eyebrows raised at the sheer absurdity of it all. She didn't have the slightest idea of the true misery beneath the overbearingly confusing words, but at least the investigation had sealed her suspicion—the butterfly was indeed the lost hairpin of Ikhwan's grandmother._

_Furthermore, if she were to decipher the first mail—undoubtedly the latest one— the keywords that she found—apart from the obvious wrath—would be ransack._

_Ransack...might as well meant ransack._

_How much percentage was there that her grandmother's house was not the chosen victim of such crime, especially when the fake journalist and the bearer of the internet pseudonym were proven to be one and the same?_

_Nadirah was more than certain that this house was in jeopardy, and since xyru had been ordered by his grandmother to ransack the house, then..._

_She needed to smack some sense into that idiot's head._

_It was a good thing that her glib tongue seemed to run loose whenever she conversed with the idiot. Summoning her evil side wasn't as easy as it looked, not when the said evil side had been hibernating for years in the lowest pit of her soul._

_Although, it had been rattling lately...ever since she met him._

_More reasons to torture him, then._

_A butterfly flew by her nose, playfully playing along the breeze, and as Nadirah stared at the magnificent creation, her mind started to wander._

_For once, she was grateful that her Pandora box seemed to unconsciously open whenever she talked to him. How was she going to lash out verbally at Ikhwan for his desperately foolish plan, if she was severely handicapped like a wingless butterfly?_

_Her wings were only slightly detached; she can still fly. Admittedly, it was supremely painful, but it worth every effort._

_"_ _Aah!"_

_Nadirah abruptly startled, her ears nearly deafened by a piercingly high-pitched voice, shrieking on the top of her lungs._

_"_ _I," apparently, the voice belonged to Widad, "Did not," judging by her pale face, maybe the butterfly had sucked her blood, "Just saw," but butterflies did not drink humans blood, "That fly!" Widad shrieked, flabbergasted beyond words._

_Nadirah flinched. "I-it's a butterfly," she was still shocked by the sudden loudness of her cousin's voice, especially when the target of such aggravation was just a normal butterfly._

_"_ _It's a moth!"_

_"_ _It's..." she blinked, scrutinizing the creature, "The same species?"_

_Maybe it wasn't just a normal butterfly after all._

_"_ _It's not a butterfly!"_

_Since when did Widad become afraid of butterflies?_

_"_ _Since when did you become afraid of butterflies?"_

_Nadirah clasped her mouth._

_It might due to her sudden confidence of confronting Ikhwan, or maybe it was just because she was highly flummoxed by Widad's odd behavior, but somehow, she began to regain her freedom of speech._

_That was awesome._

_The box was rattling._

_Oh._

_"_ _Since..." Widad staggered, gasping for air. "I'll see you later." She quickly fled the garden without another word, and after a few moments, Nadirah saw Widad's car zooming on the road, bearing the sour-faced owner on the driver's seat._

_Nadirah had no doubt that Widad was going to try recovering her breath with the soft smell of brand-new shoes and branded jackets at the mall._

_"_ _Nadirah."_

_She swiveled around, only to find a glowing elder woman beaming at her with uncontainable light. "Grandmother Maznah is here, kindly do me a favor and greet the lady, will you?"_

_"_ _Ah," she froze in front of her laptop, dreading the thought of greeting people with her inferior verbal skill._

_"_ _Her grandchildren are also here," her grandmother's beam was blindingly bright, and it felt as if she was trying to inject some of her sunshine into her frozen granddaughter._

_It worked._

_Grandchildren._

_The word playfully floated in her mind, repeatedly repeating itself, and it took every ounce of self-control to maintain her nonchalance persona._

_Truthfully, she wasn't quite ready to confront the fraud, but she might as well get it over with since the opportunity had pretty much landed in front of her very eyes._

_"_ _Okay," her voice sounded foreign to her ears, but that was not her main concern at the moment._

_"_ _Good." Her grandmother craned her neck left and right, ostensibly searching for something, "Where is Widad?"_

_"_ _Why?" Nadirah asked dubiously._

_"_ _Grandmother Maznah is dying to meet her, I expect," she beamed again._

_"_ _Why?" once again, dubiously._

_"_ _Because she likes her of course," Grandmother Fatima stared at Nadirah as if she was a complete moron, and started to sound impatient, "Have you seen her?"_

_Nadirah stood there comically, pondering for the right answer._

_If spending time with Widad for the last couple of days had taught her anything, it was the fact that Nadirah outranked her every time they touched the subject regarding Danial._

_If it meant anything, it very well meant that she was terribly afraid of Danial, and meeting him will certainly be on top of her list of unwanted things._

_Nadirah knew that she was truly a kind person at heart, so she answered, "No."_

_After all, honest was not she._

_She had not seen her...not unless you counted the previous minutes._

_"_ _It's okay," her grandmother patted her back, literally dragging her toward the house, "I'll find her myself."_

_Nadirah entered the house from the backdoor, glancing at her grandmother who was frantically asking the caretakers about the absence of Widad._

_She was brutally ashamed of her insensitive and dishonest act, but she had a bigger problem to take care for now._

_The fate of this house was in her hands!_

_Now that was certainly a bigger problem._

_If anything, she had acknowledged herself as the vainest person alive. Thus, in her quest of avoiding unnecessarily embarrassing scene, she took the liberty of securing a spot in the house, all for the purpose of regularly prying the guest in order to reestablish her image._

_She couldn't afford to lose her face and end up gasping for the correct words in front of those unexpected guests. Pleasing everyone was a lot of work, especially when that everyone didn't have the same attributes and fondness._

_Therefore, she went upstairs, peeked at the little hole on the floor—which of course, was the ceiling of the living room—and watched the free show._

_She could see a certain elderly lady pecking both of Arina's cheeks, and sure enough, there were two of her grandsons standing behind her like loyal puppies—_

_Bodyguards. She meant bodyguards._

_Anyway, everyone was there, excluding Widad, excluding herself, and of course, excluding her grandmother._

_Nadirah startled as Najwan looked up, suddenly grinning at her._

_It was customary to expect Nadirah somewhere up on the ceiling whenever a guest had arrived—she was usually fashionably late in providing her simple greeting—so each of the cousins knew exactly where to look at if her grand appearance was amiss._

_Najwan mouthed the words, "Get down."_

_Nadirah shook her head, "Wait."_

_Najwan grinned wickedly, pretending nudging Ikhwan to look up, but suddenly, his cell phone rang._

_I said WAIT!_

_Najwan snorted, subsequently replied,_

_Fine._

_"_ _All of Fatima's grandchildren have grown up! I couldn't believe my eyes. It felt like yesterday when I saw all of you prattling around, now each of you is taller than me!"_

_"_ _Of course Grandmother Maznah," Zahari smiled earnestly. "It's been a while."_

_And when he meant a while, he really meant a couple of months. They'd probably met the grandmother on every single occasion, but she never seemed to remember their identities._

_And neither did Nadirah. She never knew that this grandmother was_ _the_ _Grandmother Maznah. She supposed that was forgivable, considering the grandmother made the mistake herself._

_But the grandmother, admittedly, was older than her parents. She, on the other hand, was as old as her grandson._

_Oh well._

_"_ _It has," she nodded. "I am constantly reminded on how time flies like butterflies."_

_This grandmother definitely had an unhealthy obsession with butterflies, Nadirah thought._

_Exactly the opposite of Widad, then. But supposedly, they got along?_

_Her cell phone abruptly rung, stopping her mind from unnecessary dwelling. As she flipped it open, a message from Najwan reflected on her eyes._

_Okay, time's up. Get down now, or I'll tell Zahari._

_She grunted, and through the hole, she can see that Najwan was still grinning at her._

_Fine. But do me a favor. Or I'll tell Zahari about our clandestine endeavor, and you being my accomplice._

_His eyebrows raised, his finger stabbing the keypad furiously._

_Accomplice, huh? Fine, what is it?_

_Nadirah grinned as she typed..._

_Ask about the sparkling butterfly._

_He looked up, staring at her quizzically._

_"_ _Just ask," she mouthed._

_He nodded, and gave the elder lady his full attention. "So, Grandmother Maznah," he said lightly, "Have you retrieved your sparkling butterfly yet?"_

_Grandmother Maznah didn't look the least comfortable, but she hid it well with a gentle laugh. "No, I'm afraid not," she swallowed. "I believe I have yet to found it."_

_"_ _Such a pity," he let out a heartfelt sigh. His phone beeped yet again, and as he read it, he said, "My grandmother said that it's filled with memories."_

_"_ _Ah, yes," she nodded reluctantly. "A memento from my uncle, but I," she hesitated, and then asked in a high-pitched voice, "I'll say, where is the rest of your cousins?"_

_Najwan typed furiously on his keypad, and after finished pressing the last button, Nadirah's cell phone began to ring._

_Get down. NOW._

_It was inevitable. She needed to flee from the scene, now. Or else everyone will know about her nosy nose peeking from the hole on the ceiling._

_And the fake journalist will know that there would be a hole in his yet to be published story._

_She quickly exited the room, and upon entering the living room, she was there just in time to hear Zahari asked, "Have you seen her, Danial?"_

_Nadirah had no doubt that they were talking about Widad._

_"_ _I'm a guest, so naturally, I haven't." He said smoothly, but when his eyes fell on Nadirah, he added amusedly, "I've seen the other cousin, however."_

_Nadirah grinned, walking forward to shake the elder lady's hand. Grandmother Maznah tugged Nadirah's hand further and pecked both of her cheeks. "My, have you grown! Nadirah, isn't it?"_

_Nadirah smiled, nodding politely._

_"_ _Have you seen Widad?" she asked, curiously searching for a clue on Nadirah's face. "I'm dying to meet her."_

_"_ _Uh..." she glanced at Najwan, of which he replied suavely, "Nadirah was searching for her just now."_

_"_ _Where is she?"_

_"_ _I-I'll go..." she licked her lips, "Find her again."_

_"_ _Oh, that's not necessary—"_

_"_ _Oh, it is," said Najwan seriously. "Widad only listens to Nadirah's words."_

_Every pair of eyes began to land on her._

_"_ _Is that so?" asked Danial curiously._

_"_ _Uh..." she smiled sheepishly._

_"_ _Let's go find her," said Najwan, indicating her to follow him._

_She smiled at the audience, and followed Najwan out from the living room._

_"_ _Too...much...pressure," she panted, "I...am...dying..."_

_"_ _Would you like a cup of tea, madam?" asked Najwan amusedly._

_"_ _No thanks," she gasped._

_"_ _Fresh air?"_

_"_ _Thanks."_

_"_ _Widad?"_

_"_ _Don't care."_

_He snorted, and said, "Well, you've given me a reason to excuse myself." He led her toward the kitchen, opening the backdoor, "Run along and pretend that you're searching for Widad."_

_She scrunched her face._

_"_ _Come on now," he grinned, "Go."_

_She exited the door, and indulged in the brisk air._

_Strangers were one thing, attention was another problem. Combined, and it'd be a lethal disaster._

_She might be able to have a better hold of herself if the entire eyes in the room didn't shoot their full attention on her at once._

_Now that she thought about it, she didn't think she saw Ikhwan._

_She was certain that he was there during her secret stalking, but when she entered the room, he miraculously disappeared._

_She ran around the house, searching for the person in question, but suddenly, her steps halted as she saw a certain figure pacing back and forth at the front lawn, heavily indulged in a deep thought._

_No, it was not Widad._

chapter 4

_"_ _What are you doing here?" she asked, staring at him suspiciously._

_He startled, but quickly composed himself by saying, "Assalamualaikum," and further smiled, "I need some fresh air."_

_"_ _Waalaikummussalam," suddenly she felt ashamed at her uncouth ambush. "I know. My cousins are monopolizing the oxygen."_

_"_ _No, that's not it," he smacked his lips, resisting to laugh, "I'm just—"_

_"_ _Examining the house?" she provided._

_"_ _What?"_

_"_ _The house," she said nonchalantly. "You are examining the house."_

_He looked at her with an unreadable expression. "The house," he said primly, "Is spectacular."_

_"_ _Is that so?" she raised her eyebrows. "The interior is not up to par, you see. It even has a hole."_

_He stared at her oddly, especially after hearing the word, hole._

_"_ _I see," his voice sounded strangled._

_"_ _Do you?"_

_"_ _I can't say I follow you," he narrowed his eyes._

_She briefly smiled, and said in a haughty tone, "I heard someone was planning on ransacking the house."_

_"_ _R-ransacking?"_

_"_ _How weird," she narrowed her eyes. "Are you making fun of me?"_

_"_ _Of course not," he quickly denied. "It's unintentional."_

_"_ _Good," she said smugly, "Because we should make it clear that it was unintentional for me to read someone's mails as well, even if the mails were mine to read."_

_"_ _What mail?" his eyes widened._

_"_ _Oh, I don't know," she deliberately sighed, "I thought it's shameful of me to read something that has no business with me, but then I realize that it is my business after all."_

_He didn't say a thing, but then he asked in confusion, "What is it?"_

_"_ _Like I said," she smiled dryly, "I read that a person was planning to ransack someone's house, and you know what?"_

_"_ _What?" he asked cautiously._

_"_ _Someone called this house yesterday. He wants to ransack this house too, I believe. Such a coincidence."_

_He stilled for a moment. "What makes you say that?"_

_"_ _I have a hunch," her voice grew serious._

_"_ _Mind to share?"_

_"_ _Absolutely," she nodded. "That email owner, and that caller yesterday," she paused for dramatic effect, "Is the same person."_

_"_ _That's preposterous, don't you think?" he laughed, but Nadirah could detect a hint of distress in his voice._

_More reasons for her to conclude that she was on the right track._

_"_ _I am weird, and I do believe that you don't understand the true measure of my weirdness, but if there is anything that I am absolutely certain, it would be that," she grinned triumphantly, "The caller yesterday, is you."_

_He stared at her incredulously. "Me?"_

_"_ _And that email owner, x-y-r-u I don't know how to pronounce that—"_

_"_ _Xyru?" his face twisted unsteadily._

_"_ _Xyru, right," she cleared her throat. "Is also you."_

_He stood there, bewildered, staring at her from every angle. "I can't believe it," he muttered. "S-u-r-i, not certain on the exact pronunciation—"_

_"_ _Suri, it's a fairly simple name!"_

_"_ _Is you," he ignored her outburst, "I was hoping that you live in the other side of the continent."_

_"_ _I bear the same sentiments," she said regrettably, more than he ever knew. But she was feeling strangely rejuvenated, and so she continued in much elation, sounding like a true investigator, "But facts remain that you admit to my deducing."_

_"_ _I did? I don't think—"_

_"_ _You did," she crossed her arms. "You acknowledged my Suri identity."_

_He scoffed. "Just a couple of prank emails, you have no rights to accuse me of a bigger crime."_

_"_ _Even if the mails might be fraud," she said, "Facts also remain that you are the yesterday prank caller."_

_"_ _You don't know if xyru, namely me, is the same caller."_

_"_ _Oh I do, you are definitely he, I am most certain about that."_

_"_ _How is that possible?" he sneered. "Don't tell me you have any evidence."_

_His sneering undoubtedly prickled her nerves._

_"_ _I did mention how my level of weirdness is out of your comprehendible mind, and even if you are not the caller, you are planning to ransack someone's house. That is because the mails are not—as you blatantly accused—fraud."_

_"_ _You wouldn't know for sure," he retorted. "Those mails are just petty nuisance for all I care."_

_"_ _Well, it's not much of a nuisance for you if you followed her order of doing whatever it was at Métamorphose."_

_He let out a sharp sigh, his eyes cold with fury._

_"_ _And you must have done something at the doctor's house."_

_He said nothing._

_Brimming with confidence, Nadirah said, "So why would you insinuate that I'm wrong when the mail blatantly ordered you to ransack someone's house, and why would you not follow it? Certainly, it'd break the pretty chain."_

_"_ _Someone's house," he echoed._

_"_ _I have in good authority that the house is this house," actually, she didn't, but she started to like the idea of pressing a culprit, "Bluff all you want. I know everything." That was not true, but one needed to pretend superior in order to gain full effect on pressing, "Including you, being the caller," it was always great to include the information that you were most certainly sure of. "Now tell me," her tone grew prim, "Why would two people, who undoubtedly are the same people, want to ransack a house, coincidently at the same time, coincidently at this particular house?"_

_He stared at her with not much of an expression, but then his lips curled into a smile. "Why don't you tell me?" he asked mockingly. "You're the detective."_

_Oh how she hated when her question left unanswered._

_She would not lose her face, especially not in front of this person, so she sagely spoke, "It has something to do with the sparkling butterfly, is it not?"_

_"_ _Sparkling butterfly?" his voice was more of a mutter._

_"_ _Your grandmother's hairpin," she took a deep breath, "I know all about it."_

_"_ _Of course you do," he murmured._

_Not really._

_"_ _Not really," she said flatly. "What I know is what everyone knows."_

_"_ _I see," said he, with no remotely crossed feelings whatsoever._

_Nadirah didn't like the sudden bleakness of his voice, so she hurriedly said, "I assure you that the butterfly is nowhere in this house."_

_"_ _Of course it isn't," he said quietly._

_"_ _Then why—"_

_"_ _Ah," he sighed, "Don't take it the wrong way, but it's truly hard to talk to you."_

_"_ _I get that," she scrunched her face, "A lot."_

_Yet, if there was one person whom she thought would have no problem talking to her, it would be him._

_How come? She couldn't understand._

_So she asked, "What do you mean by that?"_

_"_ _Like you said," his face was deeply contorted with pain, "You are a deeply intact book."_

_She waited for him to continue his sentence, to explain with the smoothness of his words, but he didn't, so she waited again, and realized that he wanted to put the matter at rest._

_She didn't appreciate the silence, and she needed to bring the subject back again, yet what could she do to make it sound not as apparent? Her eyes flew to the azure sky, back to the green grass, and as if suddenly realizing that they were standing in a place that was not quite suitable for mere chattering, she spontaneously asked, "Why are you here?"_

_"_ _Like I said, I feel stuffy."_

_His tone was deeply malicious; she couldn't help but felt toyed around. "No," she spat in disgust, "You said you needed fresh air." She knew she sounded horrifically snobbish but she didn't care. He was acting equally snobbish as well._

_"_ _Ah," he grinned. "You saw right through me."_

_"_ _Exactly," she held her chin high, "Although I still have no idea why it is so stuffy."_

_"_ _So you don't see right through me."_

_"_ _Shut up."_

_He snorted, but then his face hardened, resembling the wall of the house. He sighed. "I was haunted by the idea that..." he stared at her, "What would happen if Suri knows about the sparkling butterfly like you and the rest of your cousins do?"_

_"_ _What would happen?" she asked idiotically._

_His snort had undeniably turned into an amusing chortle. "This is what would happen. I don't expect her, meaning you," he eyed her meaningfully, "To let it go and not confront me."_

_Nadirah smacked her lips, her voice barely audible. "You know her well," but she quickly amended her sentence as she saw his mirth was beyond critical, "I mean me. But you can't blame me for being such a nosy person. I'm simply doing you a favor."_

_"_ _I didn't blame you, but like you said," he sneered the word, much to her belligerence, "It is your right to read my mails since I told you so," he shifted his view away from her face, his face annoyed out of a sudden, as if he had just been knocked hard on the head, "I blame it on Fattah."_

_Nadirah searched for answer on his face, bluntly spat, "Who?"_

_He grinned. "Tell me detective, who is Fattah?"_

_"_ _How should I know?" she spat again._

_"_ _Giving up, aren't you?" he smiled menacingly, "Seems like I've given you too much credit."_

_"_ _You are blinded by my intelligence."_

_He snorted yet again. "You said the exact thing I'm thinking."_

_"_ _Your thinking is the last thing I'll ever know."_

_"_ _My sentiments exactly," somehow, his voice sounded so honest it sickened her stomach. "Your head is very mysterious."_

_She wasn't going to let go without a fight. "You are a freak."_

_"_ _So are you."_

_"_ _So is Fattah?"_

_He laughed. "I wouldn't know."_

_"_ _You would," she accused, "But you're not telling."_

_"_ _Indeed," he smiled, "You know xyru well."_

_"_ _Not as much as Ty."_

_"_ _Really?" he raised his eyebrows. "But I know Ty better. Enough to know that he would send those prank mails."_

_She gaped, hard. "Don't tell me that Ty is that Fattah."_

_He considered that for a moment. "I won't tell, then."_

_She stared at him incredulously, subsequently stomping her feet. "He's supposed to live at the other side of the world!"_

_"_ _So were you, I mean," he grinned, "Suri."_

_Why oh why, this was her greatest nightmare._

_Not per se, but a nightmare nonetheless._

_When she first decided to dedicate herself to a land filled with faceless people, she was hoping that none of them would be real, since internet wasn't supposed to be real anyway._

_Who knew it could turn into this?_

_Why, oh why, she didn't want to hear—_

_She just realized that she had strayed away from the topic long enough than necessary._

_"_ _The fact remains," she tried to compose herself, "That you wanted to ransack my grandmother's house."_

_"_ _Seems so."_

_Her jaws dropped, but she didn't feel compelled to recollect it. "You admit it?"_

_"_ _I don't see why not," he muttered. "Such a shame to admit, but I've been busted."_

_His words were triumphal to her ears, but she wouldn't let that clouded her common sense. "Are you going to let it go, just like that?" she snapped her fingers._

_"_ _Yeah," he said amusedly, snapping his fingers as well. "Just like that."_

_"_ _You-you—" she clasped her mouth, afraid that her stammering would resurface._

_She took a deep breath._

_Then yelled. "You are not supposed to admit defeat!"_

_"_ _What's the point?"_

_"_ _You are a conman! Conman is supposed to be," she tapped her feet, trying to channel some intelligent remarks, "Well, incoherently intelligent yet deceitful."_

_"_ _Conman?" he scoffed, staring at her incredulously. "I hardly regard myself as a conman."_

_"_ _Then what do you call a certain person who disguised as an assistant in a clothes store and a journalist of a so-called journal in order to deceive people? Disguiser?"_

_He clamped his teeth. "You know too much."_

_"_ _In case you haven't noticed, I am intelligent."_

_"_ _I noticed that," he muttered. "I can never be a successful conman then."_

_"_ _You can't," she said smugly, crossing her arms, "If the investigation squad recruited me for their team."_

_"_ _I can, if you don't join the team?"_

_"_ _Exactly," she smiled jubilantly. "None could tell about your deceiving lies."_

_"_ _Are you urging me to embrace the career option of being a conman?"_

_"_ _No," her tone was firm. "I am just telling you that you've been quite swift with your plans."_

_"_ _I was," he said seriously. "If you're not such a closed book, I would've shifted your view ages ago."_

_"_ _Yet you can't."_

_"_ _I can't, and now, you've known my true agenda."_

_"_ _Not entirely."_

_"_ _Not entirely," he admitted, "But you will, sooner or later."_

_"_ _Sooner or later is not now."_

_He tried to hide his grin. "Intelligent, aren't you?"_

_"_ _Beside the point," she said pertly, "I would really appreciate it if you could tell me now."_

_There was a short silence._

_He took a deep breath. "The decision of telling remains to be seen, and the decision pertain solely on me."_

_"_ _You have to," she held her nose high. "If you don't, I won't help you with matter regarding the house."_

_He scoffed. "You will ransack it?"_

_"_ _I don't see why not," she didn't want to lose, "In case you have forgotten, this is basically," she glanced at the house, and back to Ikhwan, "My second home."_

_"_ _Of course," he smiled. "Or else you wouldn't know about the little hole on the ceiling that even your grandmother doesn't know."_

_"_ _Exactly, little hole—" her eyes widened. "What little hole?"_

_"_ _You mentioned about the hole."_

_She knew what she had mentioned, but hardly about the location!_

_"_ _Hardly about the location!" was the only words she couldn't manage to stop from tumbling out of her mouth._

_"_ _If I say that I assume it is precisely on the ceiling of the living room, will you believe me?"_

_Oh no._

_She stared at him, askance._

_And shook her head._

_"_ _No. Definitely not to you."_

_"_ _Oh well," he shrugged, "Facts remain that there is a hole."_

_She narrowed her eyes, suddenly aware of the disturbing fact. "How many times have you visited this house?"_

_"_ _Not many," he admitted, "But I've seen quite enough."_

_She laughed weakly. "Is that so? I don't remember seeing you here."_

_"_ _Nor do I," he said earnestly. "But I saw the others quite as much. I appreciate your kind notion, but I think the notion is highly unnecessary at this point."_

_It was absurd on how he saw others more than her. She was indeed, present on every occasion._

_But she didn't want to be distracted._

_No, she didn't want_ _him_ _to be distracted, prompting him to have his grand getaway. "Do you understand about your current condition?"_

_"_ _I do," he nodded. "Either you haul me to the nearest police station, which, mind you, without a single, legit evidence, or I'm forever stuck with my grandm-" he clamped his teeth. "Either way—not the least pretty."_

_She was annoyed on how he casually mentioned about the lack of legit evidence, but decided to pursue the matter anyway. "I don't understand the 'either way'."_

_"_ _Either way," said he, "It will not fare to my advantage, so both of the options didn't sound remotely appealing."_

_"_ _Well, if you just tell me, it will surely fare to your advantage. I have indeed," she said sagely, "Known too much."_

_"_ _Indeed you do, yet—"_

_"_ _Whatever it is that you are searching for, there's nothing you can do if I'm still here. Well, according to your plan, you will visit here next week when we have all gone, but still, I let you know," she gazed him intently, "Everyone in this house is a freak, and while they are a freak, their IQs are extremely high."_

_"_ _If everyone is like you then I deserve to feel at the very least, intimidated."_

_"_ _You are a fool if you don't."_

_"_ _I am," he trailed away, "A fool through and through."_

_"_ _No you aren't," she snapped, but then she amended her sentences when she saw his face. "Well, you will be, if you don't have my aid."_

_He sighed impatiently. "Why do you insist on helping me?"_

_She stared at him intently, and scoffed. "You might not like my reason."_

_"_ _I like to think that everything is not the least likeable nowadays."_

_"_ _Really," she muttered. "Well, you will certainly think that I'm an extremely nosy person," she gulped, "Or a busybody."_

_She wasn't planning on telling him about her_ _follow the butterfly_ _plan. She was either contemplating on confessing her love for treasures of the 19_ _th_ _Century, or her innocent hope of saving the house._

_She didn't want him to think that she was living in a fantasyland, you see._

_"_ _Well," he exchanged glances with the house, "It has something to do with you, nonetheless."_

_"_ _It does," she exasperated, "I assure you, you won't regret taking me under your wings—"_

_"_ _Maybe I shouldn't?" he asked amusedly._

_"_ _No, you definitely should, anyway," Nadirah went back to her pert mode, "You are trying to retrieve the sparkling butterfly."_

_"_ _True."_

_"_ _But you don't think the butterfly is in this house."_

_"_ _I highly doubt that, unless your grandmother hides it somewhere from us."_

_"_ _No such things."_

_"_ _No such things," he echoed._

_"_ _Then what do you need from this house? Don't tell me you need valuable things to sell so that you can pay the blackmail—"_

_"_ _Ah Nadirah," he shook his head in disappointment, "I have no idea that your opinion of me is below shallow, but of course, I do have proven myself to be quite foolish—"_

_"_ _Shut up."_

_He laughed. "I am on the verge of becoming a thief—"_

_"_ _And I can stop you from being one—"_

_"_ _I appreciate the thought, and while it does have something to do with you, I'm still not certain whether I should include you in this whole affair or not."_

_"_ _I thought you said—"_

_"_ _I said nothing."_

_She had never thought that he could be even more hateful, but he had. "What about Ty, then? Where does he fit in the picture?"_

_"_ _Ty," he seemed reluctant to answer, "Was simply dragged into the matter."_

_"_ _And I?"_

_He shrugged. "Not yet dragged."_

_"_ _But I am the granddaughter of this house!"_

_"_ _And that's it."_

_She had the odd urge to scream._

_But she hissed instead. "Why do you insist on rejecting my offer?"_

_He sighed impatiently. "Do you understand the current situation?"_

_"_ _Yes," she said breathlessly. "I think I do."_

_"_ _Then, enlighten me."_

_She took a deep breath, tired of the constant turnabout of conversation. It felt as if they were talking about the same thing over and over again. "You have been blackmailed by the real thief."_

_"_ _Fattah isn't being discreet enough, isn't he?"_

_"_ _Why did he send you those emails, anyway?"_

"I told him all about my problems," he said, "And he, more than often, mocks me around with those stupid notes of him," he sighed. "He's not as lucky this time."

"No, apparently not."

"I wonder if that's the reason why he wanted to reply to all of my emails."

_"_ No thanks to you of course, for your persistent."

"It does pertain to my decision."

"So what is your decision now? Either you have what you want, or you will never acquire the hairpin, and then what, suffers from your grandmother's wrath?"

He rubbed his palms together. "You do know too much."

"I do."

He exhaled a sharp breath, nodding, "I will think of your offer."

"You'll do that."

"Yes," his foot was tapping impatiently, "But I need to have a third person opinion first."

She quirked a brow. "Your brother?"

"My brother might have everything to do with this matter, but I don't think that this problem is his main concern," he clasped his hands. "I will discuss with Fattah."

She didn't understand how this matter concerned Fattah more than his brother. His brother was much like him—the grandson of Grandmother Maznah—while Fattah was simply, a friend. She was about to inquire further, when a voice abruptly closed her mouth.

"Nadirah!"

She swiveled her head, only to see Najhan approaching, his face impatient with distress. His facial expression changed as soon as he saw his cousin's companion, and apologetically, he said, "Oh, Ikhwan. I didn't..." he swallowed. "See you."

"Now you do," Ikhwan smiled. "Don't worry, we're only chattering about mindless things."

"Mindless things," she echoed, rolling her eyes.

If anyone had been paying attention to their outburst and darkened facial expressions, they would know that the conversation's meter wasn't even near to the safe side.

"Might not be something that Nadirah enjoy," Ikhwan retorted, smiling gleefully at her.

Najhan laughed. "I know. Her face is..." he sucked his lips, ascertaining his next reply, "Red?"

"Indeed, like a barely contained patience."

"Exactly!" Najhan chuckled. "I...I wanted to say that."

"Oh, sorry," Ikhwan looked at him apologetically, "It's rude of me to steal your phrase."

"You didn't know," he quickly replied, "So I shouldn't have feel..." he tilted his head, left and right, left and right...

He blinked. Blankly.

"Oh, please continue," encouraged Ikhwan. "I don't want to steal your phrase again."

"Right," Najhan said, "I shouldn't have feel as if my veins are throbbing in anger."

Wow.

Nadirah gaped at his sudden velocity in speaking—definitely nothing that she had heard coming from his mouth before.

Or anyone else's mouth for that matter.

Who speaks like that anyway?

"Really?" Ikhwan looked perturbed. "But I do owe you my apology."

"No need," Najhan briskly shoved his kind remarks away. "It's none of your fault."

"If you say so," Ikhwan smiled.

Najhan grinned, but that only lasted for a second before he slapped his forehead, muttering aloud, "Oh, I've forgotten." Najhan averted his gaze to his cousin. "Nadirah, grandmother wants you to..." he blinked.

Nadirah raised her brows.

"Well, Grandmother Maznah..." he swallowed, "Says that she thinks her attic has..." he looked at Ikhwan uncertainly, pleading for help most probably, but Ikhwan just nodded, "Her attic has manifested with..." he wrinkled his nose distastefully, "Rats. Is that true?"

"I guess it has," Ikhwan admitted. "And what about it?"

"She was afraid that..." he inhaled a deep breath, readying for his next outburst. "She was afraid that we..." he gulped, "Might have the same problem."

"Is that so?" asked Ikhwan quietly.

"So, she wants Nadirah to," he paused, "To show the attic, and she also said," he stared at Ikhwan, "That her grandchildren will know how to..."

"Repel it, indeed I do."

"Yes," Najhan sighed in relief. "So she wants both of you to..." he pointed at the attic, and as if admitting defeat, he slumped his hand down, "Do that."

"We shall do that," said Ikhwan.

Nadirah said nothing, wrinkling her nose in the process.

Rats...not her favorite thing in the world.

Rats...well, truth to be told, she'd never seen any rats in this house, so big chance she wouldn't see them.

"I think we should go and see the grandmothers first," suggested Ikhwan.

"Yes, do that," Najhan nodded eagerly. "Hear what they say."

"Manifested with rats?" she mouthed as soon as Najhan strode into the house, leaving them with their own errand.

"No," there was a slight twinge in his voice that Nadirah had never heard before, but alas, she'd only known the real him for a couple of hours. All those years of knowing him as xyru and fellow classmates seemed to be eons ago. "I believe you are manifesting yourself into trouble. Congratulations," his eyes crinkled into a smile, "You have successfully meddled yourself with our problem."

"Huh?" she blinked.

"That's probably not my grandmother's intention, but I," he scoffed, "Don't wish to barricade myself in a room, searching for something imaginary that I'm completely clueless about. You might help me—no, you will help me."

"Okay..." her eyes staggered left and right, bewildered at his sudden change of behavior.

"I will tell you all about this later, of course," said he, sensing her anxiety, "Once you've helped me getting rid of the spider webs and dust bunnies."

Spider webs...dust bunnies...things that could get a nose running for business. Her nose didn't mind a little exposure at those things, but she knew that some people couldn't get past those without having a mild reaction and a trip to the clinic.

"You hate them, don't you?" She wondered if he had an allergic toward those things as well.

"Sorry?"

"You won't let me in for a simple reason, yet—" For the sake of his nose, he was willing to admit defeat.

"Gullible, yes I am."

"I didn't say that."

"I acknowledge myself then. Well, not exactly hate, but I don't find relishing memories of others particularly appealing."

"Right," she stared at him oddly. Maybe it was not due to sneezing after all. "I don't understand."

"I don't understand you either, but I conclude that you are as much as a freak as I am."

"Yes, well," she fidgeted uneasily, "I don't know about that."

"Maybe you will, maybe you won't," he grinned broadly. "Let's go and meet the grandmothers."

Just like that, he began to leave her alone with the thought, heading toward the house.

"Why are you being so tolerant out of a sudden?" she hissed, trying to keep up with his pace while appearing totally blasé.

"Like I said," he raised his brows, "It's inevitable."

"You didn't say that."

"I say it now, then."

She stared at him bewilderedly, and as they entered the living room, Grandmother Maznah looked up, her lips stretched into a pleasant smile.

This was the face of the true mastermind behind the top-secret plan.

Nadirah wondered greatly about the exact reason behind the secretive plan. Did she really hold that much of affection toward a single jewelry, or was it something else entirely?

"Ikhwan," Grandmother Maznah nodded warmly in acknowledgment, "Nadirah. How are you doing?"

"Fine," she replied carefully.

"How good it is to hear that you are well," Grandmother Maznah said gently. "I was just talking to your grandmother, and told her about my attic," she subsequently shivered. "Such vexing problem, is it not, Ikhwan?"

"It sure is," Ikhwan murmured.

"How problematic it'd be if others were to experience such frightful incident, and I was haunted with the possibility that what if..." she twisted her position sharply toward Grandmother Fatima's direction, "...what if Fatima's attic bears the same fate as mine! Oh, the horror!"

Grandmother Fatima chuckled softly. "I assure you that I have not visited the attic very much for the past years," she smiled, "But I do believe that there are no rats—"

"Well, you couldn't be too sure!" squealed Grandmother Maznah. "If I were you, and you were I, I will surely learn from your mistake, I mean mine, and quickly banish the lair before it could get out of control, like in my, I mean, your house!"

That was confusing.

But Grandmother Fatima kept on smiling, gently negated, "I'll just ask one of my grandchildren to inspect it on my behalf—"

"Why don't you let Ikhwan inspect it for you? I am sure he would deem useful than your grandchildren. He has the experience already."

"Wow," Nadirah whistled in much subtlety, "Rat hunter," which earned her a couple of irritated stares from Ikhwan.

"I couldn't trouble your grandson," Grandmother Fatima hesitated. "I'll say, my grandsons are quite capable of handling the pests, so please," she looked at him, "Don't trouble yourself."

"It's not at all troubling, Grandmother Fatima," he answered politely. "I'm more than willing to do the errand, and as they say, precautions are better than treatments, and also, as they say," he grinned. "Volunteers are better than forcers."

Nadirah could tell that her grandmother's spirit was wavering, because she knew quite well on how her male cousins wouldn't appreciate the thought of hunting a couple of pests, especially when there was nothing beneficial in store for them.

"My house is dreadful! You don't want to have the same fate as me, right Ikhwan?" Grandmother Maznah prickled some more, of which Ikhwan nodded, "Uncontrollable pest," she shuddered. "Better to keep an old mind like mine on ease. Now, why don't you let him have a little check? A little check won't hurt."

"I agree, Grandmother Fatima. It's best to have a thorough inspection," he continued, "Especially when your honorary guest would be the journalists from Friday's Journal, isn't that so?"

"Why, yes," she flustered, "That is true."

"A sight of a rat running around the house might've been quite...humiliating," Ikhwan sighed wholeheartedly.

"That is...true," there was a certain ring in her grandmother's tone, and Nadirah knew that she was contemplating about her decision, much like the other day with the prank telephone call by that fraud journalist.

Ikhwan wasn't finished. He wasn't going to let Grandmother Fatima slipped from his grasp. "Especially if the said rat," his tone was dreadfully abashed, "Ends up in the journal."

That did the trick.

Grandmother Fatima's eyes abruptly widened in disgust. "That is beyond humiliating!"

"Indeed," Ikhwan murmured, "The mouth of a human, couldn't be tightly closed like a cap and a bottle."

Nadirah stared at him, her mouth smacked with boiling mirth over his lame lines.

"Watch and learn," he whispered, his eyes pointing at her grandmother.

Grandmother Fatima sighed, her face darkened with unmentionable sorrow, enhancing her stressful line.

Well, Ikhwan had just proven himself to be exceptionally good in distressing other people.

"I believe it wouldn't cause me any harm," said Grandmother Fatima dementedly, "You can go up there. And Nadirah," her eyes were clouded with sorrowful worries as it landed on Nadirah's eyes, "Since you are here..."

She nodded.

"Show him the attic, will you?"

She nodded again.

"I'll make sure that everything is in control," assured Ikhwan.

"Thank you. You are a life-saver," Grandmother Fatima said warmly, and turned to Grandmother Maznah, "Your grandson is very obedient."

Ikhwan smiled and said nothing. Instead, he just beckoned her to lead him to the stairs.

"Rats," she muttered, ascending the stairs. "I'm quite certain there're no rats..."

"Are you all this busy when visiting your grandmother?"

"Not quite busy, but not at all leisure."

"Quite busy enough to operate a room?"

"No," she answered truthfully, "If not, Grandmother will surely notice the little hole," she scorned. "But not quite leisure enough to sleep all day," she looked at him in disdain, "The maids are dismissed from hard labor whenever we are here."

"So a rat is quite impossible, I see."

"One can't be so sure," she retorted briskly, "Not when some kind of a phony journal is holding an interview."

"Not phony," he grinned, "You'll see that we didn't place false hope in your grandmother."

"I hope not," she muttered. "She'd be in such frenzy if she knew on how she was tricked. She might burn the company's building for all I know."

"Will she?"

"Well, probably not," she amended, "But she might curse all of you for eternity."

"Curse," he clamped his teeth. "Well, excluding me."

"Including you, if I told her so," she narrowed her eyes.

"You wouldn't."

"What makes you so sure?"

He grinned. "Look out for Friday's Journal in a fortnight," he said, "You'll see this house on the front page."

Nadirah shrugged as she silently walked toward the attic, remembering the words on the email that mentioned how his grandmother had a lot of contacts.

That could be the truth. If not, Fattah wouldn't absentmindedly write it there, would he? If nosing about in someone's mails told her something, it was that the mails, phony as it may, told the truth in an exaggerated way.

So she had no doubt that maybe this house will make an appearance in the journal after all.

They finally reached the attic, and as Nadirah roamed her eyes across the room, she asked quietly, although she had no idea why she needed to be quiet, since the attic was clearly free of obvious inhabitants, but the situation was compelling enough to whisper, so she asked, "What are we searching for?"

"Rats?"

She scoffed. "Oh please."

He arched his brows.

"Okay, that," she muttered, "And what?"

"Not dust bunnies, or spider webs, but that's impossible—"

"Okay," she put her hands up in the air. "I'll leave you alone with the rats."

He chuckled. "Fine, we are searching for..." he sat on the floor, cupping his chin, "The dais of a butterfly."

"The what?" she nearly spat the question out due to the sheer absurdity of it all.

"The dais," he said clearly, "Of the sparkling butterfly."

Nadirah creased her forehead, looking quite confused. "Does a hairpin have a dais?"

"No," he shook his head, "But the dais for a hairpin lies in the greatest box that complimented its beauty."

She fidgeted awkwardly, frantically racking her brain. "There is such a box?" she assessed the room. "Even if there is, I don't think I have ever seen any immaculately-enough boxes around here."

"Good," he smiled, "Make things a lot easier."

"It does?"

"Maybe not," he shrugged, "The mysterious box has yet to be seen."

He wasn't helping at all.

But she digressed.

"The box," she hesitated, "Is it the hairpin's original box?"

"I don't think so," he looked at her. "The hairpin was given to my grandmother by her uncle, and the box was given to your grandmother by my grandmother's uncle."

Her eyebrows furrowed, digesting the information.

"Ah," she finally said, "How charming."

"My great-granduncle traveled a lot, so he possessed quite a lot of those things."

"So am I safe to say that you have no idea how the box looks like?"

"Save your deducing to yourself," he grinned at her beleaguered look, and added, "I know for certain that it's entirely made of wood and full of carven art."

"Made of wood and full of carven art," she echoed. "No such thing."

"Are you sure?"

She ignored the supercilious tone in that remark, and asked, "Why do you think it's in the attic?"

"Ah," he snickered. "This is quite shameful to admit, but my grandmother," he clicked his tongue, "Liked the box so much that she hid it somewhere in the attic, so that no one could get a hold of it."

She stared at him, openmouthed. "Marvelous."

"My grandmother is quite..." he smiled meaningfully, "Well, it's hard to say."

Nadirah didn't know his grandmother that well, but from his tone of voice, and the sound of the mails, it was apparent that she must have been quite a lioness that was hard to tame.

He firmly suggested that he didn't want to pursue the matter any further, so Nadirah tried to steer the subject away, but still remain in the same context, "So your plan is, during the interview, you will sneak up here?"

"In the nutshell, yeah—"

"What about Wafi?"

He snorted. "Wafi?"

"How are you going to be two people at once?"

His eyes glimmered. "I'll manage."

For some reason, Nadirah had the odd feeling that he _will_ manage. "But the original plan no longer applies."

"No longer applies, yes, but the deal of a cover is still going on, don't worry," he grinned, but then he smacked his lips. "Tell you what, why don't you take the liberty of searching for the box, and if you find it, then I will tell you all about the problem?"

She wondered if his mucus problem was that chronic. "Are you allergic to dust or something?"

"Well, that is a fine excuse, but no," he smiled. "Like I said, I don't find relishing memories of others quite appealing. I think I've said that."

"You did."

"Good," he smiled jovially, "Now go on and search."

Search? How was she going to search amidst all the stuff in the attic? It was fine if he decided to lend a hand, but that seemed thoroughly impossible.

"Any clue?" she pushed her luck, reluctantly searching one of the boxes.

"Well," said he, reassessing the situation. He hesitated at first, but then replied, "If you find any item that may lead to the childhood memory of your grandmother and mine, then I might as well be able to help."

"Really," she muttered. It did seem pointless to blindly search for an imaginary thing—as he kindly referred to. It was not as if she knew the exact shape of the box either, so it would be better if she were to search for a childhood toy instead.

Nevertheless, a third generation toy seemed unlikely, but then, the attic was the place for the darndest things.

Her hands stopped from searching a box, and as she stared outside of the little window, hopelessly wishing for an inspiration, her wish was miraculously granted, because suddenly, there was a light bulb of idea on the top of her head.

Maybe she could try to rewind a conversation that she had with Grandmother Fatima. Or anything concerning a youthful Grandmother Maznah.

Or maybe just her childhood would suffice.

"Give me a moment," she said abruptly, much to Ikhwan's puzzlement.

She rewound the speeches, omitted the pointless ones, storing anything that hinted on Grandmother Maznah, preferably things that had 'attic' and 'childhood' as the keywords, and before she knew it, the memory began to land before her very eyes.

" _When I was your age, I never parted with my doll."_

" _Really?" Nadirah asked._

" _Don't you play dolls with your friends too?"_

" _No. I read books."_

" _Good girl," she said. "You must have known quite a lot of words by now."_

" _I do," Nadirah replied, "But I often confused them with one and another, and I don't know which one to use."_

" _Just use the first one that appears in your mind."_

" _Okay," she smiled. "Where should I put this doll?"_

" _Put it in that box over there. It's filled with my precious childhood toys. I don't feel like parting with those just yet."_

She roamed her eyes toward the room, searching for the box in question. If she was lucky, the box might still be here, with the contents still intact, providing none touched it before her.

The thought made her stomach churned.

She never would've expected that the toy will become a vital item sometime in her life.

Not exactly vital, since it didn't have much to do with her in the first place, but Ikhwan was using her as his hand, and in her quest of being nosy, she got what she deserved.

That, and she wanted to prove her worth. What was the use of having a unique ability if it couldn't be used accordingly? She was certain that she was on the right track, and if she succeeded this trial, the curtain for the adventure will lift up and show itself.

The butterfly adventure. She nearly giggled, feeling butterflies in her stomach.

Truly, this was what she wanted since she was a child. To find her big break, and explore the adventure.

She stood up, walking toward a certain spot in her memory. There were a couple of boxes stacked neatly at the corner, and after some rough calculation, she secured a box in her hands.

She took a deep breath, opening the lid of the carton box, carefully rummaging through the items...

She grinned.

The doll...was safely tucked along with the dust bunnies and of course, plushy bunnies.

She swiveled towards Ikhwan's direction, holding the doll up. "Will this suffice?"

He raised his brows. "Great." He stood up and walked toward her. For a couple of seconds, he did nothing but stare, before adding, "I'll save the question for later."

"What makes you think that I'm going to answer?"

"Oh," he grinned devilishly. "You will."

He held the doll, his eyes deeply scrutinizing the texture, or maybe the structure, Nadirah couldn't tell, nevertheless, he might have been searching for evidence from the little puppet, but what kind of evidence would he secure, she wouldn't know, since the age would have diminish any type of clues anyways—

He cleared his throat.

Nadirah braced herself, wondering if he had discovered her verbose thoughts like the rest of her cousins did.

Supposedly, he couldn't read her like an open book, so she might as well hold on to that.

His eyes flickered toward her, grinning. "Say hello to Nini."

She blinked. "Nini?"

"My grandmother's doll is Nono."

"Ah." Nadirah didn't know the right reaction to execute, so she just blandly said, "No way."

"Nini and Nono have always played together at this house's garden."

She looked out at the garden, and back to the doll. "Your grandmother told you?"

"Nah," he shook his head, "My grandmother never told me such a thing."

"Then why—"

"Listen," he said lightly, "Nono has always played with Nini, and Nini is her best friend. She always let Nini wears the sparkling butterfly."

"Really?" her tone was doubtful.

"Miniature version of sparkling butterfly, more like," he said, amused. "Made of twigs and seashells."

"Fascinating..." still doubtful.

He ignored that thoroughly and continued, "Nini would often store the sparkling butterfly in a jewel box, which also made of carton box and seashells," his eyes deeply penetrating into the doll, "And they will gaze at the butterfly all day long."

She could not imagine gazing at something for hours without a reason.

She did believe that her collection of Métamorphose products was enticing but still, she didn't think she could gaze at it all day long.

Thirty minutes, tops.

"The box," he said, slicing through her thoughts, "Was an inspiration of a certain box that was given to Nini's master by the uncle of Nono's master."

That sounded a tad confusing, but Nadirah wouldn't let him see that. Not in a million years. Or a gazillion years for that matter. Or ever."Your great-granduncle."

"Exactly," he nodded. "Nono's master saw the box, and she was so ludicrously smitten that she stole the box from Nini's master and played it with her own sparkling butterfly."

That sounded beyond confusing.

And it probably showed on her face as she spluttered, "Wait, your grandmother?" stole my grandmother's stuff?

She managed to stop right in time.

He didn't answer, but continued with the tale, "Nini's master wasn't aware about the absence of the box. Not because she didn't care, rather that she thought she had placed it somewhere with her toys. And the thought was backed by Nono's master, but you know the real story," he smiled passively. "Nono's master was later heavily induced with guilt—terribly so—that she decided to return the box. However, being labeled as a thief was the last thing she wanted, so she just merely tossed the box in the attic."

"Tossed?" she echoed, looking around. "Well, that's impossible—"

"Few years have passed, and Nini was also placed in the attic. Nini saw Nono's master frantically searching for the box, and when she finally found it, she hid it in a much secluded place, so that the box wouldn't end up in a trash bin."

She was tempted to ask about the spot in question, but she held her tongue. She needed to avoid aggravating him, and risked interrupting a story that he had willingly shared.

This opportunity didn't come easily.

"She hid it in the walls, behind the cracks."

Nadirah nodded slowly, waiting for his next words.

"That is all," he said, as if sensing his cue for her outburst.

"Oh," she mouthed, and further added, "You are spooky."

"So are you," he said dryly.

She feigned ignorance, hissing, "Which crack?"

"Providing none of you plastered the wall beforehand—"

"My grandmother had plainly stated that we haven't been here for quite a long time—"

"I'll take your—I mean, her word for it."

He walked toward the corner of the wall, his eyes asserting the shelf in front of him. He let his fingers lightly brushed the edges of the solid wood, and as if finally making up his mind, he tugged the shelf forward.

"The crack is behind there?" she asked.

"Supposedly."

He tugged a bit more, and after successfully creating a space between the wall and the shelf, he peeked over the interval, and sighed in relief. "There's a crack, alright."

Nadirah contemplated on moving to his spot or staying at her place, but then she decided to ask, "Do you see the box?"

"No, it's filled with..." he clamped his teeth, "Rotten tissue, maybe."

"Ugh," she blanched. "Rotten?"

"Yellow, if I might add."

"Yellow," she echoed. "And rotten. How many years has it been, again?" she shook her head, taking a step back. "Do you want a pair of gloves?"

"No, it's fine."

"I do have some sanitizers—"

"Are you germaphobic, by chance?" he asked, his face clearly amused.

She denied, too defiantly perhaps. "No."

She didn't feel comply to enlighten him that most people will feel strangely sick at a clearly rotten stuff manifested with potential germs, so she added, "But my cousin is."

"Zahari."

"Yeah," she stared at him quizzically. "How did you know that?"

No one really noticed how Zahari flinched every time he saw potential bacterial things heading his way, and Nadirah wondered if the very sight of a rotten tissue would cause him to hyperventilate.

"Oh," he nodded in comprehension, "Never would've thought so, if I wasn't so perceived."

"I see," she said lightly.

No, she did not see, but she had long learned that she didn't see anything that Ikhwan saw, for anything that he saw was a mystery and she truly wondered what he really saw with his own eyes, but surely, it wouldn't be as gruesome as Zahari's, but still, his ability sounded as if it was convenient—

"Okay, I got it."

"Got what?" she spluttered, startled. She wasn't sure why, but she felt as if he could read her mind in all reality and actually bluffing when he said that she wasn't an open book.

He stood up, his face plastered with a much, much annoyingly amused look. "Got the box, of course."

"Ah." She just needed to convince herself that he was truly inferior to her, then perhaps agitation won't attack her again, but she decided to shift her full attention to the invisible box. "Can I see?"

"Of course."

He stretched his hand forward, presenting a mini wooden box, carved in perfection with a little wing roof at the top. The craftsmanship was spectacular, and Nadirah, as if recognizing the actual quality of the box's articulate structure, gaped at him in much surprise and exclaimed breathlessly, "This is drop dead gorgeous."

He shrugged. "I guess it is."

"This is magnificent."

He arched his brows. "Sure it is."

"This is from the 19th Century!"

"Sure—" he blinked. "From the what?"

"I really should undergo proper study of the 19th Century for my degree, don't you think?" she could jump if she could, since never had she felt such excitement in her life, "This thing is the definition of old, you see!"

"Of course it is—"

"Older than your grandmother, you see!"

"I...see," his enunciation was long, mocking her excitement.

She didn't realize, but even if she did, she didn't care. "I have a knack for vintage stuff, you see," she grinned. "One of my special traits."

He blinked humorlessly. "There's more?"

"Not confirmed, but I like to think it is," she smiled jubilantly, oblivious to Ikhwan's perplexed expression. "I'm right, right?"

He glanced at the box, and back at her. "Why do you think I'll know?"

"Because you know everything?"

He stared at her bewilderedly, and muttered, "I...do," he ruffled his hair, scrutinizing her curiously, "Do I?"

"You do," she nodded. "Now tell me honestly, tell me frankly," her eyes shone brightly, "Tell me I'm right."

It took two long seconds before he swallowed loudly and announced, "You're right."

"I'm right!" she grinned. "See? I've told you so."

"Right," he tossed the box left and right with his hands, "Since I am someone...who knows everything, you will listen to me, right?"

"Right," her voice was exhilarated, and further pumped as she giggled, "We should use another word than right, right?"

He clamped his lips. "Right."

She stilled, tempted to laugh aloud at his reply. "Forget it."

"Right," and before Nadirah could laugh for real, he hastily continued, albeit seriously, "Now, if my grandmother happens to ask, you will say that there are no rats."

"No rats," she echoed obediently, her eyes locked on the...19th Century box!

"You didn't see anything whatsoever."

"See nothing," she was swaying along with the box, but then reality knocked her head senseless that she abruptly looked up and stared him straight in the eyes. "Why do I need to lie?"

He gazed at her hardly. "My grandmother isn't supposed to know that you know."

She thought about that, and decided to ask in a different direction. "Why does your grandmother need to lie? To my grandmother, no less?"

For a long second, he didn't say anything, but then he answered, "Just try to think of any excuse that has 'wrath' as the keyword."

She scratched her head. "But wouldn't she suspect anything with me here?"

_A single chortle escaped from his mouth. "I could have easily dismissed you, but I can't, and she didn't know that, and she didn't need to know that, and that is, as far as I know, is the only thing she should know." He looked at her thoughtfully. "Even if I try to bluff you off, I have no doubt that your persistence would win, so tell or not tell, either way, you would know anyway."_

_"_ Oh," she creased her brows, "Is that so."

"Yes," he smiled, "It is."

He seemed to forget that he was neither telling nor saving, so she casually added, "I still don't understand, though."

He stared longingly at the box, but then abruptly pocketed it and waved his hand dismissively.

"Later."

chapter 5

_When he said later, she originally thought that it meant much, much later, or worse; not ever, forever not, never._

_Therefore, when he arrived shortly after departing with a barely familiar person by his side, her only thought was..._

_Ah, another stranger._

_Yet, technically, he wasn't such a stranger, since he was Ty, and Ty was not a stranger, and stranger was not Ty._

_Granted, he was the strangest person she had ever met, but still, it didn't change her opinion that this Fattah was a stranger, even if his alter ego was not._

_"_ _You're supposed to live at the other continent!"_

_Upon meeting him, however, she realized that Fattah was indeed, Ty._

_She felt compelled to launch an ingenious reply to his remark, but alas, strangers were not her forte._

_She only managed to answer—albeit with a couple slurps of her drink—with a pert, "So are you."_

_"_ _Don't forget that it's your fault in the first place," Ikhwan muttered to Fattah, occasionally glancing at his grandmother who admittedly, grew far flamboyant compared to a few hours earlier._

_The box was in their hands. No wonder her entire existence rejoiced with blissfulness._

"I do admit that it is my fault, but surely all of you know that I like to tease so it's my nature to tease an easy target, and naturally, Ikhwan is the easy target, what's with his situation and all, so of course, anyone who's in the devilish mode couldn't resist but to plan something like that," he slurped his drink and continued, "At least we've acquired one of the pieces—"

"Yeah."

Two pairs of eyes smoldered over Nadirah, waiting for her next response.

She blinked, and repeated, "Yeah...?"

"Yeah?" asked Fattah, agog.

_Oh, how she hated when people pursue over her unheard messages and didn't leave her alone. But this was Ty, so she blurted, "At this house."_

"Oh, oh yeah," surprisingly, he wasn't suspicious by the lack of resemblance between her and Suri. "At your grandmother's house, of course it is, I should've asked Ikhwan to ask you right at the beginning since you are the grandchildren of the house and so—"

_"_ _Obviously I couldn't because I didn't know—"_

_"_ _I thought you know everything—"_

_"_ _She's not included."_

_"_ _How come—"_

_"_ _I don't know," said Ikhwan impatiently._ "I was just clearing my head when Nadirah came by and busted my plan—"

_"_ You should have suspected it since you are childhood friends and all, so it's bound to come to your attention—"

_"_ _I don't even know her last name, what made you think that I'd know her grandmother's name?"_

_Yes, it was shameful of her to admit, but Nadirah had never known that he was the grandson of Grandmother Maznah either. She'd met the grandmother several times on various occasions, but the grandmother always seemed to forget her identity, which wasn't a huge deal to her, but the problem was, Nadirah was not as forgetful as the grandmother. She would've recognized Ikhwan the schoolmate without batting an eye; didn't she just do that at the doctor's house party?_

_A good enough assumption would be that her grandson seldom took part in the functions in this town, and Nadirah would have to guess that the reason Ikhwan tagged along to her grandmother's house this time was under the influence of acquiring the sparkling butterfly, or anything to that extend._

_"_ _Well, I would have recognized—"_

_"_ _How is that possible?" Ikhwan lashed out in irritation._

Fattah took a deep breath, and said slowly. For once. "We used to talk to her at her grandmother's house once, remember?"

_Ikhwan widened his eyes, staring at Fattah in disbelief. "Really?"_

_"_ _Yes, really," he said ruefully. "There was some kind of a house party and your brother was bickering with someone so you were alone and lonely so I talked to you and we talked to her too since she was there standing like a wall..." He caught Nadirah's eyes, hurriedly added, "Flower. Wallflower."_

_Nadirah echoed over her straw, "Wallflower...no." She took another slurp, and continued, "Wall."_

_Actually, both were dead on, but wallflower sounded like a fragile decoration of a wall, while a wall in general was sturdier and much more dominating._

_But dominating was never she._

_Nevertheless, she liked to think that she was at least a little bit dominating._

_Ikhwan snorted, and it felt as if he was snorting to her thoughts. "What makes you think that a wall is a lot better than a wallflower?"_

_"_ _Wall," she cleared her throat, "Is preferable."_

_"_ _As you wish, but," Fattah pointed his straw toward her direction, "Stop being a wall and agree with me, you were there."_

_She stared at him quizzically, but agreed nonetheless. "I was there."_

_"_ _Don't turn into a robot in the process," muttered Ikhwan._

_She stared at him grudgingly, gritting her teeth. "But I was there."_

_"_ _Of course you were there, that was your grandmother's house party, which of course were held in this house, which of course belongs to your grandmother, which of course belongs to your family as well, which of course—"_

_"_ _Have us as the guest, which of course contributed to our unmemorable conversation, which of course resulted due to my short-term memory—"_

_"_ _House party," Nadirah twirled her straw, gazing stonily at them. "There's a lot."_

_"_ _Of course," Fattah acquiesced._

_Nadirah silently counted the number of 'of course' that escaped from his mouth._

_There was a lot._

_Anyway, he wasn't finished—as expected, "I went to a couple of your grandma's house parties but we rarely talk after that because you were so reserved that I fear I might break you if I were to greet you—"_

_"_ _Yeah," Nadirah wondered if her face showed any expression at all, and decided that she didn't want to know. "Tense. Still are."_

"We must've been fated to be close friends, I mean, we basically breathe in the same website—"

"You have a tremendous amount of saliva," remarked Ikhwan, nonchalantly shoving his drink away from Fattah's sight.

"Hey!" Fattah smacked Ikhwan's back, "That's not something you should say in front of a lady—"

"Bug," she croaked.

It just seemed appropriate, and fitting.

And Fattah started to get on her nerves.

"Bug?" he echoed.

"Oh," Ikhwan pretended that he understood, "Look, a bug."

"Gone though," she answered briskly.

"I see," Fattah nodded. "I thought you meant ladybug, and it was quite weird, considering how we were indoor, but of course—"

"Quit it," said Ikhwan in distress, "You are killing my ears, so tone down the talking—"

"Ah!" she screamed loudly, startling them from their seat, further killing their ears most probably, "You—" she can feel the words in her mouth rattling about—or was it the box—dying to splutter into the world, to torn his heart, to shred it into pieces even, but she just stopped at the right second, amending her sentence with, "The one...who talked a lot."

She swore she saw Ikhwan strangling himself from laughter.

"Of course it is I, how could I not? There were two people in front of me, but one was deeply enchanted with fairy tales while the other one was deeply agitated by the villains and none of them were really paying attention to the world and that is despicable, I tell you, despicable!"

Yes. She shouldn't have said that he was the one who stepped on Arina's dress with his muddy shoes, prompting Zahari to puke all over Arina's dress as well.

Gross and Zahari didn't like each other that much.

Ikhwan held his cup, his expression suddenly darkened. "I have my reason."

"I know it now, but I didn't know it back then, so can't blame me—"

Sighing, she swirled her straw, uninterested in following their conversation any further. Then, as if gaining inspirations from the little tweaking of the straw, she blurted, "I hate talking."

That caught their attentions.

Usually, Nadirah loathed being the center of attention, but surprisingly, she didn't feel remotely restless, neither did she feel any sensation whatsoever.

Maybe because all she ever wanted at that particular moment was for them to come clean and stop blabbering nonsense.

If the key of unlocking the truth was by presenting the truth, well here you go, the truth.

"Why?" Fattah spluttered. "You can just say whatever you want—"

"Talking," she gnawed her lips, "Is not my expertise."

"Is that...so?" Fattah fidgeted in his seat uneasily.

"I rather not talk at all," she slurred.

She was anticipating for more questions, or gasps perhaps, but all she got was a silent treatment, which obviously meant that they were waiting for her next statement. "I opt not to talk," she took a deep breath, "Talking..." she sucked her lips. "Bad idea."

"Bad idea," Ikhwan echoed. "Paranoid, aren't you?"

"Probably," she acceded. "Bad things, regrettable things," she shrugged. "Couldn't be retracted."

"So that's the reason for your speech difficulty," Ikhwan nodded. "You were holding it back."

She was about to say that it was because she had stuffed the mechanism of speech into the Pandora box and buried it down in her heart, but his theory sounded better.

She shrugged, slurping her drink while avoiding the commiserating attention.

"You should talk, talk is fun, talk is rejuvenating, talk is a human's special trait—"

"Exactly," she lifted a finger. "I have talked," she waved her hand at their direction, "You have not."

"Talk?" asked Fattah incredulously.

"Talk," echoed Ikhwan understandably, "Well, nowhere to run now."

"Run?" she narrowed her eyes.

Ikhwan chuckled. "I didn't mean that," he smiled, hastily continued, "Well, for starters," he shot a glance toward his grandmother, "My grandmother isn't exactly normal."

"I get that."

"You might, but I don't think you truly understand. My grandmother is lethal."

"Lethal?" So did her grandmother, but it was best to keep quiet for now.

"Yes, she—" he looked at her hesitantly, his eyes icy cold as his voice started to lose its volume, "She nearly killed someone."

She widened her eyes.

That was unexpected.

As much as terrifying her grandmother was—strictly with her words, no less—she never killed anyone.

Not that Nadirah knew of.

In a hurry, Ikhwan tried to cover with, "Not intentionally—"

"She's not evil—"

"It just came out—"

"Which is why this thing happened—"

"Wait." Her voice was adamant as she creased her brows, her head pounding at the constant attack of words, "One at a time, please."

Ikhwan clamped his teeth. "My grandmother has a hard time controlling her emotions."

"I tell you," Fattah shook his head, "It's such a mystery on how she could possess such powerful emotions—"

"If she feels happy," Ikhwan stared at his drink, "Everyone will feel happy."

"If she's not, then everyone will feel down—"

"Which means, if she feels lethal," he didn't look quite comfortable uttering it aloud, "It'd be lethal."

She licked her lips, suddenly feeling dehydrated, despite how she'd managed to gorge down quite an amount of liquid already. "Why does she—"

"She has it since birth," Ikhwan admitted pertly. "She just doesn't know how to manage it. The butterfly was her only source of serenity. Without it, she couldn't control her emotion."

"Especially, now that the sparkling butterfly is nearly within her grasp—"

"But once again, stolen," Ikhwan took a deep breath, "You can assume how mad she is."

"Ikhwan is the one who calms her nerve, because his words are soothing enough to control her emotion—"

"Thus, the reason for my perpetual agitations and the need of secrecy—"

"And also the reason why his grandmother wants him to retrieve the sparkling butterfly—"

"I do have the upper hand," cutting sentence seemed effortless for both of them, particularly Ikhwan , "My words are more than often deceiving enough."

"I can tell," as if it wasn't blatantly obvious. But she quickly caught herself from saying that, hastily echoing Fattah's words, "Nearly within her grasp?"

Ikhwan glimpsed momentarily at his grandmother, his face shaded with contemplation. "Frankly, I wasn't enlightened with the whole story," he replied with obvious reluctance, "But what I do know is that my grandmother was this close in regaining her butterfly again, but at the very last minute, someone captured it and held it hostage, or so she said."

"She keeps pestering him for a list of suspects—"

"I wouldn't know who would want such a butterfly—"

"Valuable it is, however—"

"I've never seen it once in my life, so to speak."

Fattah opened his mouth to speak, but then he grinned. "Neither have I."

Fattah was oddly very informative about this whole matter, and if Nadirah didn't know any better, she would've been suspicious of Fattah's involvement with Ikhwan's family business.

She understood now, however. Nothing can escape from Fattah's ears, and Ikhwan had no choice but to let him in with the secrets.

Ikhwan decided to feign ignorance toward Fattah, focusing his full attention on Nadirah. "The kidnapper sent her a letter."

"Letter?"

He smiled gravely. "The kidnapper wants us to prove our capability of handling his little game," his face was oddly triumphal, "So he sent us a trial."

"Trial."

"The trial," he looked at her seriously, "Sounded a bit like this. Retrieve the silk from its cocoon, and the hint you would gain."

"Thankfully Danial is such a shopaholic, or else it would be quite tough—"

"Meta," she uttered. "Silk in Meta."

"Indeed," Ikhwan nodded. "He sent his clue along with a garment to the Métamorphose store—"

"Métamorphose doesn't have a lot of silk, I don't think—"

"None," she interjected.

No wonder the idea of silk in Meta gave Widad a peculiarly absurd face. Now that she thought about it, she never wore such a soft one-piece from Meta either. Almost all were stretchy and had quite a coarse texture.

"I bought it," she said. "You told me too."

"I'm glad you bought it," he grinned. "It's a steal, right?"

"I wouldn't know." She sincerely would not know. "The stitches..." she blinked, forgetting the exact word, but thankfully, it only lasted for a few seconds, "Is different."

Najhan was more influential than she thought.

She shuddered.

"I expect it will," he grunted, and looked at her guiltily. "I'm sorry for urging you to buy something so filthy—"

Filthy? How dare he—

Oh. It did use to belong to the criminal. Hence the filth.

She shrugged. "It's beautiful."

"It's vintage," he smiled secretively.

That hit a spot. Somewhere in her system.

She swooned, relishing the word as if it was the most divine melody to ever reach her ears, and gathering herself, she croaked, "Vintage..."

Excitement bubbled in her throat, but it quickly drowned down as Fattah intervened, lightly shoving the matter away, "Save that for later. Ikhwan disguised as an assistant to retrieve the letter, not a hard task since he's the master of deceiving people—"

"True," she snorted.

"Exactly!" Fattah's voice grew animated, "He hung the rack there, because the clue said that all evidence must be diminished or you'd say goodbye to the butterfly—"

"The letter," Ikhwan thoroughly ignored Fattah's babbling, "Was in the pocket of the dress."

She stilled, slowly digesting the information.

That vintage one-piece of hers was a witness of crime? That was kind of creepy too.

Ikhwan looked disconcerted at her silence. "Again, sorry for urging you to buy—"

"It's vintage," vintage supposed to be old and sentimental, despite how twisted that sentimental part was, "Doesn't matter."

Truly, it didn't matter. After all, that one-piece was nothing but pieces of fabric sewn together.

Pieces of silk, actually. She'd nearly forgotten that.

Silk from ancient times. How could she forget that?

Ikhwan shoved his hand into his pocket, taking out a nicely folded paper and handed it over to Nadirah.

"Read it," he ordered.

She unfolded the little paper, and began to read.

The sparkling butterfly is in my hands.

Do not fret, do not worry, for I know the worth of the butterfly far better to waste it on ungrateful flies.

I do not deem for cash, I do not deem for anything else. I just want the former kidnapper to feel the rush; I want him to feel the regret, for stealing the butterfly, away from the one who truly deserved.

Nevertheless, I would not give it to you, if the worth of your credibility didn't match the wit of my own.

If you have proven worthy, then I will salute you with my hat, and truly, I am a man of words, so I will present the butterfly without any regret.

Conditions are conditions, what are world without them?

You will need a dais for the butterfly, that will compliment its beauty.

You will need a duvet for the butterfly, that will compliment its beauty.

You will need a fragrance for the butterfly, that will compliment its beauty.

You will need...to send her carriage to me.

Nadirah stared at the note with her utmost incredulous expression, echoing the words aloud. "Dais?" she blinked. "Duvet? Fragrance? Carriage?"

"Yes," said Ikhwan, "Three remains, but I assume we don't need to worry about the carriage first—"

"We should concentrate on the second—"

"Second being the duvet, a duvet for a butterfly—"

"A duvet for a steel butterfly—"

"We obviously need authentic silk," said Ikhwan, thoroughly ignoring Fattah's small tease.

"Silk?" she nearly spat the word.

He grinned in sheer amusement. "What else to wrap a butterfly if not by its own cocoon?"

"Ah," she nodded understandably, "Fragrance," she pursed her lips, thinking hard, "Pheromone."

"Fragrance that suits a sparkling butterfly, I truly have no idea—"

"Especially when the said butterfly is cold and rigid—"

"Yes, I'm aware of that, Fattah." Ikhwan smacked Fattah on the head in annoyance, "I will try to squeeze more information from my grandmother—"

"And I will try to brainstorm!" announced Fattah, exhilarated. "How cool, we are like the Three Musketeers—"

"I'm not a male," she said sternly.

It didn't seem to affect Fattah, however. "Well, three musketeers who have a female who disguised as a male then, no one will know—"

"I think I'm having a headache," muttered Ikhwan stressfully.

"Fine, fine," said he. "You are Constance Bonacieux then."

"No," she said pertly.

"Milady de Winter?"

She opted to stay muted and let her eyes do the talking.

"You sounded just like Suri!" he laughed. "You know, what's with the aggressiveness and all—"

Nadirah just stared at him, curious for his level of idiocy. The staring had more impact than Nadirah thought, because it temporarily shut his big mouth down, which ultimately gave her a chance to inquire further without any interruptions. "So, suspect," she folded the letter, handing it back to Ikhwan. "Any idea?"

Fattah shrugged. "It can be just anyone—"

"Well, tell me," it was hard to miss the glint in Ikhwan's eyes as he gazed deeply into hers, "Do you have any idea?"

She scowled, indignantly replied, "The one who ask," she swallowed, "Is me. You," she pointed her straw, much like Fattah, "Are manipulating...the law."

"The law?" asked Fattah.

"As you know," it felt as if Ikhwan had forgotten about Fattah's presence, "Questions answered with questions is one of the most important traits in the art of deceiving. I should know."

"Ah," Fattah clasped his hands. "Is that so?"

"So," he was still ignoring Fattah, "What is your theory?"

Nadirah didn't mind conceiving her theory aloud in front of him, but she really couldn't do well in front of a stranger who somehow had the uncanny ability of limiting her freedom of speech. Yet it was inevitable for Fattah to be here, since indeed, he was tagged along by the core of misery. But still, she suffered enough already. If her theory was highly wanted, they might as well suffer for the heck of it.

"Enemies," she trailed away, "My grandmother...has none." She licked her lips. "So, I wouldn't know, if," her eyes flickered to his grandmother for a brief moment, "Your grandmother...has one."

"My grandmother doesn't have much of an enemy either."

"Much," she pointed out, "Is vague."

"I say much, because unconsciously she might have one. So what do you think?"

She tapped her temples, sorting out her thoughts.

" _But what I do know is that my grandmother was this close in regaining her butterfly again, but at the very last minute, someone captured it and held it hostage, or so she said_ _."_

It was his statement a few hours ago, and it was as obvious as it can be—providing he was telling the truth, of course.

Then again, why would he lie?

_For years, the butterfly was captivated by the snatching thief. For years, I have waited for the butterfly to flutter her wings towards my lap. But where is it now, why must they torture me so? I don't appreciate prevarication, my dear grandson, so do what you must, but once it has safely kept in your possession, return it to me at once._

Even if the mails were nasty jokes by Fattah, he didn't fabricate the facts, and the facts remained that they were bested.

"You were bested," she merely answered, "By the thief." She racked her brain again, rewinding the other conversation that she heard with her own ears.

_"_ _I assume it is priceless, it's a historical piece of art after all. I would've thought that the hairpin will already make its way into the market, but alas, the thief has better eyes than I thought."_

Oh, yes indeed.

19th Century piece of art.

"The thief," she placed her words carefully, "Appreciates the butterfly. Like your grandmother."

"Like mine."

"Her acquaintance, most probably."

"Most probably, or else it would've been sold eons ago."

"Exactly," her voice was content. "Obsessed, or acquaintance."

"Or," Fattah leaned in, his voice animatedly vehement, "He's a psycho."

"Psycho," she echoed.

"Come on," he sniggered, "We too are psychosomatic—"

"Psychosomatic?" Ikhwan echoed in disbelief.

"Make it two—"

"Me?" Nadirah creased her brows.

"Let me rephrase it to psychic—"

"Oh," she looked at him with interest. "You, are a psychic?"

"Ah," he grinned wickedly. "Now, that's not for you to know, isn't it?"

"Oh," she lowered her eyes. "Fattah, lost in the dark side."

"Are you a psychic?" Fattah questioned her with an obvious glint in his eyes.

"Not telling," she jabbed her straw at him, then pointed at herself, "Not telling. But," she shifted her straw to Ikhwan, "Suspicious."

"Indeed," Fattah said in a deliberate thoughtfulness. "You are definitely suspicious—"

"Not as much as you," he smiled smugly.

"Yes," she acceded. "You talk a lot, and most," she arched her brows, "Are pointless things."

"Well, it's obviously because both of you cut me off before I got to the interesting part—"

"Like this?" Ikhwan grinned.

"Exactly!"

"You don't sound terribly annoyed—"

"I'm used to it, oh yes I do, I don't really care anymore—"

"Duvet?" she asked, ignoring Fattah's pointless blabbering.

"Duvet," Ikhwan smiled, albeit haughtily, "I'll leave that to you."

It had come to her attention that aside from the 'rescue the butterfly' mission, and the fact that the butterfly was stolen again and again, she knew practically nothing, whereas Ikhwan probably knew everything, while Fattah...she wasn't sure.

Yet, she wondered about the true measure of Grandmother Maznah's wrath. Supposedly, it was lethal, but did it really mean that her wrath could vanish, or at least, tone down by the mere appearance of the butterfly?

Was it true that the wrath existed right after she was born?

Everything about his grandmother was questionable, yet here she was, her nose deeply buried in a giant book of encyclopedia.

Frankly, she knew everything there was to know in this big book of facts, but it was always nice to refresh the mind, even if her mind didn't need any refreshing so to speak.

"Bombyx mori," she read the words aloud, locking her gaze with Zahari. "What's that?"

He glanced at her, and back to the book. "Is that rhetorical or are you really curious?"

"Just answer," she grinned.

"Some kind of a moth species."

"It is," she acceded, "And?"

"And?" he asked confusingly.

"What kind?"

He scratched his head, "The silkworm of the mulberry tree?"

_"_ _Exactly," she nodded. "Bombyx mori," she skimmed the passage, "Useful," she skimmed a bit more, "And pretty. Do you know," she looked up, back at him again, "Who discovers it?"_

_He shrugged._ "I wouldn't know. My history marks aren't as high as my science's."

_"_ _Science," she whistled._

_"_ _Yes, gruesome," he shuddered. "Not my favorite, but it does fare a lot in my advantage."_

_"_ _I don't think we learn," she chuckled, "History of Silk, in school, either."_

"More reason to admit ignorance," he laughed, but stared at her questionably. "So what's your point?"

_She pinpointed the vital information in the pages, reading loudly, "Legend. Discovery of silkworm's silk by an ancient Chinese Empress. She was drinking tea," she smiled mischievously, "And the cocoon fell into her cup."_

_Zahari blanched, much like she expected. "Don't—"_

_"_ _That is how," she ignored him, "The Chinese, knew about silk."_

"You were wearing the weaving thread of a cocoon," he shivered. "Can it get any more disgusting?"

_"_ _Soft, warm—"_

"Still—"

_"_ _Luxurious," she looked at him with interest, spluttering the sentence that she had long concocted in her mind, "Have you seen any silkworm here?"_

_"_ _What?" his face scrunched up distastefully._

_"_ _A butterfly, is what I saw," she said dreamily, "The day before, but ostensibly, it's a moth—"_

_"_ _And so?"_

_"_ _Your eyes. They can see," everything that he wanted to see. But she didn't need to utter that aloud, because both of them understand what her point was._

_"_ _True, but you're not making any sense."_

_She paused, structuring her sentence for a good minute, and flawlessly recited like a robot. "The exquisite manufacturing of silk is highly enthralling. I am intrigued to have a taste of the magnificent detail in producing the luxurious fabric."_

_She never spoke like that in front of the other cousins. Nothing to discuss, she supposed, which meant, nothing consequential to say._

_Besides, sentences like these weren't easy to come out. One needed to have great patience to withstand that, and she wasn't sure if others, excluding Zahari, had it in their systems._

_Better to act oblivious, then._

_"_ _You wanted to wear silk," he raised his eyebrows._

_She paused yet again, and said, "Who won't?"_

_"_ _Expensive, of course," he nodded. "So what's the deal?"_

_Once again, she paused for a couple more seconds—or was it minutes—taking a deep breath to relieve her tension. Then, her mouth began to recite the words in her brain again. "Your distinct eyes are incomparable to any machinery in the world, and so a sight of a bombyx mori would surely entice your attention."_

_He smiled ruefully. "_ You should just say that from the start."

_"_ _Talking," she said grudgingly, "Not my—"_

_"_ _Expertise, ah, the irony," he grinned. "_ You are supposedly the one who knows all the words."

_It might sound supercilious, but she no longer cared. "I do."_

_"_ _Sure you do," he said casually. "Now, silk manufacturer..."_

"Silk manufacturer," she echoed.

"There's plenty of it in grandmother's town."

_"_ _Drive me."_

_"_ _Why would I—"_

_"_ _Car license," her tone was serious, "Exploit your advantage."_

_"_ _Widad also—"_

_"_ _Worm farm," she shivered. "The agony."_

_He chortled. "_ Ruthless as it sounds, I do wonder about the legibility of your reasoning."

"Feud, maybe," she shrugged, "With the butterfly species."

He raised her eyebrows with obvious interest. "Since when?"

She took a deep breath, and this time, it took her nearly two minutes to compose a full explanation.

The great thing about Zahari was that he was gently considerate, and supremely patient.

"Her reaction was definitively ostentatious upon seeing one. A butterfly was what I thought, a moth was what she claimed," she gulped. "That was why her presence didn't grace the entire house yesterday."

"I assume it was the time during Grandmother Maznah's visit."

"Oh," she nodded thoughtfully. "Definitely yes."

There must be something intriguing about Widad's odd behavior, because Zahari's lips suddenly stretched into a gleeful smile.

"Well," he murmured. "That's nice to know. I shall help you, since you've undoubtedly, unconsciously given me a nice advantage to my hand."

"Oh," she wrinkled her nose. "So further inquiries," she quirked a brow, "Are not preferable?"

"Wise girl," he grinned. "That's why you're my favorite cousin."

"Thrilling," she smiled dryly.

"Obviously," he grinned. "Although I don't like it much when you're in your blank mode, or sage mode, or any mode really, but no one's perfect."

"Complimented, or insulted," she grinned. "I ponder for your," she trailed away, barely having the patience of continuing, "True intention," she pointed at his head, "Inside your diabolic mind."

"I'm helping you, so give me some credit, will you?"

She lifted a shoulder, grinning devilishly like the little devil she was.

Zahari quickly went to fetch his father's car keys, and after quietly exiting the house with his cousin, they drove the car out to the road without telling a soul.

His father was going to have a fit when he discovered the absence of his car, but Zahari didn't care. He did this far too many times already, his ears had grown hard from constant lectures by his father.

"Where to?" she asked, positively enjoying the view.

"Silk manufacturer," he drummed his fingers against the steering. Grinning, he said, "There's plenty, like I said," it had been the cousins' inside joke of mocking her foolproof memory, a joke that'd been picked up unconsciously by Ikhwan, "If you can provide me with more details—"

She let out a long sigh.

What kind of details can you shackle from a pair of devils?

"Okay," the sigh must've been quite severe to his ears, because he was warily glancing at her with a hint of concern, "No luck, then. This is going to be a long day."

"Then," she sat straight on her seat, "Famous socks—"

"Store," he corrected.

"Store," she snorted, "Where?"

"Famous store," he turned the wheels toward a junction, right into the busy streets of various shops, "That's the silk boutique that grandmother frequents—"

"With Grandmother Maznah?" she spluttered.

He slowed down his car, answering from the top of his head, "Sometimes."

Sometimes were better than never.

"Spectacular," her eyes were shining as brightly as the sun. "Let's go."

They began to search for a valid car park, and after successfully securing one, she asked the question that had long floated in her mind. "I don't believe I understand the appeal of this boutique to grandmother."

She really needed to spend more time with Zahari if she wanted to improve her speech without having the risk of rattling the box.

"I didn't ask," he answered truthfully, "But she always got some sort of a special discount here."

"Discount," she grinned, "Evil, but lovable."

He chuckled as he pulled the handbrake. "And that answers your question regarding her certain favoritism. Interesting theory, nonetheless."

She just smiled.

Upon entering however, she can't help but fully locking her eyes on him. She wondered if she was being mischievous by inspecting his every expression during the whole window-shopping process, but she never shopped with an opposite sex before—saved for her father—and it was interesting to note how a male's reaction differed from a ruthless female, especially when the said male had a pair of extraordinary eyes with zoom lenses.

His expression of disgust and lack of approval screamed in agony beneath his thick skin, protesting over the unhygienic care of the clothes most probably.

Or maybe he just hated to see something so unsterilized, or simply unsterilized by him.

Either way, he wasn't comfortable. And that amused her to no end.

She was absentmindedly examining the texture of a 100% silk fabric when Zahari suddenly whispered, "That's not what you're looking for if you aim for authentic silk."

She creased her brows.

"72% silk, 28% nylon."

She gaped at him in awe.

"You should've expected no less from me," he grinned.

She looked at him oddly.

"Fine," he sighed. "Both Widad and I were the slaves of carrier bags back then," he started to explain, "Obviously I can see which thread is silk, which thread is nylon, but it was Widad who taught me on how to measure the percentage. Not sure about the usefulness," he shook his head in disbelief, "Useful for her nonetheless. But now that her brothers are grown enough, I've since dismissed from the notorious job. In fact, I haven't done this in a long time."

"Terrific," she mouthed, and then proceeded to caress another fabric in front of her, "Not silk?"

"No, silk and polyester."

She was impressed, and it took every gut in her entire soul to finally utter, "I'm intrigued to see the true quality of authentic silk."

He grinned. "Run along, you have much to learn."

He strode farther into the store, passing by various garments and hanging racks, until he abruptly stopped at a certain section, unusually filled with blindingly beautiful clothes, swaying gently like the wind.

"Frequent?" she asked, hoping he understood the meaning.

He pondered for the right reply, and swiftly answered, "No, Grandmother didn't frequent this section. Actually, she never bought anything from this lot."

She raised his eyebrows.

"Too expensive, I assume. These," his eyes smoldered over the silken fabrics, whispering slightly to avoid unnecessary eavesdroppers, "Are authentic silk in and out. But the boutique claims that these are first grade, hence the different quality and prices."

Certainly, everyone would realize that these soft, breezy fabrics were the queen of silk, and she wondered if she will ever have the chance of donning something as precious as this. But then again, it didn't seem as if she cared, for her inner excitement wasn't as thrilled at the sheer thought of touching the processed butterfly cocoon, which probably meant that she had touched something like this before—

"May I help you, Miss?"

The voice stopped her thought sidetrack, and as she swiveled her head toward the person—who was obviously the shop assistant—she blinked, rapidly, too rapidly perhaps, "I...uh..."

_"_ _We're just browsing, if you don't mind."_

_His voice wasn't overly polite, wasn't overly inviting either, and as if getting the message, the assistant replied, "Of course. If you need any help, please refer to me," her lips stretched into a friendly smile, but not exactly patronizing, "If you'll excuse me."_

_Perhaps she recognized the faces of potential buyers, and they didn't fit in that category._

_Or maybe Zahari was that intimidating._

_Or maybe she just had some work to do._

_"_ _You're not thinking of buying any of this, are you?" he muttered in a low voice._

_He obviously couldn't read her mind._

_"_ _Maybe," she smiled wholeheartedly, staring at his poking wallet behind his back._

_He caught her gaze, and fuming, he narrowed his eyes. "Not a chance."_

_She pointed a finger at herself. "Favorite cousin."_

_"_ _Not good enough to buy you silk, besides, if I were to buy you one, I need to buy an extra one for Arina as well."_

_She grinned devilishly, and suddenly the words felt like butter, "Can you handle discretion?"_

_He brushed her off, ignoring her laughter and proceeded to skim the clothes. "I heard the master deceased last year?"_

_She raised her brows. "Master?"_

_"_ _Master of silk, the one who wove the silk. Quite famous in this town, actually. Everyone called him the master of silk."_

_She had no idea what to reply—as always—so she just mouthed, "Oh," but then she realized that her word didn't come out right—as always—so she added, "Why?"_

_"_ _He was old enough," he sighed, "Such a waste. True talent is hard to come by these days."_

_She lifted a shoulder._

_He shrugged in agreement. "His students are great, their works are just as delicate, but his creations are true masterpieces." He averted his gaze on one of the clothes, and after much calculating, he took it out and smoothened it with his palm. "This is his masterpiece, and that," he pointed at a dress on the neighboring rack, "Is his student. Can you tell the difference?"_

_She tilted her head left and right, examining the stitches with her inexperienced eyes._

_She arched her brows matter-of-factly._

_"_ _It's worth a shot."_

_Sighing, she tried again. "Daintier," not exactly the word she'd been searching for, "Finer, maybe." Not exactly on the spot, either._

_Zahari clamped his teeth, his face grew animated by the second, sensing her difficulty in racking her brain most probably. She didn't like that at all, so she randomly selected the first word that popped in her brain and blurted, "Distinct."_

_"_ _Yes, his masterpieces are one of a kind."_

_"_ _One of a kind?" she echoed, almost bewilderedly. "But stitches," she scrunched her face. "Familiar."_

_"_ _Well that's rare," he chuckled, "I thought the term_ _familiar_ _wouldn't exist in your rewinding life."_

_"_ _Conversation only," she mused, "Not memories. Or life."_

_He laughed airily. "You need to observe, not see," his tone was serious, but his face was still warmed with laughter, "Just like how you perceive rather than hear."_

_"_ _Observing, you," she pointed severely, "Perceive? No," she joined the laugh, albeit dryly, "My ears are..." she pursed her lips. "Perky."_

_"_ _Perky," his laughter had yet to die, "Whatever you say. If you're the eye, then who am I?"_

_"_ _Zahari," she answered flatly._

_He burst into laughter once more._

_She smiled ruefully. "I'm the ear."_

_He nodded._

_"_ _Ear can't see."_

_He thought about that, and shrugged._

_"_ _Stitches, rare, opposite," she took another glance, "I can't tell."_

_He nodded again._

_"_ _Really," she sighed, "None can imitate?"_

_"_ _None," he answered, "The techniques that he used are quite different from the rest, and," he raised his brows, "I've the slight suspicion that his hands are very extraordinary as well, exquisitely done, all of them."_

_"_ _I see," her voice trailed away. "Exquisite," her eyes abruptly flared. "My senses...are deceived."_

_"_ _Deceived?"_

_She simply nodded._

_"_ _Well," he creased his eyebrows, "Do you have a lot of silk, then?"_

_"_ _Why?"_

_"_ _The master only wove silk, hence the nickname," he lifted a finger, deep in thought, "So if the stitches are familiar to you, then you must've seen it before, long enough to have a sense of familiarity, probably somewhere in your closet—"_

_"_ _Ah," her mouth dropped._

_"_ _Jackpot," he grinned._

_For some reason, his words clicked with her brain, automatically rewinding the previous conversations in her head._

_She blinked. "Oh, I might have silk."_

_"_ _Someone is being extra-observant," he murmured._

_She shot him a beleaguering look. "I meant what I said."_

_"_ _So do I."_

_"_ _Widad bought me a one-piece."_

_He stifled a chortle. "That's hard to believe."_

_"_ _True." She narrowed her eyes, hoping her words would be interpreted in both ways, "Unaware that it's silk."_

_"_ _Preposterous," he brushed it off._

_"_ _Blinded," she firmly deduced, "By the label."_

_"_ _Typical."_

_"_ _Only suspicion."_

_"_ _That your one-piece is silk?"_

_"_ _Yeah."_

_He nodded thoughtfully. "Well, if you could show me the dress, then maybe I can give you my verdict."_

_Her mouth flew open again, this time in gratefulness, but upon catching Zahari's bewildered look, she tried to deliver her point by carefully saying, "That would be great."_

_Now that she thought about it, the one-piece must have some critical clues hiding behind its innocent exterior. The thief couldn't possibly be shipping the one-piece for nothing. He was too cunning to let the dress act as a mere bridge._

_Yet, if the garment were to have a bigger message than a mere bridge, then why did Ikhwan casually hang it back on the rack, even urging a customer—who coincidently was her—to buy the one-piece, when the one-piece was just as vital as the note inside of it? Surely, he'll suspect further contraptions?_

_Furthermore, she wasn't sure about Ikhwan's true ability, only that he seemed to see more than necessary—just like Zahari—yet different in his own way. Judging by his behavior during their search at the attic, Nadirah had the impression that he could communicate with the doll, and that confounded her further. Assuming that she was right, and he did have the splendid ability of uncovering secrets by just talking to random things, then wouldn't he know about the one-piece true purpose, or heck even, the face of the thief?_

_If she was him, that question would be the first thing in her mind. Hey there one-piece, who's your master?_

_Maybe that was it; the one-piece wouldn't tell him who its master was._

_Still, she couldn't shake the possibilities out of her head as they went back home, but as the house came into her views, the thought of her one-piece overpowered everything else._

_They went into the laundry room, inspecting the freshly laundered clothes for a sight of the fated one-piece. It was a good thing that Widad forced her to wear the one-piece to the doctor's house party the other day, and thankfully, she was lazy enough to consider changing her attire before journeying to her grandmother's house, because if not, this piece of evidence might have laid innocently in the closet of her own bedroom, away from her touch, away from Zahari's eyes, away from their reach._

_Her eyes caught a glimpse of the one-piece, and quick as lightning, her hand snatched it from the pile of freshly laundered dresses, relieved to see that everything was still intact and nothing was ruined._

_Supposedly, silk was hard to maintain._

_The housekeepers did their job well._

_Or maybe it wasn't silk after all._

_Admittedly, through her limited vision, it did bear some resemblance to those in the boutique. The stitches were the most prominent aspect that connected both of the garments, but she was no expert, nor was she exposed to the many works of the master of silk, so her judgment was in no way, legible._

_Yet, there must've been something intriguing about the one-piece, because Zahari was oddly very keen of the fabric._

_"_ _What do you know," he whispered, crisp and sharp, "Seems like you do possess one of the master's articulate masterpieces."_

_It should've been a historical moment for her. She had finally acquired an authentic silk for herself, an authentic silk that was near to extinction no less, yet all she could think was, "Oh. Not Meta."_

_"_ _Not Meta, I suppose not," he grinned._

_She smacked her forehead._

_"_ _Your ignorance is forgiven," he tried hard to act nonchalant, "This garment is totally Meta's style."_

_She smacked his forehead._

_He was mocking her, she knew it._

_"_ _Trust me," he said quietly, no longer sarcastic, "I'm an expert. I know what I saw."_

_And with that, Nadirah decided to believe in his judgment. This was not Meta, but actually one of the spectacular works by the master of silk, and possibly the one mentioned in the note._

_But if the referred duvet was actually this garment, then it was a little too lengthy to snuggly wrap the butterfly in place. And not such a pleasant sight to see either, not when the blanket was actually, a dress with bodice and buttons. She didn't think that it would actually fit into the dais—which actually was a small box—but then again, she couldn't estimate the true size of the hairpin either, seeing as she never saw a picture of it, although really, how big could a hairpin be, since a hairpin's job was to pin a handful of hair, so it couldn't be as big as the head—_

_"_ _Ah," his exclamation took her by surprise, and as she shifted her attention to him, she thought she saw the bizarre blankness washed over his face, letting him blink rapidly, so much that he somehow resembled...somehow looked like...much like..._

_The box rattled._

_"_ _You look like Najhan," she laughed, "What are you, the third twin?"_

_She abruptly stopped, biting her tongue._

_Dropping your guard was never a good thing._

_"_ _I would love to bite you with a scathing remark," he muttered dryly, "But there's something odd about your one-piece."_

_"_ _Odd?" she echoed, burying the nasty side of her deep into the lowest pit again._

"Odd," he nodded, cupping his chin thoughtfully. "Someone has been tempering with the dress."

"Tempering?" she echoed some more.

"Tempering," he nodded again, his finger trailing a certain part on the bodice. "This part is hastily sewn," he wrinkled his nose, "And not professionally tailored, in my opinion."

"Sewn?" she continued to echo.

"Sewn," he nodded continuously, pressing the finger at the part of attention, right underneath the pocket. "This part," he proceeded to press the other pocket, "Is bulkier than this part." He pulled both of the pockets out, facing the two hidden compartments outwards. "Didn't you feel anything when you wear this?"

She shrugged, and in a matter-of-fact voice, she explained thoroughly in one word, "Layered."

He still hadn't stopped nodding. "True, you always wear layered clothing."

She nodded as well, her fingertips brushing the bulky part of the attire. "What's in it?"

He exhaled a sharp breath. "I think I do see something..."

Alert, her eyes shot right at him. "Something?"

"Something soft, another fabric maybe, but," he knocked it gently with his knuckles, "It feels out of place."

"Out of place?"

He abruptly looked up, staring intently at her, "I understand your condition of word difficulty, but must you echo everything I said?"

"Echo?" her face twisted in a motion of incomprehensibility.

_"_ _Never mind," he muttered, "Looks like the tailor has forgotten to add an extra pad on the other side."_

_She scoffed. "Pointless."_

_"_ _Pointless?"_

_She narrowed her eyes, smiling smugly. "Echo, huh?"_

_"_ _Your point of the pointless of this point didn't have much of a point."_

_Maybe she aggravated him. No, she certainly did._

_"_ _Fine," she sighed, pointing at the padded pocket. "Why pad?"_

_"_ _To make the pocket sturdier, of course."_

_"_ _Why sturdier?"_

_He blinked, his face suddenly washed with suspicion._

_It was interesting to see the many faces of Zahari. She had almost forgotten about the colorfulness of his face._

_"_ _Are you implying that someone purposely filled the pocket with something?"_

_She shrugged for the hundredth time._

_"_ _Either that," Zahari sure could understand her well, "Or the tailor was senile."_

_She looked at him disbelievingly, the edges of her lips unwillingly turned up. "You just called the deceased as senile!"_

_She felt like strangling her other side._

_But most of all, she felt something strange bubbling inside of her. As if something was about to burst any minute from now._

_That was the oddest sensation she had ever felt._

_"_ _It was you who implied such a thing," he scoffed, didn't seem to be affected by her rude comment, "So what's your decision?"_

_"_ _Decision?" she echoed._

_"_ _You must be curious to see what's inside here," his palm was resting on the garment. "But don't blame me if it turns out to be some pointless junk."_

_She sucked her lips. "Tempting," she nodded, nonchalantly waving her hand, "Disappointment...a little—"_

_"_ _A little?"_

_She smiled devilishly. "Not my money—"_

_"_ _Of course your parents—"_

_"_ _No," she smiled playfully._

_"_ _Then your boyfriend—"_

_"_ _No." And it was a definite no. "Widad."_

_"_ _No way," he grinned, "You're kidding."_

_For the umpteenth time, "No."_

_"_ _I see," his face shone with excitement, and something evil maybe, "So you don't mind a little extraction."_

_She pretended to indulge in a deep thinking._

_"_ _Little," she finally said, emphasizing on the word, "Only little."_

_His eyes sparkled. "I can't sew, you know."_

_She scrunched her face. "Impossible."_

_"_ _I mean," even his smile sparkled now, or was it his teeth, "I won't sew."_

_She pursed her lips. "Fine."_

_"_ _Don't cry on me if this thing is just some leftover fabrics."_

_She scoffed._

_He paused to stare deeply in her eyes, seriously observing her emotion regarding the big decision of ruining her clothes, rummaging through her veins to have a clearer understanding of her mind, and finally said, "So you really don't mind?"_

_One more second and she might change her mind. "Snip away."_

_"_ _I hold no responsibility for the future condition of your one-piece."_

_Another half a second and she might just change her mind. "Just snip already."_

_He narrowed his eyes. "Widad could blame you for this."_

_Another quarter second and she just, possibly might change her mind. "No, she will blame you, and knowing it's you, she will murder you alive. And I hold no responsibility for the future condition of your filthy mind. Now, extract away already."_

_The box had burst itself._

_She knew it. She knew it was going to happen, some time or another._

_He was shocked by her eloquent speech, but not at all repulsed. "I'll snip away then."_

_Zahari searched for a tool in their grandmother's sewing kit, oblivious to Nadirah's quickened heartbeat and silent wish of snatching the one-piece away and locking it in a foolproof vault. If it wasn't because he was Zahari, she was certain that she would do that instantly, but this was Zahari; Mr. Observant Extraordinaire. Zahari, whose eyes and hands were as delicate as his manners...to strangers, of course._

He didn't use a scissors, or even rip it open. Instead, he gently tugged the thread with a seam ripper, noticeably careful, perfectly précised, avoiding any mishap that might occur during his extraction.

_Truly. If he wasn't Zahari, she wouldn't jeopardize her clothes for a single, tentative clue. Never._

_But this was Zahari, the one who probably didn't have a single hasty or reckless attributes in his bones. She respected him more than she ever gave him credit for._

_He didn't need to know that, of course. It'll get to his head._

_He placed the seam ripper back into the kit, shoving his fingers deeply into the rip section, taking out a certain patch of...fabric._

_He exhaled a sharp breath._

_Nadirah was certain that he would launch a sarcastic retort to accompany that sigh, but all he said was, "It's not a leftover fabric after all."_

_"_ _Not?" she echoed._

_He pinched the edges of the fabric, holding it in front of her nose. "It's a handkerchief. Can you tell?" sniggering, he further added, "Its silk of course, in case you still couldn't tell."_

_"_ _Silk," she echoed. "Handkerchief," she echoed a whole lot more._

_He grinned at her ruthless echoing. "There's more."_

_He flashed the handkerchief toward the window, letting the sun illuminated the handkerchief with its soft light. "Can you see?"_

_At this point, Nadirah had lost her jaws._

_Understanding her bewilderment, he placed it on the floor, amusedly said, "Someone wrote on it."_

_"_ _Wrote," she echoed in a barely audible whisper, quizzically staring at him._

_"_ _I don't know for sure," he said absentmindedly, his eyes still caressing the little fabric, "But if you dry-clean this, then you might have a silk handkerchief for yourself. Not too shabby," he grinned, "Two in one, who'd have thought? Not to mention, free."_

_"_ _Yeah," her voice sounded monotone, "Weird."_

_"_ _Mind sharing the details of the weirdness?"_

_Her eyes flickered in annoyance. "No."_

_It just didn't worth the effort._

_"_ _Fine," he stifled a chortle, "Provided you don't ask about my row with Widad, then I guess should reply the same notion."_

_A sudden wave of guilt surged right through her._

_She wasn't ready to dismiss him yet, but it seemed like he was ready to leave, leaving her with the mysterious leaf disguised as a handkerchief._

_"_ _Thanks but..."_

_"_ _I see we have a disagreement," his eyebrows shot in amusement._

_"_ _Well," she cleared her throat, carefully choosing the right words, "If you..."_

_"_ _I don't mind."_

_She looked at him matter-of-factly. Seldom would he agree in just a flick of second, without hearing the entire explanation beforehand._

_This was not good. Spending more time with this person made her transparent in the knees and easy to read._

_He smiled. "Carry on."_

_She took a deep breath. "A favor, please."_

_She had a fleeting suspicion that he knew exactly what the favor was, but he just stared at her questionably._

_"_ _Oh, come on," she grunted._

_He broke into a wide grin. "I assume you want me to decipher the message on the handkerchief before sending it to the launderette."_

_She really was an open book._

_She tried not to gape._

_"_ _I couldn't translate however—"_

_"_ _Not," she quickly cut off, "Necessary."_

_He smirked. "Confident, aren't you? Fine." His eyes landed back on the handkerchief. "I can take care of that, but only that. No translation, not that I can."_

_She eyed him curiously. "Really?"_

_"_ _Not that I want."_

_She grinned, and with that, she stood up, erect like a soldier as she shouted, "Thank you sir!" and exited the door, missing the spluttering mirth from Zahari's mouth as he went to search for a paper and pen._

chapter 6

_"_ _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 conversations," 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 shook 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 19_ _th_ _Century, it would be her._

_The lady's face was everything a lady from the 19_ _th_ _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 azure, 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 you?"

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

"I would never guess that Viscount Vincent Ventris's destination would be Malacca."

Malacca in the 19th Century was definitely as glorious as Nadirah envisioned it to be. The historical monuments stood strong on the ground, hardly deserted, barely aging, occupied by those people she often saw in her historical books.

Or at least, they looked similar. Even that person over there looked oddly similar to Avery.

Or maybe that was because they both had the same jaw.

She wondered if Vincent carried the same trait.

"If you're not there to answer the question," Nadirah remarked, "I probably wouldn't have the chance of seeing him."

"I saw the place," was his grim reply, oblivious to the scenery, or perhaps he wasn't as enthusiastic as Nadirah, "So I know his exact destination. The question was a pinch."

Still, she couldn't help but ignore the sole question in her mind. "How come we are here, though? The handkerchief couldn't possibly transport us again—"

"You'll see," he swiftly cut her off, shutting Nadirah's mouth down. "Follow me."

She obliged his command like a puppy with his master, dreading at the thought of being lost in the past. She followed his lead, all the way through the busy streets of Malacca, feasting her eyes with the spectacularly unique scenery, before Ikhwan abruptly stopped, staring directly at the port.

She nearly bumped into him, and she was about to lodge a complaint on his sudden frozen state, when she noticed the enthralling scenery herself, and froze as well.

Truckloads of boats were tied to the shore, and behind it, stood a fairly large ship, containing an impressive amount of passengers. Each of them were immaculately dressed, and as Nadirah peered over those endless amount of people, she noticed two lean figures emerging from the ship, one carrying a strikingly familiar face, while the other holding a pair of extraordinarily pale—almost icy—grey eyes.

Or silver, she supposed.

She gasped. "Ikhwan!"

"Yes, that's the Vi—"

"That's Mr. Avery!"

He paused. "Yes," and nodding, he added, "Mr. Avery Ventris and Viscount Vincent Ventris."

"What's he doing here?" astonishment took over her soul, further aggravating Ikhwan. "Does this mean that he's jilted the marchioness?

He sighed. "You'll see," and again, commanded, "Follow me."

The Ventris brothers passed by them before they could even make a move, and during that short interval, Nadirah noticed on how Avery shuddered at the mere contact with their presences.

Vincent's face seemed to twitch, although perhaps her eyes were playing trick on her.

"We're supposed to crack the case about the thievery," commented Nadirah, trailing their backs with zero discretion, "Yet here we are, stalking some ancient people."

"Well," remarked Ikhwan haughtily, "You did prompt me to say his name."

"You could avoid it if you want."

"But I didn't."

"You didn't," said Nadirah matter-of-factly. "You wanted to meet him as much as I do."

"True," he made no effort in denying that, "I do."

They followed the brothers into some sort of a market, trying to keep up with their fast paces. Frankly, Nadirah wanted nothing more than to bask in the glory of the ancient city, but it was hard to follow and gape simultaneously. Nadirah truly had no choice but to concentrate on the brothers' figures instead of the view, crestfallenly so.

She tried to shake her disappointment away by reviving their conversation. "You know, we learned nothing about the thievery, except for the fact that my grandmother and her friends love historical tales."

"Is that all you learned?"

She glanced at him, quite taken aback by his serious tone. "Well, I have a certain hunch that the owner of the handkerchief was the master of silk."

"Why?"

"He wanted to procreate the handkerchief," she said hurriedly, hastening her steps to match Ikhwan's, "And I have in great authority that his works much resembled the handicraft of the handkerchief."

Zahari was indeed, the equal of great authority. At least in her book.

"True," he nodded, "Seems like we've unlocked his treasure."

"Treasure? Oh, right," she pursed her lips, carefully examining her thoughts. "Let's see. Handkerchief for the master, hairpin for your grandmother, box for my—wait!" her steps halted, her eyes transfixed on a certain object that was swarmed by various humans alike. "That's the box!"

Ikhwan followed her gaze. "Well, what do you know," he expressed elatedly, "There it is."

"We," Nadirah stilled, her brain clicked. "We were teleported by the box?"

"I have it in my pocket at the time," he mentioned, shifting his entire attention to the solid box, "Not anymore, in case you're wondering. But I would have it back once we've returned—well," his lips curved into a smile, "Depends on the situation."

"Depends on the situation?"

"If the box is not in my pocket by then," it didn't seem as if the words were meant for her, "We'd be ceased to exist."

Nadirah's mouth fell open.

Exactly at that moment, Vincent strode pass the swarming humans, making his way toward the first lane. Scrutinizing the wooden box with his silver eyes, he quietly asked, "How much is this?"

At once, everyone backed off from the tall foreigner, intimidated by his unexpectedly firm voice.

The seller wasn't the least intimidated. Instead, he was oddly fascinated. "My apologies sir," he smiled, "This is not for sale."

"Then how can I convince you to sell it?"

He chuckled. "Oh sir, this box right here is the prize for someone who can answer my riddle."

"Ah," Vincent laughed lightly. "Of course. Do I have a contender?"

"I believe you are the only one. None were clever enough to take on this challenge."

"I am intrigued."

"I can tell."

"You have good eyes."

"So were you," the seller was clearly impressed, "You noticed the true value of the box. And that sir," he leaned in to whisper, "Is a quality that not many possessed."

True enough, the reason why his stall was gathered by countless of people were not because of the spectacular box. Rather—now that they had a clearer view of the stall—it was because the seller seemed to be accompanied with a whole lot of clucking chickens. And chickens grabbed people's attentions, apparently.

"Is that so?" Vincent raised her brows. Again, Nadirah felt like smacking her head for her overly vulnerable thoughts, but realized that Vincent couldn't possibly detect her presence, much less to read her mind. "Then by all means, I am more than intrigued to add this to my possession."

"I must warn you sir. This riddle has no clew."

"You need not worry." Vincent roamed the audiences with his silver eyes, and as he smoldered his gaze toward every living things in the land, his figure grew rigid when he saw the two teenagers, hardly living, possibly not breathing, but definitely watching him.

His lips curled into a mocking smile. "I have my own source of clew."

"Source of clew?" asked the seller, curious at his outburst.

Vincent swiveled back to him, subsequently pointing at his head. "My brain."

He nodded understandably.

Nadirah also nodded understandably. "He saw us, didn't he?"

"For sure, he saw us."

"Okay then," she said breathlessly, her voice sounded oddly foreign to her ears, "I think his source of clue is us."

"Of course," Vincent muttered softly, loud enough for their ears, yet subtle enough without sounding uncustomary.

That didn't stop Nadirah from yelping aloud, though.

Clutching to her chest, she grumbled, "Okay, he's freaking me out."

"Big deal," Ikhwan grinned. "You freaked his brother first."

She shot dagger eyes at him, and focused her attention back to the viscount. He seemed to be highly immersed in the box, his eyes deeply piercing the exterior. To Nadirah, it could only mean one thing—he was arranging a plan.

But then, she was never good in reading a person—unlike this person beside her—so she truly had no idea about the accuracy of her theory.

"The riddle sir," provided the seller, "If you don't mind."

"Go on."

He smiled secretively, taking out a smooth, ivory egg out from his pocket. "Here in my hand, is an egg too worthy for this world. Now sir, if you could kindly tell me, which of these," he pointed out at the flocks of chickens, "Laid this egg?"

For a moment, none of them said a thing.

And then, there was a gasp. "What kind of question is that?" she exclaimed. "That's impossibly difficult."

"Yeah," he arched his brows. "Identical chickens and whatnot. Well, let's inspect it closer."

"Do you think it's fine?"

"Yeah," he said nonchalantly. "The viscount is not going to eat us, not that he can, not that he would."

They closed their distance, and as they stood right beside the tall viscount, Nadirah had the fleeting feeling that the viscount will eat them alive if he had the chance.

Yet before she could dwell further in the intimidating sensation, the brother of the viscount whispered slightly, "I don't feel so good."

"Stay," ordered Vincent simply.

Avery shivered, proceeding to concentrate on the egg and no more.

Nadirah stifled a chortle.

She was about to taunt him further, when Ikhwan suddenly remarked, "You do know that my visions are muted, don't you?"

She wasn't certain to whom the question was directed.

But since she had the capability of answering, she decided to answer, "Yes."

"So even if we could provide the answer to the viscount, I couldn't provide the explanation."

"Oh," she mouthed, realizing that he was indeed talking to her, "That's true."

"Yet if you were to assist me on switching the volume, we would be transported to the seller's past, and possibly couldn't return back here."

"Not a good idea."

"Not an idea that I executed, not that I see," said he. "You need to rewind his words."

"Rig—what? Rewind? " she smacked her ears. "Am I hearing right?"

"Yes."

"Is it possible?"

"Absolutely," his eyes never left the egg, "The most crucial thing to do."

"Rewind..." she tilted her head, considering the action. Still contemplating, her eyes flickered at Vincent's face. "My lord, if you don't mind me asking, is there something that you can do?"

Ikhwan nudged her, hard, while Vincent tried very hard to hide his smile.

"He might be a psychic," she hissed, but his harsh look prompted her to concentrate on the seller. Sighing, she said, "Fine. Rewind...let me try."

Really, if there were to be any explanation for the reunion between the chicken and its egg, wouldn't a simple reason such as plain luck suffice?

Probably yes for someone like her, probably not for someone like Vincent. It wouldn't sound as honorable if he were to admit that he relied mostly on luck. And apparently, they really needed to rescue the box from the evil seller, so as she stared at the evil captivator, she tried to rewind his words that mentioned anything regarding _chicken_ and _egg._

She burst into laughter.

"You need to get into his mind," suggested Ikhwan, noticing her difficulty. "Try it again, you can do this. You've done this already anyway."

Indeed she has, hasn't she?

Taking a deep breath, she gazed into the seller's eyes. Those eyes were the darkest eyes she had ever seen, the eyes that told a thousand secrets, the eyes that saw everything that crossed his way, be it a chicken, be it an egg, but preferably, _chickens and egg..._

Her ears perked up as a certain voice, which sounded exactly like the seller, played in her head.

" _What if I use the chickens and egg?"_

" _The chickens and egg?" asked another voice, bewildered beyond words. "What on earth are you talking about?"_

" _The most perceiving one will know the connection. I could create a riddle, and find the person worthy of this box."_

" _You can always sell the box."_

" _Oh, I won't. My love wouldn't love that."_

" _Don't listen to her," the voice suddenly hissed, "She is nothing but a manipulative female."_

" _No, she is nothing like that," countered the seller, "She is the most intelligent lady I've ever met. And whether you like it or not, I will propose to her."_

" _And how are you going to propose to her?" the voice asked sarcastically._

" _I have a dream," the seller said, "A beautiful dream. And I dreamt that the person who cracked my riddle would lead me to the most marvelous jewelry in the whole wide world, the perfect gift for my proposal that will surely touch the heart of my beloved. I will find him."_

" _There is no way that someone could crack a riddle as impossible as that."_

" _Not entirely impossible, for the riddle has no dead end. The shell of the egg is uniquely iridescent, and strangely, if you look at all of these chickens, only one of them glimmers as brightly as the egg. You simply shine some lights on them, and you would know the answer, loud and clear."_

There was a snorting sound. "Preposterous."

" _Try it yourself, if you are still suspicious."_

" _Fine. Where did you acquire such a chicken anyway?"_

" _Ah," his tone grew wickedly secretive, "That is not for you to know."_

Ah," Nadirah mouthed, intently staring at the seller, "Are you a psychic too, Mister?"

"I assume you've gotten it?" Ikhwan hurriedly asked.

"Yeah," she nodded to him, subsequently averting her gaze to the viscount. "Shine some lights on the egg and chicken, and you will have your answer. Apparently, both of those are iridescent, and glimmer under the lights."

Vincent kept his eyes glued on the egg, but it was hard to ignore the slightest twinge of amusement in his aloof expression. "I thought my eyes deceived me, but I did notice something strange about this egg. Mind if I take a closer look?"

"Be my guest, sir, but you can't hold it."

"Good enough," he smiled. He shoved his hand into his pocket, taking out a box of matches. Lighting the match, he inspected the egg thoroughly.

His eyes glimmered.

"How intriguing," he did sound curiously astonished, "Your egg is unmistakably iridescent."

"It is, isn't it?" said the seller excitedly.

Vincent nodded, his eyes abruptly flickered towards the chickens. "Again, if you don't mind, I would like to inspect the chickens."

"Have it your way, sir." He quickly moved aside, making way for the viscount to pass him by.

"Now what?" asked Nadirah, perplexed. "You don't think he's going to inspect each and every one of them, do you?"

Ikhwan lifted his shoulder. "I expect he will, but I suppose we could shorten his inspection." He followed the viscount into the land of chickens, and after a few second, he pointed at one of them. "Torch it here. This is the chicken in question"

But instead, Vincent ignored Ikhwan's order, and proceeded to inspect a chicken near to it.

"Lovely chicken you have here," commented the viscount. "Did you breed them yourself?"

"Sure did sir," the seller grinned. "My pride and joy."

"I see." He began to inspect the other chickens, "Quite unique, this lot."

"I have been told continuously about that, sir."

He nodded, taking all the time in the world. Finally, he approached the fateful chicken.

And his brows rose far, far up.

He blew the match, grabbed the chicken with both of his hands, and presented it to the seller. "I believe this is the mother of the egg?"

Nadirah was certain that she saw the seller's eyes crystallizing with joy.

"Why yes, sir, you are correct! This is indeed, the mother of the egg. But tell me sir, for I am deeply curious. How did you know that this chicken is the mother?"

"Your egg glimmers under the light," his eyes darted to Nadirah, before averting back to the seller, "And this is the only chicken that possessed the same trait as the egg. I simply couldn't ignore the connection."

"It sure is sir, it sure is." The seller was definitely overjoyed with the viscount's explanation, so much that he couldn't stop grinning as he took the box from his possession, handing it with utmost admiration. "Your prize sir."

Returning the gesture, the brothers were about to leave when the seller suddenly blurted, "I was wondering about the reason for your decision on stepping on our land, sir."

Vincent contemplated for a while, but decided to tell the truth. "I was in search for something."

"So do I, sir. So do I." He too, hesitated for a while, but decided to take the plunge. "Never have I seen someone as dexterous, but if you could spare me a moment, would you like to join me for tea?"

"You should talk to him," Nadirah quickly interjected, recognizing her cue. "He needs your help." Shrugging, she added, "And maybe you need his too."

Vincent stood in silence for a couple of seconds, considering the options.

Then he smiled. "I would love to, but I'm afraid now is not the greatest time. Why don't I meet you again tomorrow, preferably here, and we can have our little chat."

The seller was on the verge of squealing, Nadirah was sure of that.

"Absolutely, sir," he said excitedly. "I shall wait for you tomorrow, sir. Exactly at this spot."

"That would be best," Vincent tilted his head. "If I may be excused, and oh," his eyes fell onto the box, "I shall keep this, then."

"Take it sir," the seller grinned. "It's all yours to take."

After giving another brief smile, the viscount left the place, followed closely by his brother, leaving quite a huge gap between their distances.

"Now what?"

"Come on," urged Ikhwan, "He's calling us."

Nadirah looked at the viscount, and sure enough, she saw that his fingers were beckoning them. Flabbergasted, she blurted, "Are you sure that we are who he meant?"

She could see Vincent's face breaking into a smile.

"I guess it means us, then," she smiled nervously. "Let's go."

They followed the fast strides of the Ventris brothers, passing by several of the natives, passing by several of the foreigners, passing by everything that passed them by, and finally, after much passing bys, the brothers stopped, right in front of a building that resembled a homely inn.

Or maybe it was a homely inn.

"Avery."

Vincent's voice abruptly pierced his ears, catching him off-guard.

"You look quite green," Vincent didn't make an effort of waiting for his reply, "Seasick, perhaps?"

He tried to recover his composure, chortling nervously. "It is not because of the seasick, I suppose not, for I have traveled a lot by ships and never was I nauseous. Yet there was something that makes me green, and I couldn't tell what exactly, except it certainly prickled my skin," he swallowed, "And churned my stomach, I think."

"You should rest," suggested Vincent. "I shall inform the innkeeper for the need of another room."

"Vincent, that is not necessary."

"I beg to differ," he said firmly. "I mustn't bother you, and I for sure didn't want to clean you up if you were to..." he looked at him distastefully, "Well. You will get your own room, and that is final."

Avery shrugged, didn't feel the need of refusing the privacy. "I shall make myself comfortable, then." He was about to make his move, when his fingers brushed Nadirah's clothes.

He shuddered.

"Oh," said Nadirah, noticing the occurrence, "My apologies, sir."

But it was too late, because he was shivering as he said, "I should...I should go."

Avery didn't spare a moment any longer, quickly leading the way into the inn, followed closely by the viscount, and reluctantly followed by the two futuristic ghosts.

All the way, Vincent never stopped from beckoning them to follow his pace, and after the two gentlemen had settled themselves in their own private rooms, the viscount locked his door and faced the two ghosts.

"I believe the two of you have much to explain." He tossed the box around with his hands, and further added, "Especially regarding your sudden appearance, and the so-called fate of your life concerning this box."

"I have no idea, my lord," admitted Nadirah blatantly. "I couldn't read people, unlike this person beside me."

At once, Vincent's eyes flickered toward Ikhwan.

"I can read people, yes," he arched his brows. "Yet you wouldn't allow me to do so on you."

Vincent merely smiled.

"Mind telling me the reason?"

He snickered, changing the subject. "Quite sharp, the lot of you. Yet ashamed is I to admit such quality, for my senses are definitely...not as sharp to reason about your sudden appearance. Especially regarding that fateful meeting with Lady Laura," his gaze trailed to Nadirah, "And my brother."

"They told you?" Nadirah blurted, horrorstricken.

"No, I saw you," he answered truthfully. "Loud and clear, I saw you. And honestly," he held the box firmly, "I am intrigued."

He had been intrigued ever since he stepped on this soil. That was nothing new.

She bit her tongue.

"And that is why you're here," Ikhwan insinuated, "To search for the sparkling butterfly."

"The sparkling butterfly seems to matter a great deal to the lady, especially after freedom was hers to claim and breathe. And believe me," he stared at both of them intently, "She has done everything in her power to acquire the little thing, and I certainly feel obliged to lend her a favor. Thus, as my sign of apology towards the uncouth behavior portrayed by my brother and I, I have vowed to search for that hair accessory."

Ikhwan looked oddly perturbed. "And you heard us made that deal, didn't you? Release her from confinement, and give us our butterfly?"

"I was quite close by, and I owe you my gratitude for strengthening my image. And I do owe you too," he shifted his attention to Nadirah, "For smacking some sense into my brother's thick skull, because truly, he is a jest."

"He's quite easy to intimidate," Nadirah conceded, "And I'm just doing my portion of the plan. But that aside," this question had been bugging her from the start, "Why do you think that the sparkling butterfly is here?"

"I have searched the world, and this is one of the many."

"Do you really think such thing exists?"

He let out a humorless laugh, narrowing his eyes. "Well, pray tell, for I am ludicrously aware that the butterfly has something to do with you."

"Yes, we are searching for it," she wasn't denying it, not at all, "But you do know that our timeline is different, right?"

"Then why on earth do you want Lady Laura to search for it?"

"I am not entirely sure, my lord," she replied bluntly. "Apparently, we are perfecting history, or we would be ceased to exist," she glanced at Ikhwan, "Or so he said."

Ikhwan rolled his eyes.

"Our lives are at the hands of the butterfly!" she exclaimed sardonically. "How dramatic."

"More like at the wings."

"Why wings?"

"Because—"

"Sadly," Vincent intervened, "I do not particularly comprehend the mindset of young teenagers nowadays, so I couldn't really understand."

"You don't need to," said Nadirah. "Not if you're going to live for another 200 years."

"I see," said he, bemused. "Yet it still didn't answer my question about my presence being followed by the so-called children of the future."

"You do believe that we are from the 21st Century?" asked Ikhwan teasingly.

"Perhaps," was his vague answer, "But that's not my main concern."

"Then my lord, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Ikhwan, and this is my friend, Nadirah. The box was the reason for the sudden stalking by yours truly, and I assure you," he smirked, "It was completely unintentional."

"Yet something about your expression tells me otherwise."

It was otherwise—intentionally, definitely—they did stalk him under the order of this future kid beside her, but Nadirah wasn't sure if she should mention that aloud.

Supposedly, Vincent knew about the butterfly in the first place, so surely, he would know about the true motive behind their stalking business?

"Well surely you'll know," she suddenly said, unaware of pouring out her thoughts, "If you were there during our meeting with Lady Laura, that is."

He nodded thoughtfully. "I see that both of you kept your promise."

"And so is she," she returned, "She's still searching for the sparkling butterfly, isn't she?"

"Indeed. Nevertheless, how shameful of me to admit, but I have searched high and low for this particular thing, yet it still hasn't landed in my hands. Surely," he cocked his head, "You'll have a certain clew regarding the hiding place of the sparkling butterfly?"

"Not in this world, I wouldn't know," Ikhwan let out a mischievous grin. "But as the saying goes, if you couldn't find it, why not make it?"

Sharp exhale of breaths and narrowed eyes landed simultaneously on him.

"What on earth do you mean?" asked Vincent, surprised by Ikhwan's suggestion.

"Create it," he further stressed, "Lady Laura has only been enlightened with the rough sketch of the butterfly. She didn't know the real image of the thing."

Nadirah gaped at him, astounded by her lack of knowledge. "And how did she know about the rough sketch of the butterfly?"

"I showed her," he answered, "When you were out to spook his brother."

"Ah," that didn't surprise her, somehow. He'd been extremely tightlipped since the start—it wasn't a wonder that such information would escape from Nadirah's ears. And it was not as if she had told him about that whole rendezvous with Avery either, which, now that she thought about it, was exceptionally comical, so much that she unconsciously burst into a snort.

She cleared her throat, staring apologetically at the viscount. "Tell Mr. Ventris that I'm sorry."

"I don't think that is necessary," Vincent stared at her oddly, before shifting his attention back to Ikhwan. "You're asking me to lie to the lady."

"The butterfly is not for the lady in the first place, it's for us."

He tapped his fingers against the box, reluctantly agreed. "True."

"So in a sense, if we were to ask you to create a new one, it wouldn't matter to her, because it will only greatly affect us."

Vincent took a moment to evaluate that statement, before letting out a dry laugh. "Perfecting history," he echoed. "Is that it? Perfecting history."

"Yes," Ikhwan lifted his shoulders. "Such a twisted world we're living in, tempering we are not, perfecting we are doing."

The viscount exhaled a sharp breath, crossing his arms as he leaned on the wall. "And where do you suggest I find the craftsman?"

"The seller," answered Ikhwan simply. "He is the key."

"I don't understand the need of creating the sparkling butterfly," remarked Nadirah impatiently, staring directly at the gorgeous hue of the Malacca Strait. They had finally escaped from the clutches of the viscount, and finding the private moment, she couldn't wait to ask the question that had been throbbing in her mind, especially when the time was too perfect and serene to be thought otherwise. "Is it true that without that thing, we'd be ceased to exist?"

He sighed, and answered, albeit reluctantly, "Without the butterfly, my grandmother will probably marry someone else, and my father wouldn't exist, much less myself." He stared at her for a while, before finally stating, "You, on the other hand, might exist, so maybe I was wrong, maybe the one who'd cease to exist would be me."

Nadirah blanched. "You don't say."

He simply smiled.

"And what about the thieves?"

"Do the math," he replied briskly, "I hate explaining, I've told you so."

"I can't do the math when there is not enough information," she said heatedly. "I much understand the mystery of Lady Laura and Lord Ventris than the mystery of the thieves. And we have yet to crack the mystery of the fragrance and the carriage, although," she craned her necks about, thinking aloud, "If we were to take everything into consideration, I think the other clue would have something to do with Khalil."

"Khalil?" he asked, "You mean the friend of my grandmother?"

"Yes," she nodded. "Look at it this way, the butterfly is your grandmother's, the box is my grandmother's, the handkerchief is the other person's, surely there'll be something for Khalil, I mean," she tapped her feet impatiently, "He couldn't be left without something. So it's either the fragrance or the carriage, and," she especially emphasized the last word, "His share of stuff must've been something from the 19th Century too."

"19th Century," he echoed, "I suppose it must have something to do with Lord Ventris and Lady Laura as well."

"It must," she agreed wholeheartedly, "It's a good thing that we are not 'perfecting' the much bigger affairs such as the upcoming British expansion—"

"Ah," he looked around, as if suddenly realizing the place for the first time, "Malacca is now under the British's care instead of the Dutch."

"Napoleonic war," she shuddered at the current war that was happening right at that second, "After that, British would gain full authority over Malacca, and look at us," she referred to them both. "Watching instead of doing anything. Not that we can, we could be tempering with the future and thus changing the history or worse, the development, but even if we could, I doubt any of them could see us. Maybe they could if they were psychic, but we are too imaginary to be taken seriously, they might shoot us in the mean time, not that it would affect us—"

"It's a good thing that the Britons we met didn't discriminate us much."

"I wonder if their ability was too overwhelming that they didn't think meeting the children of the future are such a bizarre situation anymore. And Lord Ventris was being too generous to Lady Laura in his attempt of searching for the butterfly," she creased her brows, "Although I don't get why he desperately needs to be in her good terms."

He chuckled in disbelief. "You really don't get it, don't you?"

She blinked, and said, "No, I don't."

"Well, you should ask him the next time you meet him, who knows," he grinned, "You might get a chance of watching him waltzing in a season ball while sipping imaginary lemonade."

"I have no intention to see him in a courtship with any debutante whatsoever."

"You don't."

"I don't!"

"I'm not arguing."

"Yeah, you don't," her tone was unmistakably reserved, "How weird, still!" he flinched as the loud volume of her voice hit her ears, "A ball," she pointed out, "Is much better in fiction, so don't ruin my imagination about the dance scene between Cinderella and Prince Christopher Rupert Windemere Vladimir Carl Alexander Francois Reginald Lancelot Herman Gregory James."

He laughed, for real.

"What, what?" she asked nervously, completely oblivious, "You don't think we would go to the ball, would you?"

"I am not in the mood of creating a pumpkin carriage, so big chance, no."

She narrowed her eyes.

He shrugged, "I haven't seen everything so I couldn't comment."

Nadirah exhaled a sharp breath. "Oh no."

"Serves you right," he smiled mockingly, "You meddled in my affairs."

"Yet if you don't have me, you couldn't be 'perfecting' the future."

As if was hit by sudden realization, he smiled idiotically, "You're right. I should be grateful to you."

"I owe you your life."

"Seems so," he laughed dryly, "We were quite noisy about it when trailing the viscount, weren't we?"

did you notice this? He grinned. Smugly. Grinned," she grimaced, "Smugly."

"Smug is an understatement. He purposely played our role to perfection."

"Huh?"

"He knew the answer all along. He just wanted to see what we have to offer."

She stared at him, openmouthed. "No wonder he laughed at me when I ask whether he's a psychic or not! He is one!"

"He didn't say otherwise."

"He knew who we are all along!"

"I'm assuming that we are quite easy to read," he said thoughtfully, "He locked himself quite well however, no wonder Lady Laura was doubtful."

"What can he do, exactly?" she asked, impatient.

"Hypothetical at the moment, but I think he could lock some things."

"Lock?"

"Lock," he proved his point firmly, "He could pinned us to the wall, locking our joints if we're proven to be suspicious to his eyes."

"Really?" she gnawed her lips, "That viscount, it's a no-brainer that someone like him would be such a disturbing—"

"Well what do you know," Ikhwan suddenly said, expertly cutting her words, "Do you see what I am seeing?"

"You see a lot of things," she answered simply.

"Yet I see what you see, and I can see that you'll see what I thought you will see."

She gasped. "I see!"

Mr. Avery Ventris crept out of the inn quietly, his hand carrying a big suitcase, fully dressed in his evening robe. He found an empty spot of solitude, and accompanied by the soft moonlight, he opened his suitcase, taking out a large canvas and a palette of paint.

"He's an artist?" asked Nadirah, amusedly. "One wouldn't expect a nosy nose like him would have a creative mind running down his veins."

"That one, is you," he replied, slowly walking toward Avery. "I wonder if our intimidating presence could be mistaken as the evening's chills."

"Probably not," said Nadirah, "Those chills are two entirely different sensations."

He grinned. "We might as well pursue the role as a phantom."

They sat beside Avery, curiously watching his reaction. He quivered, quietly said, "The air is briskly warmed, yet why do I feel quite the contrary?" he shook his head. "My guilt must have not washed out, I shall not think of the unnecessary."

"He talked to himself," said Nadirah intriguingly.

"He probably wished that he talked to the butterfly."

Avery's eyes abruptly widened, as he said, "Why do I feel as if my ears ringing with foreign words? I have not felt it for months, yet I would have expected the remorse feeling to worn down already."

"So months have passed," exclaimed Nadirah thoughtfully, "No wonder he is fine and dandy with no hint of attachment to the marchioness."

"Marchioness," he echoed her word, "Why do I suddenly hear that name? Could it be that she is nearer than I have anticipated? Please, I wish for no such thing. At least, give me a chance to turn a new leaf."

"Wow," Nadirah tilted her head, having a closer inspection of Avery's face, "He's more sensitive than I thought, he wasn't so perceiving earlier."

"He was locked, obviously."

"By Lord Ventris?"

"As I said, obviously."

Nadirah looked at Avery amusingly, tempted to speak.

She did just that. "Hello Mr. Avery Ventris."

Avery staggered, his eyes wildly assessing the scene, "Who is it that just spoken? Show yourself!"

Ikhwan covered his mouth with his hand, and after recovering himself, he said, "We have, but I'm afraid your eyes are fully silhouette from seeing us."

"I-is that so?" he asked, clearly agitated. "Well, I—" he stared at his canvas, swallowing loudly, "Excuse my lack of courtesy, but I'm afraid you will need to leave."

"And why is that, sir?"

He bit his lips, slowly answering, "I need to do an errand in behalf of my brother."

"Your brother? The Viscount Ventris?"

"Yes," he narrowed his eyes, "Do you know who he is?"

"We have the pleasure of being his acquaintances," replied Ikhwan, "We have his best interest in our hearts."

"Is that so?" he asked nervously, "My brother has always been quite the odd one."

"Yet you are currently fulfilling his errand."

He licked his lips. "The odd one he is, he asked me to draw a painting of a butterfly."

"A painting of a butterfly? Are you an artist, Mr. Ventris?" asked Nadirah curiously.

"I have been quite an accomplished artist," he replied, "I am not the successor after all. Therefore, I need to have my own share of living."

"It's nice of you to be indulging in a rather creative line of career than being a thrash of society."

He didn't answer, and instead, concentrated on his canvas.

Nadirah decided to try her luck, and a quick glance at Ikhwan prompted her further to pursue her intention. "Are you drawing the sparkling butterfly, by any chance?"

His hand halted from touching the canvas, stammering slight, "H-how did you know?"

"Something about us, Mr. Ventris," Ikhwan grinned, "Is that we always know. We also know that you have never laid your eyes on the butterfly."

"I-I haven't."

"Yet how are you going to draw it?"

"I—" he sighed miserably, "I was hoping that the scenery could inspire me."

"Then let us inspire you, Mr. Ventris," said Nadirah, "We have indeed, seen the butterfly."

She had not, but it was nice to prickle Mr. Ventris.

"Is that so?" he gripped his drawing appliance firmly, "How generous of you, I am extremely grateful—"

"Granted, we could only provide the basic details, but it concerns me on why you need to draw it on the first place," asked Ikhwan.

"I have told you," he answered, "My brother deemed for a painting of the butterfly. He specifically told me to draw and inhale the inspiration in an empty place, and let my pen moved with the exact synchronization of the wind."

Nadirah sighed. "The viscount."

"He wanted it," grinned Ikhwan, "He might as well get it."

"But I have no idea how the butterfly looks like," she hissed.

However, instead of furiously panicking like she, he just shrugged, "We are perfecting history."

Nadirah had the slightest urge of transforming the butterfly into the most ludicrous piece of art.

Nevertheless, she wasn't as cruel, so she began with the basic, "It's actually a hairpin," she tapped her temples, instinctively said, "Silver hairpin."

"A hairpin that sparkles under the sun," commented Ikhwan, "Adorned with multiple gems, much like Cleopatra."

She chuckled. "Yes, like Cleopatra, like a peacock." She stared at Ikhwan. "Does Cleopatra lives in this age?"

"Depending on which Cleopatra you referred to," he replied.

"Sparkles like Cleopatra and the peacock, with multiple gems," recited Avery.

"Lots of gems, just like Taming Sari, which was created by twenty metal substance—" she closed her mouth horrifically, "This is the place of Hang Tuah and Hang Jebat! I nearly forgot that."

"Good, we don't want to attract more attention," replied Ikhwan. "But seriously, twenty gems?"

"Maybe less, less is more," she grinned, "But we must put a tourmaline in it."

"Tourmaline?"

"It was the Empress Dowager Cixi's favorite gemstone. Preferably, the pink one, she loved it so much that she even requested for it on her deathbed. It would be a nice surprise for my grandmother."

"What is tourmaline's specialty, exactly?"

"It supposedly could preserve beauty."

"Ah, no wonder," he snickered. "Then, a fuchsia tourmaline on the both of the antenna."

"Fuchsia tourmaline," echoed Avery, "On the antennas."

"On the head, there should be Madeira Citrine," she grinned, "Guess why."

"I am not particularly educated about the wellbeing of gems."

"Madeira Citrine," she said, "Is a psychic stone!"

It was hard to describe his facial expression at the moment, but a safe bet would be a mixture of amusement, flummox and leer. "You can't be trusting in those superstitions."

"Of course not," she said defiantly, "It's highly amusing and interesting, that's all. But I'm still with my decision of putting the Citrine on the head."

"Citrine...is a yellow stone, isn't it?"

"I thought you don't know much about gems."

"Much, I don't say all."

"You very much like to twist my words around. You need a citrine, it could clarify your head."

"I guess I need it, in order to read you."

"Maybe you don't," and changing the subject, she said to Avery, "The yellow Madeira Citrine on the head."

"Yellow Madeira Citrine on the head," said he, making a mental note to himself.

"Shouldn't we put some precious stones as well?" Nadirah considered. "All of those have been semi-precious."

"Precious being?" asked Ikhwan.

"You know, sapphire, ruby, emerald—"

"Does Opal fit in the category?"

"Opal," she nodded in agreement, "Yes, opal is nice. What's with opal?"

"Since you have surprised your grandmother with the tourmaline, I should surprise mine with the opal."

"Ah," she squealed, "King Louis XVI used to wear those while in Versailles with Marie Antoinette."

"My grandmother thinks that the couple is the most dramatic couple she had ever read."

"What about Count Fersen then?" she smacked her head, "Oh, wow. I think he's still alive at this moment. The Count, I mean."

"She didn't think much about Count Fersen. She doesn't really like adultery."

"What about true love?"

He snorted.

She knew she was being laughed at, so she decided to change the subject. "We should use a black opal!"

"I don't think they discovered it during this time of age."

"Any opal then, on the thorax!"

"Opal on the thorax," said Avery, reciting her words.

"It may have seemed as if we are jumbling all of those gems into that poor butterfly," he said thoughtfully, "I wonder if the immense aura from the gems would somehow overpower the whole thing."

Nadirah let the words sank into her head, and answered, "It's just a painting. It might have been an inspiration in terms of colors more than gems. Besides, it's not as if Lord Ventris could find all of these gems."

Ikhwan was silent for a while, before proceeding, "I will say nothing."

"You know something!"

"I'm thinking," he indulged in a deep thought, "What was the gemstone that Alexander the Great loved the most?"

"Alexander the Great," said she, "Surprise for Khalil, then?"

"Yes," he raised his brows. "Any idea?"

"Chrysoprase."

"Then we should include chrysoprase, preferably at the abdomen."

"We should carve it into a heart-shape!"

He stared at her bewilderedly. "Heart-shape?"

"It has more power if it were to be carved into the shape of a heart."

"More power is the least we wanted right now," he said patiently, "Scratch the heart-shape idea. Chrysoprase on the abdomen."

"Chrysoprase on the abdomen," echoed Avery.

"Your mentioning of Alexander gives me an idea," said Nadirah excitedly. "I always love Alexandrite!"

"Alexandrite?"

"Yes! It changes colors you see, I once saw an Alexandrite changing from red to green," she smiled jovially, "It was marvelous."

"Well, that is nice and all, but I think, once again, the age is too early for such a thing to be discovered."

"No Alexandrite?"

"I don't think so, no."

"But the green and red is so pretty," her voice was prickled with annoyance, "Why wasn't the lord and the lady was born in the Victorian Era instead of Regency?"

He laughed, and sighed. "Well, there's emerald for green, and ruby for red."

"I'll take emerald," said she, "Emerald for the forewings."

"Emerald for the forewings," said Avery, "I say my lovely companions, if I may have a word?"

"Sure," they said simultaneously.

"I think Lady Laura is deeply fond with lapis lazuli."

"How did you know?" asked Nadirah teasingly.

"I-I—" he stammered, "Well, it is hard to say—"

"You stalk her, didn't you?"

"That's a harsh way to put it, but in a sense—"

"Yes?"

He bit his tongue. "Yes," and then he blurted, "But I'm her friend too, if that made any sense."

"It sure does," assured Ikhwan. "Well then. Lapis lazuli, dated since the 16th Century," he sniggered at Nadirah. "Aren't you glad that they are living in the Regency?"

"Even if they were living in the Georgian Era, they could wear the Lapis Lazuli."

"Lapis Lazuli on the hindwings then," grinned Ikhwan, feigning ignorance toward Nadirah, "Does Lord Ventris have a favorite gemstone I wonder?"

"I think not, my dear companion," provided Avery. "But he does treasure a certain carbuncle."

"Garnet?"

"Carbuncle, my dear, carbuncle."

"Why does he like garnet?"

Avery sighed, unwilling to argue any further. "I am not my brother, so I couldn't comment."

"Then we should put a garnet there. Garnet at the scales."

"That's a whole lot of garnet."

"Garnet is quite common in this time of day, isn't it?"

"Not a gem expert, not I am," Avery further added, "Carbuncle for the scales."

"But surely Mr. Ventris, you've stumbled across a lot of gems."

"Far little than the both of you, I presume."

"We stumbled across the gems in photographs and on the internet, not in real life you see."

"I have quite a difficulty in comprehending your words, but I'm afraid I have to agree, I do stumble quite a lot in my journey with my brother."

"So which gain your most attention?"

"Why must I bother?"

"Because Mr. Avery Ventris," Nadirah said matter-of-factly, "We have tourmaline which represents my grandmother, opal which represents his grandmother, citrine which represents me, chrysoprase which represents my grandmother's friend, emerald which represents my friend, lapis lazuli which represents Lady Laura, garnet which represents Lord Ventris, and—" she stopped, and stared at Ikhwan, ghastly. "We've forgotten about the other friend!"

"No," he shook his head gently, "The butterfly was made in Malacca, which obviously represents him."

"Oh," she said thoughtfully, "That's true. So, no need for a gem then?"

"No."

"Yes, and that leaves one more person to the mix, and that is you Mr. Ventris!"

By the expression on his face, it may have seemed that he had realized on how they were creating a butterfly out of their own will, rather than duplicating the real thing.

But he didn't seem to mind.

Perhaps he just wanted to let this over with.

"I."

"Yes."

"Is this inevitable?"

"Yes it is."

He drummed his fingers against the canvas, slowly muttering, "Shame to say, I wasn't much knowledgeable about the gems in the world."

"Tell us your favorite color," suggested Nadirah, "Then we will match a gem with the color of your choice."

"I am always keen towards the family shade of lilac."

"Amethyst then," said Nadirah, "Amethyst for the scales."

"Amethyst is hardly lilac."

"Amethyst then!"

He sighed. "Fine. Amethyst for the scales," said he, and after a while, he spoke with much authority, "I shall remind myself on the real images of the gems."

For the longest time, he sat there, lost in his own mind, before his fingers started to dance on the canvas, immensely concentrating on the piece of art.

"Fuchsia on the antenna," they heard him said, "Tangerine on the head, ivory on the thorax, apple green on the abdomen, emerald on the forewings, blue with golden specks on the hindwings, crimson and violet on the scales."

Nadirah and Ikhwan both stared at Avery, slowly sketching the drawing, accompanied by the subtle light from the moon, and startled when the first streak of sun shone on their faces, illuminating Avery as he added his finishing touch to the painting.

"I'll be honest," said Nadirah, "I thought the mash of colors will make the butterfly looks beyond hideous and tacky."

"You thought wrong."

"I thought wrong," she took a deep breath of the deliciously uncorrupted morning air, "It is beautiful."

"It is I who paint," said Avery, "My painting defines the beauty of a creation. That is my specialty."

Nadirah was tempted to say show-off.

"Say it," said Ikhwan amusingly, "Whatever it is that you wanted to say."

She grinned.

"I am mentally prepared."

"Fine then," she snorted loudly, "Mr. Ventris is a show-off."

"You should feign ignorance, Mr. Ventris."

"I am doing just that, in case you are wondering."

The loud chortle died out, as soon as they heard the familiar footsteps approaching their spot.

It was the exact footsteps that she heard during her last visit to the Ventris's house, now that she recalled.

Vincent closed their distance, amusedly noted, "It's nice to see that you have come in great terms with the ghosts."

"Th-they are ghosts?"

"Quite the contrary, I couldn't really pick the most suitable term, yet ghosts it is, suited them well enough."

"True," he shivered, "For the past hours, they did nothing but shackle me senseless."

"Wait, that is not all. Don't listen to your lying brother, my lord," Nadirah wrinkled her nose, "We provided the details for the sparkling butterfly."

"So it is," he took a long speculative look at the painting, "Quite a unique contraption."

"I would say bizarre is more appropriate, but as they said," Nadirah grinned, "Listen to the elders."

"For sure, I am your elders for more than two hundred years, so I appreciate the courtesy. Yet it is not a question that the knowledge of your world is far superior to mine, for I live quite early in the world, while your world is living in the peak of developments."

"That's true," she nodded. "You have yet to mine and discover Alexandrite."

"Or even create robots," added Ikhwan.

Avery sighed. "I wonder if all the children of the future behave like this."

"Oh," Nadirah grinned. "They are wackier."

"Well," Avery swallowed, "Glad that I met the less-wackier type, although I couldn't imagine the much wackier children than this lot."

"You have yet to meet our friend," her tone was serious, "He talked as if the world will end any second from now."

Ikhwan snickered.

"I have the pleasure of not meeting him, then. If I am not as obvious, I much do not enjoy the sensation of hearing one's voice while not seeing his face."

Nadirah exchanged glances with Ikhwan, and said flatly, "Alexander Graham Bell couldn't be born any sooner."

"He does not know the telephone," he sighed.

"Or the internet."

Avery stood there uneasily, curiously staring at his brother.

"They are such witty kids, aren't they? Desperately delighting one's heart."

"Not mine, Vincent, not mine."

"Suit yourself," he averted his gaze and let it fall on the two devils. "Now then, I assume the both of you are knowledgeable about the next move."

"I assume you know what to do more than us, my lord," grinned Ikhwan.

"Yet nothing could be done, since my brain was lacking the much desired explanation about the enthusiastic seller."

Nadirah and Ikhwan exchanged glances at each other, and grinned widely.

The merchant introduced himself as Abdullah, the native of the land of Malacca. He'd been living in Malacca for all of his life, never stepping even a mere inch away from the soil of his birth. All of his parentage had lived in the proud land ever since the reign of the Sultanate—which meant that they probably existed during the arc of Hang Tuah—yet they too never dream in residing in another land.

His face was purely excited to be able to meet the viscount yet again, thoroughly convinced that the viscount would fulfill his dream of proposing to his beloved.

Nadirah didn't understand the need to appear extravagant just for a mere proposal, but she wasn't a 19th Century Malaccan native, so she kept herself quiet like Avery himself, listening to the words from the merchant diligently.

"I hope I am not intruding your time in our land, sir, for it would be such a waste for your long journey if you were to listen only to my selfish request."

"Not at all," said the viscount, "I am more than willing to help a fellow friend. I would lend you my favor if it deemed necessary."

"Thank you sir, much gratitude from my humble self, yet I wonder if a person such as you would believe in the least possible story," he said nervously, "Because as shame as I am to admit, my story is mythical at its best."

"I have quite an open-minded mind."

"That is good to know, sir, and I am sorry once again for troubling you with my petty request."

"Please, no more," he held out his hand, "Or else you will strip away my rare generosity."

"Is that so, sir? Well, I suppose I should quickly elaborate my story. I couldn't afford to bore you," he paused, indulging in his deep thoughts, before saying, "It is hard to believe, but I have my reason for putting my precious box on the stake."

"Did you make this box? Quite an articulate piece, I am impressed."

"Indeed I do," he smiled, "My greatest masterpiece, of which were created in memory of my beloved. I am willing to part from it if it was the price for my beloved, and so that was why I did the little sacrifice, no matter how painful it felt."

"The box," said the viscount, "You can have it back if you want."

"Oh no, I couldn't do so. I am a man of words, a man of promise, and what I have given you, I shall not take it back. That is my rule."

"As you wish," Vincent smiled.

Nadirah had the slightest hunch that maybe the viscount knew about the man's vulnerability, and thus, asking the basic question in order to enhance his generosity image.

But then, maybe he was genuinely generous.

"I have a dream, my dream is a premonition, or so I thought," his tone grew serious, "The one who cracked my riddle and possessed my box would lead me to the greatest proposal item one could think for a bride as lovely as my beloved."

"Is that so Mr. Abdullah? But I'm afraid I am as much clueless as you are."

False.

Yet, it was vital to keep your innocent façade upfront in order to not intimidate your acquaintance with your bizarre personality.

"I thought as much, sir. How foolish of me to think that you are the solution for all my worries, and so I have been thinking," he leaned closer, "Maybe you unconsciously bear the hint for my request."

"Maybe so," he raised his brows, "However, you have piqued my interest and I have no reason to ignore your request. But I do wonder, if you were not to have that dream, what would you give to your beloved for the proposal?"

The merchant paused to think, and slowly answered, "I would give her a replica of a butterfly."

"Butterfly, you say?" he arched his brows, "Interesting, yet quite questionable."

"My beloved loves butterfly," the merchant smiled. "It is endearing to see her so immersed in things such as those."

Vincent laughed, jokingly said, "It is always endearing to watch our beloved do anything at all in front of our nose."

"I couldn't agree more. My love for her is indescribable, so much that even the slightest view of her admiring the butterflies fascinated me to no end."

"I understand your sentiment," he nodded, "The human emotions are truly amazing, isn't it? Inexplicably so, I always put my eyes out in admiring the many forms of humans, yet you once again piqued my interest, this time on fellow insects! Truly spectacular," his voice was buttery smooth yet politely conversed, "I ought to pay much attention to butterflies then, beautiful creatures they are. In fact," he creased his brows, remembering something on top of his mind, "I think I have." He averted his attention to his brother, slowly said, "Did you bring the painting of the butterfly?"

"I think I do," said the brother vaguely, "Is it the painting of the butterfly in a form of a hair accessory?"

"Truly, that's the one in my mind."

"Then I might as well have it right here," he searched for the painting amidst his many parchments, and took out with much rejoiced. "Here we are, a painting of the sparkling butterfly."

For a while, there was not a sound except for the loud gasp by the merchant, but even then, he quickly recovered, albeit panting slightly, "This is perfect."

"Of course," Avery grinned, "It is I who paint."

The two devils snorted.

"Shut up, devils," muttered Avery.

"How magnificent, what raw talents you have," appraised the merchant.

"Indeed," said the viscount, "And I have searched high and low for a person who could carve this little accessory into perfection as portrayed in this portrait. But alas, none really exceeds my expectation," he smiled sagely, "It is for my beloved as well, you see."

"Beloved?" spat Nadirah.

For a moment, Vincent's eyes flickered towards Nadirah, casting a beguiling smile at her before returning his gaze back to the merchant.

"Oh," Nadirah clasped her hand together in realization, "No wonder you are so persistent in helping Lady Laura. You liked her."

"You are surprisingly innocently slow."

She smiled blandly. "How should I know? He might have a viscountess by his side already for all I care."

The eyes flickered back at her, this time, thoroughly glinting with amusement.

"Okay," Nadirah turned her gaze away from the lord, "You don't. End of story."

Yet it wasn't the end for her, because she continued, "No wonder the both of you are still miserably staying at your family house. You don't have a partner, nor do you have your own personal lodgings."

"I will," whispered Avery, "Soon."

"Did you say something?" asked the merchant.

"Ah," he smiled. "My thoughts must have flown away from my brain. I shall keep in mind that everything in here," he pointed at his head, "Should remain in there."

"Not exactly," said the merchant, "Everything in there shouldn't be selfishly kept, although it doesn't apply to you, since you did pour everything in your artworks," he said, greatly impressed, "And I shall do the same. Sir, if you don't mind," he inquired the viscount with great intensity, "I might not exceed your level of expectancy, but I really appreciate it if you would give me the chance of bringing the static butterfly into life. I would make one for you sir, and one for myself, if you don't mind."

"I sincerely do not mind," answered the viscount simply, "It is my greatest desire to hold the splendor butterfly in my hands, and so, even if the world has two of the duplicates, I wouldn't mind."

"T—" Nadirah quickly bit her tongue, didn't want to distract them with her outburst, "T'was great," she laughed nervously. "We have finally found the craftsman."

Exactly at that moment, the ancient world of 19th Century began to cease from their eyes, bringing them back to Grandmother Fatima's 21st Century house.

Nadirah blinked. "Did I say the keyword?"

"Possibly," he proceeded to repeat the words, "We have finally found the craftsman. It sure does sounds like the keyword for returning."

She smacked her head. "If I know such a thing, I would never say that. We don't even have the chance of looking at the finished product."

"At least, if we solved the mystery, we would have a chance to look at the product, even if we are 200 years late."

"Wow," she sighed, "Such a long time for a little peek at the princess butterfly—No." Realizing something, she whispered, "Two princesses."

He lifted a shoulder.

"You know."

"I never said I don't."

"You love that style of speech."

"It's vague and deceiving."

"It's irritating."

"Personal reference, I adore it," he peeked at the clock, and said, "Two measly seconds have passed, and it felt as if we've been gone for a lifetime. Truly ingenious."

"Yeah," she agreed. "Felt like a dream, except the dream was definitive authentic, and we did help Mr. Ventris with the painting, although the painting is ridiculously familiar—"

"Familiar?" he asked, intrigued. "What do you mean by familiar?"

She scrunched her face. "I don't understand either, but I can't shake the sense of familiarity off my head. Perhaps I have seen a picture of the sparkling butterfly somewhere before."

"Maybe," he acquiesced, "But it is highly irritating to have an unsolved puzzle in your head, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

He grinned, leisurely crossing his arms. "I'll give you a clue."

chapter 8

Nadirah waited impatiently in Widad's room, constantly walking back and forth on the heavily carpeted floor. She glimpsed at her wristwatch every now and then, trying to ease her mind from the constant pounding, the result of anxiety from barging in without a Plan B.

Grunting, she sat on the bed, counting the seconds in her head, and when the lady in waiting still wasn't in sight, she lied on the soft mattress, curiously examining the carving on the ceiling.

She immediately stood up when the door of the room open, booming in with familiar voices, "And I need my money back, you hear me?"

"Yes, Widad," said Arina dismissively, "I'll pay you as soon as my dad gives me my allowances—" her eyes abruptly landed on Nadirah. "Nadirah, what are you doing here?"

Nadirah blinked, staring at the bed, staring at the ceiling, and shrugged. "Admiring the ceiling?"

Arina laughed. "No, really. Why are you here?"

"Waiting for Widad," she answered simply.

Widad stepped in front, curiously asked, "Something the matter?"

"Kind of."

"Mind to elaborate?"

She studied the face of her two cousins, contemplating on the right reply. Something clicked in her mind, or was it inside her, she wasn't sure, but she found herself answering, "Danial. It has something to do with," she took a deep breath, "Danial."

The horrific look on Widad's face was unmistakably conspicuous, and it was further prominent when she spoke to Arina, albeit hastily, "Thanks Arina, pay me later."

"What?"

"I need to have a," she smiled flatly, "A heart-to-heart talk with her."

"A heart-to-heart?" Arina asked bewilderedly, but before she could further inquire, Widad harshly escorted her out and said, "No young ears should listen to this, so off you go!"

She closed the door harshly, nervously glancing at Nadirah. "He's fine, right?"

"I guess."

"What do you mean by _you guess_?"

She shrugged. "Haven't met him."

If Widad asked for the brother of her apparent nemesis, then she could answer for sure.

"Then what's with the commotion about Danial?"

"Don't know," she replied, but later realized that it was too short to comprehend, so she added, "The commotion was you."

Realizing her mistake, Widad swallowed convulsively, trying to emit a nonchalant air. "I thought something terrible happened to him," she laughed nervously, "You'll never know."

"Yeah," nodded Nadirah, "And I'll never know," she spoke her rehearsed words carefully, "Why his presence terrified you so."

"T-terrified?"

"My theory," she said, "Number one is terrified. Number two is crush. Number three is loath."

"Terrified, crush and loath are different things! How could you categorize it like that?"

"Terrified," the clicking sound in her brain began to subside, but not for long, because a loud burst suddenly deafened her ears, pouring the words out like melted butter. "Because you are obviously intimidated. Crush, because you don't like to admit defeat to your pact. Loath, because you avoided him as if his mere presence poisoned the air."

"Maybe I did loathe him," she said indignantly, "It's apparent that I loathe him!"

"That might be true," Nadirah made no point in arguing, "But still, terrified outranked the loathed."

Widad was flustered, and it was even more pronounced as she lashed out heatedly, "What are you trying to say Nadirah? Why are you suddenly so interested in my affairs?"

"My intention is not to meddle in your affairs, but sadly, your affairs have become one of Ikhwan's, and one of Ikhwan's means that it is one of mine."

"Why is it one of yours?" she sneered, "It's not as if you're a united couple."

"Because of reasons I can't explain," she answered, "But don't worry. I won't dwell much further than necessary. I just need to ask something."

"Something concerning Danial?"

"Quite so, I obtained a clue that hinted on something like that."

She stood arrogantly, ready for the blazing fire of accusation.

Nadirah took that as her cue for interrogation.

"You hide something from Danial, didn't you?"

She didn't say anything.

"And you're afraid that if you spent more than a second with Danial, he would uncover your lies."

She tilted her head to the other side, still containing herself from speaking.

"You especially hated the thought of a butterfly, because it reminded you of your own cowardice."

"I'm not a coward!" she snapped. "I am merely protecting my common sense!"

"Why didn't you tell him that?"

She bit her tongue, unwilling to speak.

"Don't worry," Nadirah said calmly, "Danial's already done your errand."

She blinked, thoroughly flummoxed. "What?"

"He's already done your part of the deal."

"He returned the painting?" she spluttered.

Nadirah nodded.

"But I still have the painting—Oh." She crossed her arms in realization. "He switched it, huh?"

"He did," Nadirah concurred, "Because you didn't feel compelled to share your worries with him."

"He is terrifying," she shivered, "I would never share my worries with him. Despite the fact that I very much loathe him, he is so terrifying that I rather not share the same room with him."

"Terrifying, or beleaguering?"

"A mixture of both," said she, "Still, I couldn't handle a person like that."

"Well, I don't actually want to hear the story of your feud with my friend's brother—" after all, she respected one's privacy, but Widad quickly cut her off, "But you bring the subject first!"

"Yeah," she said placidly, "I just wanted to see the painting."

She scoffed. "Surely, the brother would tell you where he hid the painting?"

"I am not sure which brother you meant," she said dubiously. "But no, they didn't."

"Typical," she muttered. "They love to leave us in the dark."

"They do, didn't they? I need to be extra sharp and perky these days."

"Oh, you need to be extra perky and sharp all the time," she muttered in disgust. "Or else, be prepared to be bested with that twisted mind of theirs."

Widad wasn't aware that Nadirah had the upper hand in handling Ikhwan, thanks to her being a tightly closed book, apparently.

But she decided to keep her mouth shut, and steered Widad back to the original topic. "I hope the painting is here, and not in your house."

"Danial never went to my house," she said, "I doubt he knows where it is. But why do you need it so much?"

"Why do you have it in the first place?"

It was easy to be daring once she had detected the major weak point.

"Why do I need to tell?"

"Likewise," answered Nadirah simply.

Widad huffed, obviously uncomfortable in her own room. It was her turn to wander the room back and forth, fidgeting like an anxious chicken. "If I'm lucky he'd be nice for once and returned it to the same place."

"If you're lucky?"

"He's never nice to me, can't you tell?"

Obviously she couldn't, because really, how many times have she seen her cousin together with the brother? She couldn't remember any, which might be contributed by her often dazed head, but even when she was conscious enough to notice, the potential meeting always ended up with the other party fleeing the scene.

"Okay now," Widad took a deep breath, "I hid it," her eyes flickered toward the bed, "Under the mattress."

She strode briskly toward the location, lifting the mattress hastily with her hand, and released it down. "Okay," she said breathlessly, "Obviously, it's not there."

"Impossible," Nadirah uttered. "I don't think Ikhwan was lying."

"So it was he who told you about this switching painting thing?"

"Yeah," and feeling the need to defend him, since Widad was sporting such a beleaguering look, she added, "He rarely jokes around, you see."

"Yes, I suppose so," Widad gritted her teeth. "His brother is the devil, not him."

"Yet devil as he may, would he coerce a maiden's chamber?"

Widad looked at her blankly, probably just noticing the sudden magniloquence in Nadirah's speech. "Did you just hit your head or," she stifled a chortle, "Oh I see. You went on a date with Ikhwan to the matinee, right?"

She need not say that they went to a place far better than the matinee.

And it was not a date. Definitely not that.

But she said just that. "Date? How shameful of you to think of me like that, but no. We went to a far more interesting place than a mere classical matinee."

Widad's eyes were glinting with amusement. "I thought you stayed home all day."

"Exactly," she said matter-of-factly, unwilling to let her cover being blown, "The conversation at home is far better than a matinee."

"As you wish," she sighed, admitting defeat, "I just need to find out where he hide that painting—" she looked at Nadirah with a supremely ghastly expression, screeching on the top of her lungs, "Zahari!"

"Zahari?" echoed Nadirah.

"Zahari! Of course! He'd be the associate culprit!"

"Associate culprit?"

"Those two have always been close," she gnawed her thumb.

"Close?" Nadirah creased her brows.

"Well, I assume not that close, since Zahari is more or less Danial's lackey."

She was tempted to snicker, but she sealed the lid of her mirth as tight as possible.

"Now where is that little wretch?"

She shrugged.

"How come you don't know? You stayed home all day."

Nadirah shrugged again, resembling the old Nadirah again.

She supposed the box had shut itself then, because she was truly at lost for words.

"Oh, right," Widad blew her flyaway hair impatiently, "He's obviously not home then, if you don't know. My vulnerability is getting the best of me," she sighed, "I blame it solely on Danial."

"That is not nice," Nadirah smirked, but Widad's beleaguered expression was endearingly painful to watch, so she added, "—Sounding."

"Believe me, it's true," her face was exceedingly serious, "He beats Zahari in my ranking of annoying people, and you know I have a lot."

Nadirah scratched her head, wondering how she fared in the chart. She was certain that Zahari must've landed somewhere in the top three, and the rest of the cousins would probably rank in the top ten, or at very least, top twenty.

But before she could inquire, Widad screamed, "I should find the little wretch and let him admit to his faults!" and stormed out of the room, away from the perplexed face that belonged to Nadirah.

Now what, she wondered.

She proceeded to lie on the bed again, her mind desperately requesting for a time out.

It had indeed been a long, exhausting day, and if anything, she had never done so much activity in three consecutive days.

She might as well deserve a rest.

And just like that, she fluttered her eyelids close, off to the land of dreams.

She did intend to fall asleep, just not on one's bed and not hers.

As she yawned and shoved Widad's feet away from her face—Widad was famed for her notorious sleep posture and a late riser—Nadirah took the moment to recollect herself and wonder if Widad was successful in uncovering the little duplicate painting.

Considering how the room had no changes from the last time she'd seen it, it might very well mean that the painting had yet to be in her clutches.

Sighing, Nadirah slipped away from the bed and into her own bedroom, readying herself for the morning prayer, hoping that she would stumble across Zahari sometimes later.

But apparently, later meant never.

She didn't see Zahari for the whole morning, and as she visited Arina's room for a rough explanation, Arina had this to answer, "But you are being so secretive to me, why shouldn't I be so to you now?"

Nadirah thought about it for a couple of minutes, and replied, "It is Widad's secret, not mine, and you have more secrets than I could imagine."

"Proof it."

"Okay," she creased her brows, racking her brain for a potentially good argument. "You always played a song that had yet to release in advance. Where did you acquire the sheet music? You must have great connections."

That automatically shut Arina's big hole of curiosity, and Arina's big mouth too.

"How did you manage to say all that in a matter of seconds?"

Well, that was impressive, wasn't it?

The box rattled.

Nadirah shrugged.

"Well," Arina fidgeted, ashamed of her blown cover, "That is my secret."

Nadirah nodded.

"And not yours."

Nadirah shrugged.

"And Widad's secret is not yours either."

"Not if she didn't feel obliged to share."

"Oh wow," she blinked rapidly, "She shared it with you?"

Nadirah shrugged. "I only rightly guessed a partial of it, so I didn't know the whole story nevertheless."

"How could anyone be so stingy?" she caught the hopeful glint in the eyes of her cousin, and subconsciously asked, "Why do you really need to see him?"

"Because Widad referred to him."

"And why does anyone refer to that useless douche?"

"I don't know," apparently his brother was the lackey, or so she thought, "It's not me who refers to him."

"Well, I asked him yesterday, because Widad kept pestering me about his whereabouts," she rolled her eyes, "He spent the night at Danial's house."

"Could they be scheming something?"

"Nah," she shook her head, "They are just good friends."

"Widad is extremely suspicious."

"She was suspicious of everything," she rolled her eyes, but then took a good look at Nadirah. "So I asked Zahari about it, because Widad kept muttering painting and all, and so he asked me to give you something behind Widad's back."

Nadirah raised her brows.

"Something about a painting, he said you could be interested."

"Painting," she echoed confoundedly.

"Yeah, painting," Arina narrowed her eyes, "Since when are you interested in paintings anyway?"

"Life is mysterious," she said sagely.

Arina made no effort to argue, and instead, started beckoning her to follow to the next room—her brother's room.

She walked to his closet and took every clothes that he'd hanged off the rack, and started to slide the wooden insert off the closet.

There, it was apparent that a beautiful painting of a sparkling butterfly resided majestically on the milky wall, staring deeply at the spectators.

Arina unlatched the painting from the wall, opening the plastic cover and handed it to Nadirah. "I think that's the painting."

The painting, upon closer inspection, was actually painted on a soft substance that reminded Nadirah of silk. And while it did resemble Avery's painting, there was no mistaken it—she had seen this before.

When, and how, she was not certain.

There was only one explanation for that.

She must have glimpsed at it during the flyaway of her mind.

Nadirah raised her head, staring at Arina curiously. "How do you know?"

"That this painting is back there?"

She nodded.

"He told me."

She creased her brows.

"Okay," Arina grinned, "I stumbled across it once. Nosy sibling is inevitable."

"He knows that you know."

"Yeah," she scoffed, "Very annoying, because you couldn't even sneak into his room without him detecting your unique footsteps on his doormat," she shivered. "Creepy."

"Yeah," Nadirah returned, "Like a detective."

"He won't become a detective, he hates those scientific things," she rolled her eyes, but the rolling stopped as it landed on Nadirah's face. "What are you going to do with this?"

"This? Oh, well," she gulped, caressing the silk painting in her hand, "This feels like silk."

"You want to turn this into some sort of clothing?"

"No," she spat bewilderedly, "Of course not."

"Frame this then! Or you could always sell this, I'm sure the price tag would be unbelievably high."

"Well," Nadirah cleared her throat, "This is not mine."

"Zahari said that he's turned the ownership to you. So it is technically yours."

It was not technically hers, but Nadirah didn't want to expose more of the secrets to the gossiper.

"Do anything you want to do with it, he didn't mind, he said. You might as well take advantage of his generosity."

Nadirah smacked her lips, ascertaining her decision regarding the painting.

Well, she might as well try her luck.

"Let me think first," she finally said, "I'll be in my room."

"Oh, and Nadirah?"

She stopped, curiously gazing at Arina.

"You've changed," both of her thumbs were up, "And improved. You'll be cured in no time."

To that, Nadirah had no reply.

She exited Zahari's room, leaving Arina behind who apparently wanted to place the wooden insert back into the closet. But now that Arina had proven herself to be a quite nosy sibling, Nadirah doubted that that was the only thing she would do.

Well, those siblings' affairs were none of her concern.

As soon as she entered her room, she clasped the lock shut and began to settle on her bed. She smoothened the painting on the soft comforter, her legs crossed over as she tried to concentrate.

First thing first, she should inspect the painting before indulging in the unthinkable. Her eyes deeply magnified the painting, and while it wasn't superior to Avery's—or she might be biased—it did have a certain indescribable quality to it that made it much unique on its own rather than being a dubbed replica. The colors were true, every lines and structures were drawn with pristine precision, and the only thing that differed from the original painting was the initial on the far bottom corner, bearing the word, KK.

The name that began with the letter K couldn't be considered scarce in her head, but she wouldn't want to take chances, and ever so often, the pseudonym wasn't a person's real name.

The only thing left for her to do was to embrace her newfound ability, and while she never did it alone, she knew that she had sailed her life on her own two feet, so why couldn't she do it now?

She closed her eyes, imagining the unimaginable, unable to picture the picturesque scene. Yet she never relented. She tried to find the keyword of fragrance, in an attempt to test her luck, all the while deeply immersed in the dainty painting.

The words started to ring in her ears, and smiling jubilantly, she let the musical voices uncovered itself to resemble a sentence, "...fragrance of lavender better than wisteria. There is no wisteria in this town anyway."

A female voice sighed, as she pointed, "If you were to draw wisteria in this, then the historical themes would definitely match. Marie Antoinette, Alexander the Great, and Empress Dowager Cixi for the gems, Malacca for the origin of the sparkling butterfly, and finally wisteria to commemorate Lady Fujitsubo!"

Lady Fujitsubo, as Nadirah had once read, was a female character in an infamous Japanese historical story, The Tale of Hikaru Genji. The kanji in her name meant wisteria, and Nadirah deduced that perhaps that was the reason for their persistent on keeping up with the theme.

"If you can't have Lady Fujitsubo, might as well take Lady Murasaki, no?"

Lady Murasaki—which meant lavender in English—was also a female character in the novel, and while Hikaru Genji was deeply smitten with his stepmother, he tried to mold the niece of the lady to be the perfect wife.

Judging by the disgruntling grunt by the girls, Nadirah wagered that they didn't agree with the boy's suggestion. Nor did they agree with Hikaru Genji's decision.

"I wouldn't even draw lavender on it," said the voice of another boy. "I draw what I see, not what I know."

"You saw those wisterias," said the girl's voice impatiently, "You saw the butterfly, so it means you see it!"

"Relax Maznah," another boyish voice began to chuckle, "Khalil wasn't trying to draw the butterfly, he was trying to procreate the painting."

"But the painting was quite bland with only an accessory there and no more!"

"That's the main attraction," said the boy's voice again, "For you to pay attention to the butterfly only. Tell you what," the voice paused, thinking his thought through, "Khalil will draw you a butterfly on the lavender garden next, but let him draw this one by his own, would you?"

"Who says I want lavender?"

"Well, there's not much choice. We only have lavender after all."

"Nadim," said the other boy's voice distressfully, "What have you gotten me into?"

"You like painting," the smile in Nadim's voice was apparent, "And don't worry. I could provide you with more silk if you ran out of drawing papers."

"Yes," said a voice, and upon closer inspection, Nadirah had the slightest hunch that it belonged to her grandmother, "The next painting would be yours. Think about it, the essence of the sparkling butterfly resting on the dais of my box, caressed by the fragrance of lavender in this garden, snugly wrapped in the duvet made of silk, all the while sitting on this lovely bench. Isn't it lovely?"

Nadirah exhaled a sharp breath, not willing to lose her concentration.

"You are ruining my concentration! Fine, I will draw that next, but this painting," he must have pointed at the painting, "Is my top priority."

"Then you will draw us next?"

"Possibly, now stop badgering me!"

Nadirah eyes flew open, just in time to hear a loud knocking on her door. She stood up, folded the painting and hid it under her bed, and opened the door with a plastered smile on her face.

"Grandmother," she greeted breathlessly.

"I have a couple of guests attending for the soiree," she said proudly, "They are dying to meet you and see how you've grown."

"Ah," she smiled.

"Now my dear, freshen up and greet them downstairs, would you?"

"Sure."

Even if she hated the need of smiling and shaking the hands of the guests for she was self-conscious beyond recognition, it wasn't as if she could run away from the whole deal anyway. Besides, one would think that she would be accustomed to it already, having done the exact thing on her every visit to the house of the merry.

She powdered her face, tinted her lips and cheeks, and after wearing her scarf, she sneaked herself onto the exact spot to peek at the guest. She could see from the hole that the guests were mostly the people that she had not met gradually, and so it probably would save her from much awkward times, since she just needed to repeat the same lines over and over again.

However, it had proven to be equally stressful, and after several minutes of introductions and shaking hands with her face permanently plastered with the granddaughter of the house smile, she excused herself and decided to run away by sneaking into the garden...only to discover that it was not thoroughly empty.

Fattah and Arina were chatting animatedly over the blossoming tulips, the speed and lack of punctual made it hard for Nadirah to comprehend the conversation. She did not attempt to eavesdrop, for as intriguing as it was to know that the both of them were friends, she found that she didn't care as much.

She slowly crept away from their presences, but inauspiciously, her feet grazed the dry leaves, creating such an alarming rustling sound that automatically caught their attention.

"Nadirah," Fattah looked genuinely surprised to see her there, "What are you doing here?"

She was tempted to say that she lived here, and the temptation must have boiling down her veins because she subconsciously said, "This is my grandmother's house," in such a matter-of-fact tone.

He laughed, didn't the least find it off-putting, and instead, said, "Of course, I mean—"

"He means," Arina interjected, probably learning the technique from Ikhwan, or was it due to long exposure from Fattah, she couldn't tell, "Where are you going?"

"Check if we have some lav—" anxiety was not good for her brain, it made her mouth particularly daring, "Some lavish flowers."

"What lavish flower?"

Nadirah didn't know for sure, but she just answered, "Najhan," she smiled nervously, "He wants some, I don't know why," she pointed at the both of them, steering the conversation away from lavish flowers, whatever it meant, "What are you two doing here?"

"Talking," said Arina.

"Oh," she wondered if she had switched personality with Arina this time, for she was being the gossiper and not the one-liner, "So both of you are friends."

She could feel the box rattling furiously inside of her.

"We are, I guess," Arina lifted her shoulder, wrinkling her nose in the process. "He always talks to me whenever he comes here."

"Yeah," Fattah grinned at Nadirah, "Because you always look like you don't want to talk—"

"And all he wants to do is talk—"

"Which is exactly that," he proceeded to grin at Arina, "Talking—"

"Yeah," Arina grunted. "He's very annoying."

He deliberately arched his brows, speaking in a flummoxed manner, "Wow, I didn't know that your opinion of me is so low—"

"You are extremely opinionated—"

"That's my personality—"

It was a conversation that she couldn't possibly budge in, no matter how hard she try, and it was not as if she wanted to join the mindless conversation anyway, so she quietly said, "I'll just head back in."

"What about the flowers?" they simultaneously asked.

Flowers.

Lying was definitely exhausting.

"I'll get it later, after the guest has," Nadirah motioned with her hand, trying to squeeze the words from the tip of her tongue, "Return to their home."

Sometimes it was nice to have the upper hand of speaking difficulty. It'd make deceiving much more natural.

"Oh, okay," Fattah lifted a shoulder, "I'll probably return home with Ikhwan."

"He's here?" she spluttered.

"No, but will be," he checked his cell phone, "He said he will come—"

"Why?"

"Obviously, it's your grandmother's soiree. Obviously, his grandmother never missed a soiree. Obviously, he always listens to his grandmother—"

"Okay."

Fattah was unsurprisingly annoying, much like Ty, although Ty was much more bearable, because if you couldn't take his annoyance any longer, you could always shut the browser, or even shut the internet, or the computer. Yet this one in front her, was a real-life machine who knew all the gossips in the world...

Which might prove useful for her.

She bit her lips, carefully inquired, "Can I ask something?"

The question caught him off-guard, but he beguilingly replied, "Anything at all to a person who craves my knowledge—"

"You do know all the celebrities, don't you?"

Arina scoffed. "He only knows the celebrities that's been on the gossip mill—"

"I might know, I might not," Fattah feigned ignorance towards his partner, "How am I going to know if you have yet to tell me the name, if you did then I might help you—"

"What about," she smacked her lips, "Painters?"

"Oh, painters!"

Nadirah shot a warning look at her cousin, prompting Arina to amend it with, "The people that I have not the slightest ideas, since my taste caters around singers and actors—"

"If it's a celebrity painter then I might, if it's a low-profile painter possibly not—"

"I saw a painting," Nadirah began to construct her words, "On the television. I thought it was spectacular."

"I saw it too!" Arina said excitedly, "It was so beautiful that it must have been painted by a professional! Too bad we didn't catch the name."

"Only the initial," admitted Nadirah.

"Surprisingly I didn't catch that!" Arina's voice sounded as if she had just sucked in a bottle of helium.

"Initial," he groaned, "That could be quite difficult to be honest."

"KK, with butterfly wings."

"Now that's easy," he grinned, "If the one you meant is the one in my head, that is."

"Who is the one in your head?"

"Such unique autograph, with those butterfly wings on its side, not many has those, and we certainly don't have a lot of celebrity painters—"

"Just tell us who is it," snapped Arina impatiently.

"His pseudonym is Khalil Khilfi, but who knows what his real name is? He's old, as old as your grandmother, I think."

Khalil. The name opened quite a handful of possibilities in her head, and it wasn't surprising to hear that the clue would lead her to him.

However, something out of the contrary happened to her brain, as it started to rewind without her command.

_I only know that he's an evergreen person, so unless your cousin is into classical, she might not know him. I can't say I know who it is though._

_No one really knows about the significance of the treasure, but if it makes the celebrity to cease action in his field of choice, then it must've cost more than any price in this world!_

_Yet, there's also this harsh rumor on how the treasure was not his in the first place. What's the deal, really?_

Her eyes staggered wildly, clutching the hint displayed by her brain.

The name definitely conjured up to a handful of possibilities.

Both Fattah and Arina were obviously waiting for her response, thus, even if her throat were strangely clotted with a lodge, she made an effort to say, "I...see."

"I never knew you are such an art advocate, Nadirah!"

"No," for once, she was truthful, "I just love ancient stuff."

Fattah considered her reply, and said, "I hardly consider KK's works as ancient, but I think the vibe was certainly 19th Century worthy, and no doubt it is beautiful, his paintings are very high in demand and superbly pricey."

"Yes," she smacked her lips. She was trying to say that she had only seen one of his masterpieces, which made it hard for her to judge an ancient item, yet the words stuck in her throat, so she had no choice but to motion her hand to the house, her tone staccato as she said, "I'm going inside."

"So soon?" Fattah raised his brows.

"Cold," she gave a small smile.

"Really?" both of them tested the air with their fingers, trying to detect the temperature of the so-called cold air.

Nadirah shook her head in defeat, continuing her words with, "I need to tell Najhan...about the absence...of his...flowers."

How she was thankful for her naturally staccato style of speech.

She gave them a polite nod, and quickly strode inside the house before they could utter another word.

Knowing them, they probably would.

She zigzagged her direction away from the crowd, all the while searching for the familiar face of Najhan, or to a lesser degree, Najwan. She let out a sigh of relief as she saw Najhan's head bobbling toward the kitchen, and as she lowered her own head to let herself unnoticeable by the guests, she stood in front of him, cutting his pace.

He blinked, probably evaluating the reason for her sudden jack-in-the-box imitation.

Nadirah didn't have time to care about that. "If Arina or Fattah—"

"Who?"

She beckoned him to the kitchen, and once they had settled themselves away from the boisterous crowds, she pointed at the garden through the window, and said, "The person with Arina."

He nodded understandably.

"If they asked about lavish flowers—"

"You are using me," it was an accusation.

"More or less," it was true nonetheless.

"I'm not supposed," he proceeded to stare at the window, "To ask?"

"No."

"Except that..."

"Except that..."

"Lavish flowers..."

"You like them."

"Ah," he nodded, "Lavish flowers are interesting. Right?"

"Right." She let out a sharp breath, and rested her forehead on the cold wall.

"Nervous breakdown?"

She widened her eyes, incredulously said, "No."

"PMS?"

She smacked his head with a nearby cloth.

"That's not filthy, isn't it?"

"Be glad you're not Zahari."

"Forever glad," he swallowed, and shifted his glance back at Nadirah, "You're crabby," he blinked, "And oddly talkative. Not PMS, right?"

"Not crabby," she was tempted to smack his head with the cloth again, but she couldn't deny the talkative part, "I'm tense."

"You're always tense."

"I'm tenfold tenser, then."

He tilted his head, scrutinizing her face, "What to do...Ice-cream?"

"No."

"Chocolate?" he looked at Arina, and stifling a chortle, he said jokingly, "Internet?"

She turned his gaze at him, sharply nodded, "Exactly."

"Internet?" this time, his voice was bewildered.

But then, she sighed. "You can't drive."

"No car," he further added.

"Your sister does," she grinned.

"She shopped already," he pointed out, "Yesterday."

"Everything?"

"Everything."

They swiveled their bodies until their backs were facing the kitchen's counter, tapping their temples together, before both of their eyes caught on a certain butterfly cookie cutter on the table, which amusingly bore the nearly identical design to the logo of Nadirah's favorite clothing store, Métamorphose.

They blinked, quickly shifting their gazes toward each other, and grinned idiotically as they knew that they had somehow obtained the same idea.

It didn't take a lot of work to startle Widad senseless. In barely a minute after their mishaps, a loud scream emerged from her room.

It was a good thing that the scream wasn't too loud to attract the guests' attentions.

Nadirah and Najhan entered the room, curiously gazing at her with their innocent, puppy eyes. "What?" asked Najhan.

"My shoes," said Widad breathlessly.

"So?"

"My shoes!" she screamed.

"So?"

She sighed impatiently, pointing at the detached label from the inside of her shoes. "Look, I have yet to wear these but it has fallen through!"

They shrugged, unconcerned.

"Look," she said impatiently again, pointing at the inside of the detached label, "There's another label here!"

"Why?" asked Nadirah dubiously.

"Obviously, this is a pair of old shoes! They scammed me by selling an old-stock thing that nobody wants!"

"I thought you like that shoes." Nadirah arched her brows.

"I do," she nodded seriously, "But I hate it when stores make fun of their customers."

"Maybe they accidentally put the wrong label."

"I will not permit such lack of professionalism," she stuffed the shoes back into the box, "I'll give them a piece of my mind. I will claim my refund."

"Just change the shoes," suggested Najhan.

"No. I have lost interest in wearing these. I will demand my refund. Najhan," her eyes flew toward her brother, "You will accompany me."

Every action had a consequences—they knew that much—the outcome being that they will either be a real-life trolley, or worse, an escorted maid for a lady from hell.

"You're going out?" asked Nadirah nonchalantly.

"Why, you need to shop?" Najhan snorted, trying to eliminate the traces of their united front.

"No," she replied scathingly, "Internet. I need to use."

"Fine," said Widad, "You can come along, but my mood is vile, so I might need your help in choosing my shoes."

"Shoes?"

"I couldn't possibly come home with shoes shortage, could I? Besides," she finished throwing the box into its original carrier bag, "I need some fresh air."

Suddenly, it occurred to Nadirah that Ikhwan and his grandmother would be coming, which meant that Danial would possibly tag along as well.

Well, if she realized that sooner, she shouldn't have tempered with the labels of the shoes and further let the assistants of the shoe store to feel Widad's blazing fury.

But it was still an exhilarating experience.

Induced with triumph, she said confidently, "And your definition of fresh air is..."

"...air-conditioned malls," finished Najhan.

They laughed maniacally.

"Fine," Widad swallowed convulsively, "I need a getaway."

"Okay," they answered simultaneously.

"Good," she muttered. "Or else I'll drop both of you back at the house."

"Gladly," Najhan murmured.

"Okay, maybe one."

"I won't ask," assured Nadirah, more of a sneer than a heartfelt promise, "Providing you didn't ask."

"I won't," she muttered. "As tempted it might be."

"I'm wondering—"

"I thought no questions!"

"Oh," mouthed Nadirah, "You mean all."

"I think," Najhan exchanged glances between her sister and cousin curiously, "Her question is," he grinned, "Something entirely different."

"Oh." For a second, Widad wavered, yet she braced herself quickly and nonchalantly asked, "What is it?"

Nadirah made no effort to hide her maddening curiosity. "Do you know Khalil Khilfi?"

Widad stared at her, horrorstricken, but then her gazes fell on her laps.

"The celebrity painter," Najhan nodded, "I saw his painting once."

"Once?"

"At the gallery."

"Gallery?"

"With Zahari."

"Zahari?"

He shrugged, matter-of-factly said, "Well, you know Zahari."

"Why do you ask?" asked Widad nervously.

"I saw his painting," Nadirah decided to bluff, "On TV, with Arina."

"Oh." Widad scrambled around her room, taking out her essentials for the bathroom, "Supposedly he was one of grandmother's friends."

It wasn't the least surprising, but it was vital to act surprise.

Widad continued, "I tried to ask grandmother about that, but she always changed the subject."

"Why?" Nadirah asked dubiously.

"Well," she pursed her lips, "Probably because she was resisting badmouthing the painter."

"Why?" once again, dubiously.

"Bad reputation?" asked Najhan.

"People used to talk," it felt as if Widad's ears were muted from their nosy questions, "About his infidelity with Grandmother Maznah."

Murder, infidelity, thief...

Nadirah ceased to believe the worst that could happen next.

"Infidelity?"

"He cheated on her, but that was ages ago," she was more than ready to escape to the bathroom, but Widad decided to linger further, which confounded Nadirah.

Maybe her phony secret with Danial left a dent somewhere in her soul a lot more than Nadirah originally thought.

"People talked about it all the time, but they stopped it once the master of silk passed away."

"What's with him?" asked Najhan.

"Not sure why he died, but it's pretty recent. Two years ago, I think, or was it last year? But rumor has it that he too was smitten with Grandmother Maznah, and well, obviously mad at the painter because he cheated on her."

"Wow," Najhan clapped his hands in awe, "You know a lot."

"Rumors circulate around this house a lot," she crossed her arms smugly, "You should expect that from a house that's constantly throwing parties. People attended, people talked."

"But why was he mad?" there was a hint of discontent in Nadirah's voice, "She's not a spinster."

"True," Widad acceded, "But there was an incident. The master of silk nearly killed himself."

"Killed himself?" echoed Najhan.

She knew that Grandmother Maznah was the one who nearly committed the involuntary manslaughter, but for the sake of the confidential information, she bit her tongue.

"People thought that he was too heartbroken, and that's why the gossip never wore out," she pursed her lips, but then she shuddered. "No use talking about it now, not exactly nice for the dead."

"Master of silk, master of silk," Najhan tilted his head thoughtfully, "I love to meet him."

"A single man?" Nadirah blinked. "True love, then?"

"No, he's married."

"To whom?"

"To—oh," she stomped her feet angrily, shuddering slightly, "I've turned into the gossipmonger Arina." She took her bathroom essentials with her, yelling before stepping into the little cubicle, "Don't linger in my room anymore!"

"Such a cranky witch," Najhan narrowed his eyes.

She chuckled, dryly said, "Such a doting father."

He shrugged, exiting the room along with her. "I don't fork out the cash."

"That's why," she descended the stairs, and finished her sentence, "You're the little brother."

"Artificial Intelligence Trolley," he pointed out.

"A. I.?" she creased her brows. "Yet you feel tired."

"Because it's A. I.," he said dryly, "Human imitation from every aspect."

She smiled, lifting her shoulder.

"Like painting," Najhan was strangely talkative, "Imitation of the world, or," his voice grew animated, "Imitation of the mind."

She blinked.

"Zahari said so."

She nodded understandably.

"You can capture the world," his voice was lucid, as if reciting a poem, "Capture the illusion in your mind, but it never came out as similar as a photograph, although photographs didn't give the original scenery any justice either."

She blinked, again.

"Zahari again."

She nodded. "Zahari. He likes art?"

"He's weird."

She shrugged.

"KK's paintings have the most precision I have ever seen," his voice sounded majestic again, and he flatly added, "He said, again."

This time, her facial expression was undeniably curious.

"He can nearly embed the perfect illusion on the paper with perfect precision," he smiled ruefully, "Nearly. Zahari hates the word perfect."

She knew that much.

Yet it was intriguing to learn what the painter could do based on the observation from her most perceptive cousin. "What else did he say?"

"Essence," Najhan recited, "The essence of the living things is living in the paintings. If not for the essence, he wouldn't be as famed," he crossed his arms proudly, "Or so he said."

She smacked her lips, deeply lost in thought. "That's his ability."

He nodded, silently agreeing with her words.

Nadirah sat on the outskirt of the café, opened her laptop and keying in the password of the café's Wi-Fi.

The café never changed its password, so she didn't need to buy herself a cup of their expensive coffee in order to gain access to the internet. However, she wasn't the cheapest girl around. She did buy their cheapest drink to accompany her virtual investigation.

She clicked on her browser, staring at the blank page with an identical blank face. Instinctively, her fingers started to move, dancing on the keyboard to construct a sentence on the search engine that read, 'Khalil Khilfi Butterfly', and finally pressed the enter button with her pinky finger.

Tremendous amount of links emerged before her eyes, and as she skimmed the general content, she clicked several links that deemed authentic to her, keeping it in her tabs.

As she waited for the pages to load, she rephrased her search and typed, 'Khalil Khilfi Fraud Fan'.

Much like the results from her earlier search, the number of links was too many to be studied thoroughly, so she decided to click a link that led to a blog. Naturally, the fraud fan's scandal erupted in a forum, and knowing the forumers, they often poured their hearts' content on a blog.

She clicked the other page on her tabs that'd finished loading, and started to read.

I'm not a huge fan of artisans to be honest, but I am one of those lucky people who have encountered Khalil Khilfi in my life before. Truth to be told, he's an extremely nice person. Nice person as he is, he's quite mysterious, and I don't think anyone knows where his hometown is, or even his age! I believe everyone respect his decision, since no one questioned it any further. He's a reserved and secretive person, but apparently not so much when asked about his inspiration. He solemnly admitted that his precious treasure was the start of his painting career, and still is his inspiration right until this day. Of course, no one knows what the precious treasure is, so I, and others for that matter, have no idea whatsoever.

However, as I searched high and low for more of his information, I stumbled across this photograph, and have the wildest hunch.

Could it be that the precious treasure is the butterfly hairpin on this bride's hair?

Click attachment to view the picture.

His wedding was crowned wedding of the year, and I was told that everyone was gawking at the exquisite butterfly on the bride's head.

Nadirah clicked the picture to have a closer inspection, and nearly choked by her sudden dehydrated throat.

It was the real thing.

It was the butterfly, exactly the same colors of the mentioned gems, neatly constructed on the silver comb.

She trembled in excitement over the fact that she and Ikhwan provided the main idea for the hairpin. But still, the trembling mixed with disbelief, anxious for the whole situation, and exhilarated for finally solving the mystery of the first thief.

There were a limited number of suspects to suspect, and she never wanted to accuse an innocent person falsely, so she never dwelled much thought into it.

She was relieved to find out that such a thing was not necessary.

Also, she didn't particularly give the _perfecting history_ much of a thought, but now that she saw with her own eyes that they indeed were perfecting history, it felt so incredibly unbelievable.

Calming herself, she clicked the other page that led to a blog and skimmed it thoroughly.

I am furious. EXTREMELY FURIOUS.

I just want to say, if anyone reads my last entry of mourning towards dear TRF<3, then you should totally ignore it!!!

That one fan, which we all in the KK fanclub community has loved and cared, has lied in front of our faces, and potentially spit on it too!

He (yes you heard me right, TRF<3 is a freaking GUY) joined our community last year, and after months of dreaming with us in the sea of KK's fine painting, he posted on our board on how he suffered from a chronic bone cancer, and it was on the last stage!

So the idiots we are (sorry if I offense anyone here) gave HER (since he wanted us to believe him as a girl, then we might as well do so) our sincerest encouragements, sympathized with her, treated her with extreme friendliness, because we truly thought that she was sick (and going to die).

Instead, we were the one who felt the sickly aftertaste! I mean, who was it that has been conversing with us in the first place, for the past months? Yes, you guessed right, it was just an illusion that never exists!

So you can guess how mad I am!

We thought she was dead! Yes, her sister posted a thread in our forum, confirming that she had already died, and wanted us to know that she had always thought us as her second family.

Aww...how touching...not.

We are nice people, and I guess nice people can be a bit foolish, so we gathered some donation for her family, since her 'sister' admitted that their family were quite in a pinch due to the constant money plundering for her disease.

Can you believe it? We sent her the money! I don't want to know where the money went, but if this TRF<3 used our money, I swear she'll have no blessing from me!

The biggest turning point was that the 'sister' begged us to let her have a chat with KK. Some of the fans got a hold of KK, and he willingly logged in our forum to have a little chat with the sister.

Now, I don't know for sure what they've talked about, but you must know, after KK talked to that phony person, he has totally went in a soulless daze.

I read the rumors, and they said that KK has lost all the inspiration because someone stole his treasure, but HAH! I don't believe that. That sister must've said something to him, might even hypnotize him for all I know! Evil siblings they are! If they are siblings, that is.

How do I know about the phoniness of this person? Well, he admitted to it himself, right after sucking KK's soul!

Read this last message from him, posted under the name TRF<3, two months after his 'death'.

Hello, I am TRF<3. I have risen from the dead.

Don't believe me? Really, really. I've proven to be quite the conman!

Yes, you heard me right, man! I'm a guy, not a girl like you think I am!

Well, I appreciate the donation, but sadly, the donation has been fully given to KK. So if you want your money back, or compensation or whatever, just go and claim it from KK, okay?

I know, I am quite harsh for deceiving you guys/girls like this, and frankly, all of you are extremely nice, but I have to settle my feud with KK you see, so even if you don't understand my cruel intention, it's not like I care!

I'm so sorry if I have crushed your heart, of which I have undoubtedly had. So for that, I doff my hat and beg for your forgiveness.

Can't blame me, someone needs to do what's right!

As they say, let justice be done, even if the world perished!

I hope I will never see any of you again!

He admitted it himself that he was the phony liar!

Well, we originally thought that someone was lying under her name, so the admin kindly checked the IP address.

Yes, it's the same address.

Ugh, I am so mad!

"Nadirah?"

She jumped in her seat at the startling voice, unconsciously spluttered an incoherent word out to the world. She recollected herself, peering at the unexpected guest.

"Ikhwan," she said breathlessly. "Assalamualaikum."

"Waalaikummussalam," he stared at her curiously, "What are you doing here?"

"Well, you," she pointed at him, bewildered with his sudden appearance. "What are you doing here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Aren't you supposed to be at my grandmother's soiree?"

"Aren't you supposed to be there as well?"

"I..." For the first time, she experienced difficulty when talking to Ikhwan, which might due to her reluctance of sharing her slick scheme and newfound discoveries. In the end, all she said was "Widad needs some new shoes," which wasn't a lie, really, "I follow her, since I need to use the internet."

He nodded understandably, not once peeking at her screen. "Grandmother requested some flat shoes, so Danial and I came here to fulfill her request."

"Danial and you?"

"Okay," he grinned, "Danial only then, I saw you and I parted ways with him."

"Does Danial know what flat shoes are?"

"Safe bet, no. But I bet he'll buy one of those slippers in the end anyway, at least those are flats as well."

"If he couldn't find it, he could always ask Widad," she retorted nonchalantly, "Providing they went to the same store, that is."

"The assistants will have the opportunity of watching the live melodrama then. Not the least appealing, so," he raised his brows, still keeping an acceptable distance from her laptop, "What are you looking at?"

"Khalil Khilfi."

"The painter."

"Possibly," she gazed at him seriously, "Our grandmothers' friend."

"It's true," he said quietly. "It's the same person."

"Oh," she nodded approvingly, "So it is. He's the first thief, then."

"Took you long enough."

"Not much of a detective," she admitted, clicking a tab on the browser, "Look, his wife was wearing the butterfly on her wedding day."

"And it caused my grandmother to go berserk."

Her eyes shot up in alarm. "It did?"

He gave her a small smile.

"And she nearly killed someone."

"Nearly," he emphasized.

He rarely gave such concise answers, so she decided to push further. "That someone," she paused, "Was it the master of silk?"

"Master of silk?" he arched his brows.

"Do you know the master of silk?"

"Sure," he lifted a shoulder, "Quite a famous figure, thanks to his silks."

"Yes," she acceded, "Infamous for his talent and scandal. Supposedly, he was hospitalized back then because of his nervous breakdown. But that's not the case, isn't it?"

He clamped his teeth. "No."

"Do you mind filling in the details?"

He sighed, his hand messily ruffling his hair, "My grandmother—" he grimaced. "My grandmother has an uncanny talent of manipulating others emotion."

She nodded silently.

"She couldn't control it however, so if she was feeling pleasant, well," he stared her straight in the eyes, "Everyone will feel happy. If not, then," he smacked his lips, "It's obvious what we will feel."

"Hence the wrath."

"Hence the wrath," he echoed, and added, "Due to the sparkling butterfly."

She nodded again, not daring to utter a word in case it would break his rare mood of explaining.

"My grandmother was heavily in love with the painter, and well," he swallowed, "She didn't know that the master of silk returned the same sentiment. Not the painter, apparently. But he was aware of her feeling, so from what I can see," he exhaled a sharp breath, "He toyed my grandmother's feeling around so that he could acquire the sparkling butterfly."

As much as she wanted to remain silence, she couldn't help but blurt, "Why?"

"I have not held the butterfly in my life," he confessed, "But it was inspirational to him since it was the sole thing that could give him the motivation to paint. So," his eyes fell onto the ground, remembering the tale, "He seduced her and they became a couple. The master of silk thought that they were a loving couple, so he didn't intrude in their relationship at all."

"Something happen, then."

"Something did happen," he emphasized. "The painter's works were suddenly noticed by a certain art gallery owner, so the owner offered to buy the paintings, and if he wanted, he could become a painter at the owner's gallery."

"He took the offer."

"Of course, he took it. But before he went, he talked to my grandmother, and said that he wanted something that will always make him remember of her."

"The sparkling butterfly."

He tapped his feet impatiently, tartly said, "Naturally, yes. So my smitten grandmother gave him that, and off he went." He averted his gaze back to Nadirah, "They didn't see each other for years, or so I saw."

Nadirah couldn't tell if the sorrow glint in his eyes were due to his fear of the wrath, or the anger for the painter.

She believed it was the former.

She tried to compose an amiable reply, but either way, it will sound just as painful, so she just blurted out, "Until she saw the wedding picture, I expect."

"That is quite expected, isn't it? But yes, until she saw the wedding photo. She was furious at him for cheating on her, but even more so when she saw someone other than her wearing her butterfly."

"It wasn't really hers but technically it was hers."

"It was hers," he chuckled slightly at her twist of words, "She didn't wear it on her wedding day either, but," he bit his lips. "She wore a scarf on her wedding day, quite impossible to wear a hairpin. Anyway, she saw the picture, and she was infuriated, so much that the master of silk was heavily infected by the infuriating rage."

"How come—"

"Combine with his own rage," he pointed out, "It'd be deathly."

"But he wasn't dead."

"No," he shook his head. "He survived, lived his life, didn't send any proposal for my grandmother despite people's expectance," he smiled ruefully. "He married someone other, occasionally visited my grandmother, but always accompanied by his wife. It didn't matter, because by that time, my grandmother has married as well." He crossed his arms, his face suddenly shone with delight, "Of course, my grandmother's emotions are still as uncontrollable as ever, but thankfully," he smiled bleakly, "No one died, not even close to it. Painful, but bearable."

"Especially to you."

"I can see others' emotion very well, which may contribute to my oversensitivity."

She pursed her lips in remorse. "But if it caused someone to nearly die," she shuddered, "Then it must've been painful."

He laughed. "I'm in no place to argue. Anyway, one day, something odd happened."

"Something odd?"

"The butterfly was on an auction."

"Auction?" she gasped, "KK auctioned the butterfly?"

"It's hard to determine the identity of the auctioneer, especially when the deal was on the internet, which I'm sure you know," he smiled briskly, "But the butterfly was there alright. But it only lasted for a minute, before the item was deleted by the auctioneer. Well, short as it was, it buzzed the town."

"Let me guess," she clutched her knuckles, "Your grandmother saw it."

"Not saw it per se," he gently denied, "But she knows about it."

"She urged you to buy that thing."

"Yes," he clamped his teeth, "I emailed the auctioneer, but he said that the butterfly was stolen."

Nadirah grunted.

"He might be lying, he might be telling the truth, but on what bases do I have to accuse him? The virtual world is such a deceiving place. One of the things that annoyed me greatly."

"Am I in the category?" she grinned.

"Sadly, yes."

She snorted.

"Reading a person's mind through their words are also equally interesting. I'm currently practicing my skills."

"How did it go?"

"Quite well. If I've known you as long as Suri, then I might have busted you long ago."

"So you busted Fattah?"

He smacked his lips, reluctantly said, "No. We set up the website, but I rather be a moderator. Being an administrator is quite stressful."

She nodded, silently agreeing.

"That is how Fattah gets meddled in this affair."

"He saw the auction."

"He saw the auction, and the next day, a blackmail letter landed in my grandmother's house."

"So she summoned you."

"Me and my brother, but my brother was reluctant to do it again. He used to do it once, but failed, apparently."

"Failed?"

"But he still did his fair share in helping my grandmother," he deliberately steered the conversation away from his brother's failure, "He arranged the opportunity for me to become a temporary assistant in the store, to retrieve the instructions. He arranged our last minute invitation to the doctor's house party, to ask her about the painter—"

"What?" she clasped her mouth, "The painter is her patient?"

"Was," he pointed out, "But I didn't find anything interesting, so it was more or less, a waste of time, but at least I met you."

"Me, your sidekick," she said proudly, "Who helped you retrieved the box, the handkerchief, the fragrance—"

"Fragrance?"

Her tongue was so rebellious.

But she might as well cut the slack, since Ikhwan had unexpectedly been too talkative today.

Strange, everyone was talkative today.

"I think I have an idea about the mentioned fragrance," she said vaguely.

He didn't look the most excited about the discovery, but instead, his eyes suddenly hardened, cold with indescribable emotion.

"I found a duplicate of Mr. Ventris's painting."

"Really," he uttered with a hint of astonishment.

"Okay, Arina found it, under the instruction from Zahari, who hid it from Widad, who was given by Danial, who most probably wanted him to switch it since she didn't do it—" she blinked.

She was so close, yet, she still couldn't quite understand.

She would have asked for more information regarding Danial's failure and his association with Widad, if not for Ikhwan's stoic face.

She decided to continue with her tale. "I saw the painting, so I rewound the conversation, and guess what? This is what my grandmother said. 'The essence of the sparkling butterfly resting on the dais of my box, caressed by the fragrance of the lavender in this garden, snugly wrapped in the duvet made out silk, all the while sitting on this lovely bench. Isn't it lovely?' She told all the answers in one breath!" she grunted, "We should have found the painting first, it would make the searching a whole lot easier."

"Even so, you wouldn't know which box your grandmother was referring to, and which silk was the right one. So we did okay, although, I think you know why they selected lavender amongst all the other flowers?"

"Lavender," she echoed, "Based on the tale of Hikaru Genji."

"The story from the land of the rising sun," he recited from his memory, "The story that my great granduncle was about to tell."

"They thought it'd be perfect if they were to include lavender in the painting. Apparently, they noticed the connection between the gems and the tales, and also the origin of the butterfly, so the last thing to add would be a piece of Hikaru Genji. But KK didn't want to do it. He just wanted to imitate Mr. Ventris's painting first."

"So there was no hint of lavender in that painting."

"No, only snippets of the conversation, but even so, I couldn't see the mentioned place. I only heard their voices you see."

"Good enough," he grinned, "I know the place."

Nadirah had never noticed the existence of a lavender garden, especially a garden that was only a couple blocks away from her grandmother's house.

Well, she wasn't the one to blame, since every time she visited her grandmother, she didn't have much time or commodities to explore the city, rather, she was quite packed all the time by staying indoors and entertaining the guests—

Exactly, the house was often merry with guests that they were too busy to go anywhere aside from the mall.

"So what should we do?" she asked, questionably staring at the lavenders. "Fill the box with flowers? Soak the silk with the scent?"

"How are you going to soak it?"

"I don't know," she shrugged, genuinely clueless. "The smell isn't that overwhelming as I thought."

"Squish the flowers."

"Pardon?"

"Squish it."

She plucked the flower, squishing it in her hand. "Oh," she exclaimed loudly, "My hand smells like—"

"Lavender."

She sniffed her hand. "Exactly," she followed his pace, her eyes deeply scrutinizing the flowers, "Maybe we really should fill the box with the flowers."

"Maybe not," he replied, "Just pluck some and carry it with you."

She stared at him dumbly. "Back home? That's not possible."

"We are not returning home," he answered briskly, "We are sending the carriage to the thief."

"Now?" she gasped, aghast.

"Now," he nodded seriously, "We are going to the lair of the thief."

"Here?" her voice was a barely audible whisper.

"At the end of the road," he cocked his head toward a certain direction, and as Nadirah squeezed her eyes, a hazy cottage on the far side began to enter her mind.

She said nothing, for she knew that nothing could be said at the moment, but as she advanced a couple more steps, she couldn't resist but utter the fact, "We are unarmed."

He stopped, quizzically looking at her.

"He might be armed."

For the longest time, he didn't say anything, but then he quietly replied, "I assure you he's not."

"We should bring a cane," she said breathlessly, "A cane that has a hidden swordstick in it."

"Which century are you living in?" his voice warmth with laughter.

She grinned idiotically. "I should suggest that to Lord Ventris, huh?"

They walked in silence, and as Nadirah followed his back in a barely concealed fright, she blew some warm breath into her icy cold hands, fidgeting as the cottage started to appear clearer and clearer by the second.

The distance wasn't as far as she thought, and she wondered, wasn't there a saying that said how the more anxious you are, the farthest it'd be?

She assumed that she must have been too anxious to run away and thus, that's why the nightmarish cottage was too near for her liking.

"Assalamualaikum," Ikhwan greeted politely, standing still in front of the closed door.

The door creaked open, and her heart nearly stopped functioning as she saw the person who answered the door.

Okay, maybe he knew the plan, maybe he'd cracked the mystery, maybe...

She had always known that he was weird, but something about his demeanor today was exceptionally weird.

Even weirder, Ikhwan was oddly unaffected by the discovery, nor did he look astounded to see the unexpected guest.

Or expected, she didn't know what to think.

"Waalaikummussalam," answered Fattah. "I've been expecting you."

chapter 9

"Of course, I'd be extremely disappointed if you did not."

Ikhwan had known Fattah for all his life, and if anything, he could never trick him senseless, even if Fattah was the most talented actor of all times, which he certainly not.

"Fattah!" For a moment, Ikhwan had forgotten about the presence of Nadirah, and further rueful when he heard her nervous yet astounded voice, "Wh-where is the thief?"

"Thief?" his face grinned in mockery, yet shadowed with guilt, but he tried to cover with his dry wits, "Well, I don't call myself a thief—"

"Since technically," Ikhwan knew that he was going to swiftly steer the topic away, "He gave it to you, and you didn't steal it in the first place."

"Ikhwan," he grinned in a beleaguered awe, "I should have known that you would know. Well, for sure I didn't steal. I merely extended my hands to the generous act of giving."

Nadirah cleared her throat.

That caught their attentions.

"So," if her voice was of any indication, it was filled with curious distress. But Ikhwan couldn't tell whether her emotion consisted of fury or perplex, because her face was definitively blank as she said, "The butterfly—"

"Is with me?" Fattah deliberately shrugged, reluctant to answer, but being the vague menace he was, he smacked his lips, "Well..."

"You're the manipulator!" her tone was definitely accusing, Ikhwan could gather that much.

"I am," he subtly flinched, but Ikhwan didn't think that Nadirah noticed that due to the smug voice, "I manipulate you very well didn't I?"

"You didn't fool him!" she pointed her finger toward Ikhwan, and Ikhwan wondered for the best reply.

He didn't need to, because Fattah consequently said to him, "You hide it well."

Ikhwan studied his face, wondering if he could study Fattah's brain as well. "I'm dealing with a person who has an extremely sharp nose. There were not many options that I could do," he added ruefully, "You could basically guess the future with that talent of yours."

"You know about that as well."

Ikhwan wouldn't claim that their friendship was dishonest or inconveniently secretive, but it was true that none of them ever questioned the odd situation revolving their lives and their somehow miraculous escape from such situations. He knew that Fattah wouldn't tell, and likewise for him, so for the past years, they had convinced themselves that they were geniuses, even if deep in their hearts they knew that they were far superior to mere geniuses.

The moment of truth had finally came, out from the bag of secrets, and he didn't feel the slightest ashamed.

"You know about me as well," said Ikhwan pertly, "Or else you wouldn't conduct this experimental plan."

"Oh, it would deeply scar my genius reputation if I didn't know."

"Wait!"

Ikhwan dreaded his inability of precisely reading her emotions. Perhaps she looked dumbstruck, or maybe stricken with realization.

"I don't understand."

Dumbstruck, then.

Fattah crossed his arms mightily, even if his composure secretly wavered. "What is it that you don't understand?"

"You," she pointed at him questionably, "Are able to construct concise sentences."

Ikhwan tilted his head, wondering if she was still standing in the reality world, or had somehow landed in the world of Lord Ventris and Lady Laura.

Fattah did not attempt to hide his perplexed face as he mouthed out, "What?"

"I should have known," Nadirah clasped her hands together, and it annoyed Ikhwan that he wasn't sure whether the hand clasping was out of fear or triumph, but apparently triumph, since she abruptly said, "People who talk much, usually want to hide something—"

"Well, yes," he was uncomfortable with her odd question, but his voice retained the same pride, "I need to hide the fact that I'm a freak."

"Is that it?" she wrinkled her nose, and instead of reading further into the expression, Ikhwan decided to hear her continuation, of which she did by adding, "It's not, isn't it? We've been your dolls," she accused him freely, "Dolls for the sake of your goal."

"That's a harsh way of putting it, but true, I've been—"

"And Ikhwan," she swiveled toward her comrade, her voice heavy with realization, or was it accusation, "You know too."

Ikhwan thought that he'd hinted a lot about his awareness of the thief's identity, but probably not. She didn't look the least positive, so he opened his mouth to speak, but was quickly cut off by Fattah's loud voice, "Like he said earlier—"

"I know what he said," she snapped, which could indicate that she was on her last nerve, "I know that I've been stupid, but I'm not that stupid."

Fattah must have interpreted the situation differently, because he distractedly said, "Now, now, don't—"

"I thought we are the three musketeers!"

Ikhwan was tempted to snort but he controlled the notion.

"Well, you didn't tell me about the painting in the first place!" lost all the persuasion to console, Fattah retorted like an angry cat.

"It's a good thing I didn't tell you, because honesty is not you!"

Ikhwan wondered which was the cat, and which was the dog, and perhaps he was the bird? He had yet to speak, but truthfully, he didn't want to join the intense argument either.

"Neither was he!" Fattah jabbed his finger toward Ikhwan's direction.

He wondered how long he could stay muted.

"I've always known that he hides something, and I understand it now, but you," her eyes hardened as her voice grew serious, "You still don't know."

For a miniscule moment, Ikhwan thought he had caught a jubilant sneer from her face.

"Know what, exactly?" retorted Fattah.

"Ah," she smiled meaningfully, "I hide something as well."

Fattah laughed wholeheartedly, but he couldn't hide the trace of anxiousness on his face. "No you don't."

Her eyes lowered as she said, "I might not," she clamped her teeth, "Minutes ago, but now I do."

A situation like this was enough to make someone like Ikhwan extremely annoyed.

Apparently, it affected Fattah as well, because underneath his brazen façade, he was staggering with bewilderment as he said, "How is that possible—"

"You and Ikhwan are not the only freaks here!"

Ikhwan knew that Fattah had a slight hunch long ago that Nadirah wasn't the most normal human he ever met, but still, he tried to nonchalantly asked, "What do you—"

"Well, I let you know," she hissed, and Ikhwan admitted defeat in guessing her emotions, "I know where the real sparkling butterfly is."

This time, Fattah genuinely staggered. "You—"

"Yes," she nodded. "And it does exist," she added scathingly, complete with a dash of overemphasized mockery, "The real sparkling butterfly."

Ikhwan blinked, unable to react.

Well, if she didn't know that a few minutes ago, she knew it now.

She might not know it, but she was just a few steps away from the truth.

"What are you talking about?" Fattah gritted his teeth, hiding his perplexed expression. He averted his gaze to Ikhwan, his face desperately deeming for explanation. "What is she talking about?"

"Apparently," Ikhwan said simply, "She knows the exact location of the real sparkling butterfly, and you do not."

"And you do."

He raised his brows, "I do."

"I have the oddest hunch about that," Fattah narrowed his eyes. "Looks like it's true."

"It might," said Ikhwan sagely, "It might not."

"I'm not sharing my information with him," said Nadirah, irritated maybe, "He purposely made a fool out of you."

"If you've been paying attention, while my actions are undeniably purposeful, I did not make a fool out of him, and even if that was my attention, he wasn't fooled in the first place—"

"I would have expected more from a person who wrote _hypocrites have their own reasons_ in her column," said Ikhwan abruptly.

Nadirah scrunched her face, and he couldn't help but wonder if the column was in the far back of her head.

It did feel like eons ago when he last posted his article.

"So he has his reasons?"

Ikhwan shrugged, unwilling to be the middle person for a problem that was out of his hands. But in this case, it was inevitable. "He has information, and so do you, and so do I. Admittedly, I probably was the vaguest person, yet I have my reason."

"Him?" she exchanged glances at Fattah.

"Yes," he nodded, "Now that we have come to a truce, I am willing to spill since I shouldn't be afraid of him predicting my next move," he glimpsed at Fattah, "He has a nose that he deserved not."

"And you have those eyes that doesn't deserve your ownership either," Fattah sneered.

"I have a pair of ears," provided Nadirah quietly, however then, the volume of her voice increased, "We don't have a mouth!"

"I know that the three musketeers have d'Artagnan but we don't need a fourth member!" returned Fattah impatiently.

Ikhwan wondered if he should coerce the information from them and sail his journey alone.

On second thought, he couldn't do that, and he dreaded that fact.

He sighed. "We are not Les Trois Mousquetaires."

"Says who?"

"We don't have to protect anyone from Milady de Winter," yet the face of the marchioness came to his mind, "Neither do we have to protect Lady Constance," but then, the face of Lady Laura haunted his mind. He paused, consequently said, "Can't we be normal people?"

"Normal is but a dream in a faraway land."

Nadirah nodded in agreement.

Oh, so now they were ganging up against him.

"Well," said Ikhwan, "If you really want to implement their spirits in our group, then you might as well embody their motto."

"What is their motto?" asked Nadirah, and he wondered if she was testing him.

He might as well blow her mind. "Tous pour un, un pour tous."

"What is that?" Fattah spat, ridiculously so.

"All for one, one for all—"

"Ah," exclaimed Fattah, and he knew that Fattah's mood had went to the sunny side of everything nice, "It reminds me of a certain song, although the title is actually reversed—"

"An overrated term, I'm aware of that, and I haven't finished."

He grinned idiotically, murmured, "Sorry," but continued to hum the little song under his breath, which prompted Ikhwan to shot his dagger stare to relinquish the annoying little hum.

"Sorry!"

It was amusing that a little song could make him happy. No wonder he deeply hungered for those gossips in the entertainment circle.

But Ikhwan couldn't dwell much thought into Fattah—the sudden happy camper—because apparently, he had gotten his wish of blowing Nadirah out of her mind.

Except, maybe it was far too blown than necessary.

She was gaping in awe at him, her voice superbly impressed as she uttered, "You've been reading the original French—"

"Summary, yes," popping the others' balloons weren't particularly nice, but it was pretty amusing, "Yet I don't understand almost all of it."

"Right," she grinned, which added another one to the happy camper, "You don't know French."

He liked to point out that not everyone knew more than two languages in their life, but it was wise not to ruin the mood of the happy campers.

"He might not know French but he knew how to make Frenchman happy with his superb speech skills—wait!"

It was a no-brainer for Ikhwan to guess what Fattah about to say next.

"You are the mouth, always the smooth-talker you are."

He knew it.

And so he replied, "I am, am I not?"

Fattah grinned, victoriously said, "We are complete."

"Complete?" Nadirah creased her forehead, "We have yet to know the full story."

"Relax Nad," Fattah spoke like the wise man he seldom was, "At least we have established that I am not as evil after all."

"Gee Fat," she stared at him with an undeniably beleaguered expression, as if realizing that he was the thief in the first place, or so Ikhwan thought, "I don't know about that."

"O...kay," he smiled nervously, mentally making a note to himself, "Your name is Nadirah, yes your name is Nadirah, and my name is Fattah, not Fat-"

"There's a woven machine," Nadirah deliberately ignored him, peering inside the little cottage. "And are those silks?"

There was quite a hefty amount of unfinished silks hanging about the house, and a couple of others were folded messily on the corner, attracting dust along with the woven machine.

"Of course," Ikhwan replied, "This is the house of the master of silk," he cocked his head toward Fattah, "His grandfather."

She gawked at him, not uttering a word.

"He has a name," Fattah said flatly, "You should call him Grandfather Nadim. That's his name."

"Sorry," Nadirah said apologetically, "The late Grandfather Nadim."

"I bet you didn't know that, didn't you?"

Nadirah indulged in a deep thought, and Ikhwan wondered if she really did know about the real name.

No need to wonder, though, because she replied, "I wouldn't have known that you're his successor even if I'd known his name ages ago."

It might as well mean that she'd known for quite a while, then. Probably recent.

"I don't understand," said Fattah bluntly.

Nadirah stammered, trying to construct a coherent reply. Yet Ikhwan knew that Fattah was asking a completely different question, so he quickly cut off, "What?"

"She speaks to me like she's Suri!"

"She is Suri."

"But the one I met didn't act like Suri," he pointed out, "She's much more reserved."

"You have cracked her barrier, then."

"Wow," he was pleased, "Go me."

Nadirah looked at him in a disgusted expression, and averted her gaze to Ikhwan. "No, he did not."

"Possibly not," Ikhwan tried to control his mirth, "It might due to the fact that she knows your weak point."

"What?"

It was amusing that both of the eyes were curiously studying his face for his next reply, and even more amusing to see that Nadirah was just as clueless about her rare freedom of speech.

Or at least, he thought she looked clueless.

"I bet your box rattled."

She gasped.

"And it probably burst during your first encounter with me."

She ceased to speak.

Or maybe she was just letting him speaking his mind. He rarely did that, now that he thought about it.

"Did you burst it?" asked Fattah, desperately trying to be nonchalant.

"Not exactly," he admitted, "But I might unlatch it unconsciously, in my attempt to read your emotion, that is."

They both gasped.

"You are such a low life—"

"Wait," she bit her knuckles. "So the box—"

"There are things that I do if I'm unable to read someone," he truly didn't feel like confessing, but it was inevitable, "And that is, I searched into their soul and unlocked their safely-kept emotions."

"And you unconsciously unlocked my speech box."

"Seems so," he stared into spaces, "I never failed, so this came as a shock to me."

"So that's why you can't read me."

"I can't find your emotion box," he clamped his teeth, "Simply that."

"But still," her voice was out of a sudden raspy, "Didn't explain the reason why I'm not fully recovered."

"I have come to a conclusion that you'll only feel necessary to talk when you're in charge," he stared at her intently. "Isn't that so?"

Her face scrunched up, remembering her deepest memories, or maybe rewinding conversations, or maybe recalling the rattling box, before his face lightened in awe, "You are a genius."

A low-life from Fattah, a genius from Nadirah. Spectacular.

Ikhwan opted to not response with any type of words or expressions.

"And what are you currently in charge of, huh?" asked Fattah dryly.

"I'm in charge of the information that you've been craving to know."

"Then enlighten me, missy."

Her face was further scrunched in a more disgusted way as she said, "Promise me that both of you will tell me everything."

"I give you my word," Ikhwan smiled.

"Deal, now spill."

Still in her disgusted expression, she commented, "Learn some etiquette, Fattah."

"I do, but you are one of the musketeers, and technically, a musketeer is a musketeer, so there wasn't much difference between us, and so I don't necessarily need to treat you better than Ikhwan—"

"Ugh," it was amusing how her level of disgust hadn't maximized yet, "Fine, but I need your confirmation first."

Fattah smiled briefly, allowing her to continue.

"So the butterfly in your hand, is it a duplicate?"

"You mean fake?"

"I didn't imply that."

He staggered, struggling for the right response. "I don't know for sure, but—"

"You meet my grandmother," she smiled devilishly.

He startled, "I did."

"Why didn't you just give it to _his_ grandmother?"

He glimpsed at Ikhwan, shuddering as he replied, "It has come to my attention that his grandmother isn't someone to be taken lightly," he swallowed convulsively. "No offense Ikhwan, but I shudder to think about what emotion she could emit and thus engulfing me in the bizarre sensation—"

Ikhwan held his hand, consequently stopping Fattah from babbling any further. His eyes were glued on Nadirah as he asked, "What's with your grandmother?"

"She insisted that he brought the fake butterfly, when actually," she smiled thoughtfully, "At that time, it wasn't a fake."

"It wasn't," remarked Fattah loudly, relinquishing all of his resentment toward the little secret.

"But when he presented the butterfly, it proved to be a fake."

"It was," he couldn't emphasize it enough, his eyes menacing as he babbled, "I've always known how dangerous her grandmother's words are, but I didn't know that it could even change a true item into a mere replica—"

"If you think that such a thing happened, then you are a fool."

"I'm not a fool," he snapped, yet secretly agreeing with her words, because really, what can he do? He didn't have much option to consider. "But how can such a thing happen?"

It was a rare thing for Fattah to be oblivious to the outcome of a situation, so Ikhwan suggested, "I would say that she might have changed the fate, but," he pretended to indulge in a deep thought, "Wouldn't Fattah realizes?"

"He would?"

"As I said earlier, he has a sharp nose, and ultimately," Ikhwan said blatantly, "He could somehow predict the future rather accurately."

"He could?" she spluttered.

"Not magic, I tell you that much. Just common sense, and yes," he wouldn't admit defeat, not in front of his staffs, "Works most of the time. It could be all the time, if Ari—" he clamped his teeth, swallowing his next word.

"Arina switched them."

Nadirah's voice continuously rang in Fattah's head, so much that the word managed to squeeze out of his mouth, incredulously echoed, "Arina."

"Under the order of Grandmother Maznah," provided Nadirah again.

Ikhwan had known that fact, long before he was on the run for the missing butterfly.

As much as he wanted to confront his grandmother for her real intention, he waited in the dark and let the truth naturally unfold.

He knew that he was getting warmer to the absolute truth.

"Why would your grandmother do such a thing?" Fattah spluttered. "She's the one who craved for it!"

"Indeed," Ikhwan's devilish smile was uncontainable as it flashed to the world, "Why indeed."

"Well, I don't know about that," said Nadirah truthfully, "But you shouldn't have left your bag in the living room."

"I did?"

"You did!"

Fattah smacked his lips, before bursting with his long-kept rant, "I need to use the loo. I can't help it!"

"Then why did you drink the whole pot of tea?"

"I did?"

"You did!"

"Because I—" his volume was tuned down as he stared at the distance, reminiscing his memory, "Well, Arina kept on pouring it in my cup..."

"Why did you drink it?" Ikhwan asked, equally amused.

"Because Arina said," he further blinked, "I looked parched. And that was the last bunch of pomegranate tea," he smiled ruefully, fidgeting as he added, "I love pomegranate tea, but the type that your grandmother used was very rare. I never drank anything like that, and I never found it in stores either."

"So you were under the pretense that you better drink it all up before it was forever gone?" asked Ikhwan, stifling a chortle.

This was too funny and idiotic to be honest.

"Yeah, supposedly the tea would never be reproduced, and so I...oh..." he clicked his tongue, ashamed of his naivety. "I've been conned, haven't I?"

"How auspicious of you to meet both my grandmother and Arina at the same time," she shuddered, "Such a lethal combination."

"She knows you well," Ikhwan arched his brows.

"Of course," Fattah said matter-of-factly. "The annoying brat is my only option in igniting the time to run like a hare."

"Yet you couldn't somehow guess the future when it concerned her?"

"Such a shame to admit, but yes. Her mind is definitely twisted, although now that I think of it, it was rather predictable. Of course, pomegranate tea is my weakness, and if I were to overconsume it, then surely my bladder system will betray me, and thus make me vulnerable for nature's call—"

"Still, you shouldn't have neglected your bag!"

"But my bag was..." he blinked, "What happened to my bag, exactly?"

"You handed it to my cousin," answered Nadirah simply.

"Oh yes," he nodded. "I have known that Widad would hypnotize me with whatever that was, and if I were to hand the bag over, big chance she would discover the butterfly since she used to join the searching community with Danial, so I didn't hand her that, and instead, gave it to Arina—" he smacked his head, hard. "Why did I hand the bag to her again?"

"Because she said so?" suggested Nadirah.

"Looks like your overanalyzing habit has gotten the best of you," Ikhwan sniggered.

Fattah crossed his arms impatiently. "So that's how she switched it. I don't understand why she needs to stab me on the back—wait, I do."

Fattah definitely knew the reason, but Ikhwan didn't wager that he was willing to share that little piece of tidbit.

Nadirah on the other hand, definitely didn't mind telling the world about her elder cousin. "Don't mess with Widad. She's not good for anyone's health," she shivered. "But, I don't quite understand why she needs to meddle with the affair—"

"Didn't you hear me? She was in the same searching community with Danial—"

"My brother and her," said Ikhwan, swiftly cutting Fattah off, "Used to search for the butterfly."

"Oh," she nodded understandably. "Yet they didn't find it."

"No."

She made no effort to pursue the matter, and instead she continued, "Widad commanded Arina to switch the butterfly, because she too was ordered by Grandmother Maznah," she explained. "She was there and heard your conversation with the housekeeper."

Fattah clicked his tongue, her eyes flickered toward Ikhwan. "Your grandmother sure used a lot of people for her dirty work."

Ikhwan snorted. "It only takes two people to overthrow a foreteller, it seems."

"A hypnotizer and an immune psychic, you mean."

Ikhwan shrugged, and thought that it was time for him to admit that he was cognizant to the whole thing. "After you've returned from the washroom, her grandmother was already seated. So you told her about the good news, but she insisted that the butterfly was a fake, am I right?"

Fattah's eyes staggered, hips lips curved into a meaningful smile. "I did show her the butterfly, but what do you know, it was a fake."

"And where's the fake one?"

"I have it right here." He unzipped his bag and pulled out a black suede box, opening the lid to let it glimmer in front of their eyes.

The resemblance was uncanny. The only difference between the both of them was the colors of the gems, and that was the main point.

This butterfly was not the contraption he and Nadirah created two centuries ago.

He was certain that Nadirah shared the same thought, and was further pleased when her response was, "Serves you well for tricking those people for the sake of the," she bit her lips, "Fake butterfly."

She was probably referring to those internet forumers.

He had a hunch that she noticed that when she was surfing the internet at the café, but at the time, he decided to drop the matter and not aggravate her further, since she did look pretty irritated.

Glad to know that for once, he was right about matters regarding Nadirah.

"It was real at first," he ranted. "And I've apologized to those people that I've wronged."

"Your apology didn't sound quite sincere."

"Oh, you read my message," he chuckled nervously. "It was to lighten the mood, you see. I think they've been under pressure for long, but I swear," his tone was serious, "I didn't use the money. I disclosed the check to KK. If there was an easy way of freely communicating with him, I wouldn't choose this path."

"Really?" Ikhwan wasn't the least convinced.

He sucked his lips, slowly replied, "Well, if I suddenly appear out of thin air, he probably wouldn't notice me. I need to have a bigger impact so that his guards won't throw me out."

"Oh, you caught everyone's attention alright," she rolled her eyes, "But I don't get how he could freely handed the butterfly to you."

"All you need is the perfect magic words to stomp a pressure person senseless," he grinned.

"And what are the magic words?"

"Fiat justitia et pereat mundus," he said proudly, "And the butterfly suddenly was in my hands."

Nadirah opened her mouth to inquire further, but Fattah quickly cut her off, "It's some sort of a friendship thing between my grandfather and the painter. He recognized me as the grandson almost immediately. But truth remains," he didn't want the attention to fall solely on him, "That I have acquired the real butterfly, but his grandmother switched them, which means that his grandmother has already possessed the fake ones prior to this."

Abruptly, two pairs of curious eyes flew toward Ikhwan, waiting for the explanation behind his tightly closed lips.

Truth to be told, he had touched the fake butterfly before, and he knew that Danial and Widad were responsible for uncovering the oddly similar hairpin. However, during those times, he hadn't quite solved the humongous jigsaw puzzle yet—what's with the intrusion from those two hundred years worth of memories—but he could grasp his grandmother's deepest desire of collecting those two butterflies in silence.

Yet for what, he still didn't know, and he was determined to unravel the mystery.

"It was discovered by my brother and your cousin," he said, "It was supposed to be discreet, and I have been noted that their search had been a failure, but I didn't know at the time that it wasn't much of a failure."

"How come you know then?"

"Their faces were obviously hiding a secret, and I have been snooping around."

"I thought they'd have learned by now that keeping a secret from you is pointless," scoffed Nadirah.

That was true, but she didn't know Danial, and Ikhwan did have a hard time keeping his thoughts to himself all this while. If not for his lifetime experience of handling his brother, he didn't think that he could escape from Danial's grasp that easily.

"They know me better than that," he answered simply. "But anyways, that's my true intention. I want to find out the reason for my grandmother's greed."

Fattah cleared his throat, readying himself for his speech. "I don't think it has anything to do with greed."

"Neither do I, but at the moment, it sounds appropriate. Or do you have any external information to share?"

He raked his hair back and forth, his voice a nearly inaudible slur as he said, "I am obeying my grandfather's last wish."

"Last wish?" echoed Ikhwan. "What was it that he wanted?"

He licked his lips nervously. "Reuniting the butterfly with your grandmother."

Ikhwan stared at the black suede box, closed-lid, neatly placed on his desk.

Pouring the secrets were unexpectedly exhausting, yet refreshing nonetheless.

Finally, the three of them were no longer kept in the dark about each other's suspicious behavior. And while it was convenient for them to fill the gap with the newly acquired information, it did lengthen the road to the truth.

Fattah's grandfather.

If anything, Ikhwan wagered that the grandfather was perfectly aware of the whole situation, and if he specifically requested that his grandmother to be reunited with the butterfly, then the butterfly must have a hidden secret or two.

Furthermore, the sudden enlightenment that his grandfather was the one behind the painter's successful career was too much to digest.

He did not dare to touch the the butterfly again, nor was he dared to mention any of those suspicious words in front of his two friends. He had never craved such solitude in his life, just for the sake of constructing his thoughts.

Fattah undeniably had discovered his grandfather's will, secretly tucked beneath the mountain of silks in his little cottage, covered with dust, and filled with potent words. Fattah couldn't grasp the exact meaning of the heavy-lidded message, but he understood that his grandfather deemed for the reunion between the butterfly and the real owner more than ever, and Ikhwan had also read it just then without the necessity of touching, and he agreed with Fattah's conclusion.

Nadirah had taken the effort to write it down on a piece of paper, and as he unfolded it to revise it yet again, he let out a sharp breath.

It has come to my attention that perhaps, everything could turn to normal, and the four of us would be friends again if the butterfly has found her dais while adorning silk, in a field so large that the fragrance gliding along with the air, caressing the spectator with its warmth sensation, yet somehow cool air.

How contradicting, but undoubtedly the intensifying sensation would rival that of a human's emotion, might as well chill the fire? I can only hope.

How such a thing could come true? Perhaps, if aided with a person who saw everything, and a person who heard everything, it would come true.

Nevertheless, if they couldn't solve this riddle, then they are not the ones who I seek.

Everything could turn to normal. That was the keyword.

What was it about these butterflies that could turn to normal? Perhaps the wrath? Ikhwan can only hope.

Those people...who could see everything, who could hear everything. Ikhwan had no doubt that it referred to them, yet it puzzled him on how the grandfather would know that much, and even could predict the future far more precisely than his grandson.

The grandson he was, Fattah executed the instructions fairly well, pinpointing the suspected people to fit in the picture, and in his overly calculated mind, he knew that Ikhwan and Nadirah were the chosen ones. He mentioned how he had always observed, how Nadirah, in her deeply distracted dazedness could remember everything within an ear shot, and Ikhwan, who was often agitated yet extremely perceptive of the surroundings of yesterday and even the month before. Therefore, he sent a blackmail letter to his house for the sake of confirming an ally, and purposely smuggled a dress into Nadirah's favorite store. He knew that he needed them to cooperate in order to solve the riddle, and so he hinted to Ikhwan, being the expert gossiper he was, that KK was rumored to be a mental patient, and someone saw him meeting a familiar shrink.

Ikhwan knew from the start that Fattah was the culprit of the whole blackmailing system, for he had seen his face from the eyes of the evidences, knew that the whole auction scandal that enraptured the whole town was a product of Fattah's mischief, yet he followed his lead for the sake of uncovering his motive. He wasn't surprised to see that he learned nothing from the doctor. He believed that Fattah was merely distracting him from investigating the matter further, but he was proven wrong when he met Nadirah. It was certainly planned by the mastermind himself. He had no doubt about it.

Fattah deliberately insisted upon Ikhwan to write a potentially hot topic, and foolish as he was, he obeyed his order to learn his nemesis's plan better, yet it somehow backfired, but not for Fattah most definitely. Ikhwan's inbox was filled with the readers' mail, all jumbled up with hidden messages by Fattah.

By this point, he no longer trust the little wrench, and he wouldn't dare to read all the mails one by one, so he purposely asked the least potential stranger to evade his life by asking for her favor.

Once again, he fell into Fattah's trap.

He had no idea that the person he joked around the internet freely was the same person he met again for no more than a couple days.

Fate was cruel, especially when it was sorted by a mere mortal human. And being the administrator Fattah was, he could detect Suri's identity in a pinch, and it was something that a moderator like Ikhwan couldn't do.

He didn't mind much about the power, and at least he wasn't in trouble for lying to the whole fan community about his true self. Undoubtedly, Fattah had gotten the attention of the painter, and he had shackled the painter senseless to the point that he surrendered the butterfly, but Fattah had learned no more than Ikhwan had—less to be exact—since he certainly didn't realize the existence of the two butterflies.

To whom did this other butterfly belong? Ikhwan had no doubt that the Malaccan native named Abdullah was the original owner. He'd found the face familiar by his early touching of the butterfly, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that he missed something vital during that fateful first touch.

He was tempted to investigate the matter deeper, traveling back to the early century, yet his gut was telling him that the time had yet to come.

Even if he traveled right now, he doubted he would understand as much as he did from the first touch.

More clues were what he needed.

His brother was what he needed.

Ikhwan exited his room, and proceeded to stride into his brother's room. He knocked the hard wood door for a couple of seconds, before his brother's voice bellowed from the inside, "Come in."

He turned the doorknob, reluctantly peering inside. "Is this a good time?"

Danial looked up from his laptop, widely assessing the situation, and briefly smiled, "Sure."

Ikhwan sat on the soft mattress, his eyes curiously scrutinizing his brother. He wouldn't say that Danial was inferior to him, but neither was he superior. Nonetheless, his brother had lived far longer than he, and potentially experienced more than he could imagine.

"You know," Ikhwan cleared his throat, unclasping his barrier, "I have always known."

His memory of sneaking inside his grandmother's room came into view, acting like a phantom in search of the butterfly. Yet the original wasn't the one he sought, since the fake appealed to him the most. It was right then that he uncovered the truth about the butterfly bearing a twin, and thus, deciding him to take his grandmother's challenge, all for the purpose of uncovering the truth, because he resented the sensation of not knowing the secrets of the world.

"So you do," Danial mustered a smug smile, even if Ikhwan knew that he was flustered by his own vulnerability, "You hide it well."

"I have no choice," and the memory of uncovering his best friend to be the culprit came into his mind, overlapped with his grandmother's expectance of the butterfly, "I'm not living with normal humans."

Danial nodded thoughtfully. "There are more of them here than anywhere else, don't you agree?"

"This place is highly inconvenient," was the only reply Ikhwan felt appropriate.

"Convenient," he pointed out, "Depending on the situation."

"True," that was indeed, true, "But even so, it just makes things much more complicated."

Ikhwan was reminded on the reason for his sudden ambush toward his brother, and he knew that his brother had been monitoring his head ever since his first step.

Danial did nothing but stare straight into his eyes, before finally breaking the silence, "My task was not a failure."

It was not entirely a failure. "I didn't say otherwise."

Danial smiled smugly, "But you thought it is."

"You found the butterfly, alright," he answered, "But you didn't find the original one."

"Ah," Danial raised his brows, "That is where you were wrong. I searched for the butterfly, exactly that," he emphasized, "The butterfly."

Ikhwan creased his forehead, dreading his vulnerability. He hated to stay in the dark, hated when he was bested, even more so when it was done by his brother.

Nevertheless, as Ikhwan racked his brain for an equally sharp wit, he was reminded that his grandmother indeed, wasn't being much descriptive about the butterfly.

He hated it when his brother got into his mind.

"You have lowered your guard, you couldn't blame me," he grinned lopsidedly.

"So you meant to say that you knew about the double existence of the butterfly."

"I didn't know that at first," he admitted, "It was purely coincidental that I found a similar faceted butterfly brazing my eyes."

"I hardly believe that coincidence and you would mix."

"Maybe not," he suppressed a snort, "But I didn't know about it from the start."

"Then how did you know?"

"A painting," he answered simply, "I saw a painting of the butterfly in KK's house. Quite different from his usual style, but I assumed, one's style differs as he ages."

Ikhwan knew that he meant Avery's painting.

"So you say that it was not he who painted it," said Danial, amused. "Then his artwork must've been the replica."

"You borrowed the painting."

"And put it back."

"What about the replica?"

"It was something that Widad owns, and of course, if she wasn't there, I wouldn't know about the hidden message behind the painting."

Ikhwan clamped his teeth. "I need to see the painting."

"It wouldn't be easy."

"Who says it would?"

It was frightening to see Danial in the action, discreetly controlling the mind of others to follow his orders. He made a swift effort to secure them an appointment with the painter, something that Ikhwan could definitely do, but would cost much, much more time than his brother would.

In just mere exaggerated seconds, Ikhwan found himself comfortably seating in the grand mansion of the painter, listening attentively to the conversation between the painter and the much-disguised Danial, who didn't look like the rakish Danial at all.

Truthfully, Ikhwan doubted that anyone would recognize the devil under his carefully tucked hair and spectacles. Not because of the obvious get-up, but rather his presence emitted the vibe of a matured person, and his body language were not that of a young man.

Danial could do well in theater, Ikhwan thought.

Ikhwan was also disguised, and while he knew that he wasn't much of a great actor, at least it was acceptable.

He blinked.

He wondered if that thought was ignited by his brother.

Danial grinned, his eyes staring straight at the walls.

Definitely was manifested by his brother's cruel ability.

The door creaked open, and as the two pairs of eyes darted toward the man, he said apologetically, "Forgive me for the delayed time, doctor. I'm afraid I had some unfinished business."

"Unfinished business should be finished," answered Danial, summoning his professional voice, "It is the way of life."

"You are right," the painter—real name was Khalil—sighed. "Before it's too late."

"It's never too late," Danial leaned in, "As long as you are still breathing, it is never too late."

Even if it might take centuries to solve the mystery, it was never too late, and Ikhwan knew that well. If not, Laura wouldn't possibly release herself from the magistrate, would she? Was it possible for her to release without their aid? Maybe, but they were indeed, the only thing he saw, and he knew that it was fated. Why else would the items saw them in the past, if it didn't happen?

"I appreciate the thought, doctor, but truthfully, I don't think anything else could be done."

"That's why we are here, Mr. Khalil, to bring you an option, isn't that so?" Danial nudged Ikhwan, cueing him to speak.

Yes, while monitoring a person's brain was convenient for the purpose of hypnotizing, it didn't give much reason for a person to consider his action. Words had proven to be a much more suitable attack, and while Danial could easily unleash his full power in commanding others, in a situation like this, a swift act was required, and in order to eliminate any suspiciousness, words were necessary.

Safe to say, Ikhwan outranked his brother in term of persuasion. He never failed, except for the rare moments, of which 100% of it concerned Nadirah.

He'd made the conclusion that the reason why he couldn't retain his normal self during their encounters was probably because Nadirah had too much words in her brain. And that made it harder for him to decipher her true self amongst the unnecessary.

It was definitely not due to his inability of searching the emotion box thing.

He found it alright, but coupled with her verbose brain, it was supremely lethal.

And it still perplexed him on how he managed to unlock her speech box.

Perhaps that was his grand error.

"Exactly," said Ikhwan, summoning his typical assistant mode into the act, "Many patients were concerned on making the right choice, thus contemplating their decisions on whether to continue with the treatment or back off instantly. Most usually, such things happen due to their low confidence in solving the matter, or at least to sooth the guilt. That was where the patients went wrong. The first step for an enriched life begins with our head. We need to clear our head, relinquish our bad memories, and even acknowledge our guilt. We wanted our patients to realize that by realizing the guilt from every aspect, a couple of potential ways would come out in order to amend their problems."

It was better to wash a chronically high guilt-induced person with a full-blown reply.

Ikhwan had dealt with the situation countless of times already to know about the exact outcome.

"I see," Khalil nodded, yet it was apparent that he wasn't completely convinced, or in a sense, not yet thoroughly brainwashed. He fidgeted in his seat, his face displaying his discomfort reluctance over crumbling his image or crumbling his career.

It was understandable. Every move that he'd make would jeopardize his life. If the words were out saying that he met a specialized mental doctor—despite how the true authenticity of the doctor was unknown—it would create such a massive scandal on the newspapers' front page. He already met a psychiatrist, and now, a specialist?

Yet if he didn't cure the blockage, he would forever doom from ever commanding his fingers to create the magical arts again.

Nevertheless, Ikhwan didn't crave for his downfall, nor did his grandmother, so he said, "It always feels good to confide in others, especially when those others are trustworthy and discreet, and I assure you, our number one policy is being discreet. You could freely talk to us about anything at all, and the secrets would never leave this room, or our mouths for that matter. All of our patients' records are confidential."

"Confidential, you say?"

Khalil was beginning to waver, and Ikhwan applauded himself for his magical wits. "I don't mean to boast, but your company hired only the best for their star artist, and we are the best."

His boasting didn't appall him, but instead, Khalil was grinning broadly, "My company only hired the best. Always have, but lately, it wasn't as patronizing..."

Ikhwan didn't feel compelled to point out that the shadowed mastermind was no longer controlling the scene.

"If my company trusted you, then I should return the same notion," he said gravely. "I have yet to pick up my brush, it is traumatic. If this treatment could reignite my inner creative soul, then I am willing to oblige."

It was unsurprisingly easy, and Ikhwan knew that the treatment would fare toward Khalil's advantage a whole lot more than necessary.

It also meant that Ikhwan had little time to spare, and he needed to be extremely swift.

"Before we begin our healing process, Mr. Khalil," said Danial, talking after a moment of silence, "I would advise you to clear the spaces from unwanted souls, unwanted ears," his lips curled into a smile, "We want exactly no disturbance, you see."

Ikhwan wouldn't want any disturbance from the privy housemates either whilst executing his plan.

Khalil rang his buzzer, and at once, an impassive butler made his grand entrance, stoically said, "What can I do for you, sir?"

"Inform all of the employees, all of you are dismissed for tonight."

"Are you sure sir?" the question wasn't out of concern, but to confirm.

"Yes. Now," he cocked his head towards the door, "If you will."

The butler politely said, "Very well," and strode toward the door, gently tugging it close.

"I expect the house would be cleared in just a moment."

Danial concentrated on detecting any human breath in the spacious mansion, and once the location were limited to only the three of them, he said, "I hope you understand, it is one of the necessities in order to obtain the maximum result in the treatment."

"Of course," he nodded.

"And it is also a necessity for you to place your utmost faith in us. If not," he sighed dramatically, "It would be difficult."

"I completely believe in you."

"Thank you," he smiled serenely, "You have done such a great deal for us all. Now," he gestured him with his fingers, "Close your eyes, if you will."

It was hard to ignore the suspicious glint in Mr. Khalil's eyes, so Ikhwan hastily added, "We believe it is essential for your concentration if you were to exalt yourself from the world. It's such a distracting place, isn't it?"

"It is," he acceded, "But the essence of the world is fascinating. At least, through my eyes," he sighed. "But I'm afraid my eyes are no longer capable of capturing such things."

"I'm sure it is," said Ikhwan earnestly, "But I wasn't born with such talent as yours, so I couldn't say. Yet fascinating it is, equally distracting, so why don't you try to capture the essence through your other senses, now that your eyes have been quite blunt? Hypothetically speaking, it might awaken your other potentials."

Ikhwan knew that he had caught Khalil's attention, because he tried to cover his excitement with a wary, "That sounds promising."

"If you believe in it sir, then I'm sure it will."

He nodded contently, obligingly closing his eyes.

Danial shot a meaningful look at Ikhwan, and proceeded to lean in toward Khalil. "Now Mr. Khalil, it would do a great favor to us all if you were to remain honest, and if there was any bizarre sensations or whatsoever, I need you to remain calm and ignore it completely, focusing entirely on my voice. Am I clear?"

"Bizarre sensations?" his ears perked up, his blood slowly draining from his head.

Danial smiled. "It's quite natural for the mind to be playing a trick during the healing process, so it is wise for you to not be trampled by the mind and instead, reclaim your original throne."

"Reclaim my original throne?" he asked warily.

"Exactly," Danial was impatient to start, "Are you ready, Mr. Khalil?"

He took a deep breath, and answered with his tightly closed eyelids, "Yes."

Danial smiled victoriously, his eyes motioning Ikhwan to do his errand.

Ikhwan nodded, swiftly passing the painter flawlessly, and the last thing he heard was Danial asking, "When do you start drawing, Mr. Khalil?"

Ikhwan roamed the corridor, barely touching the walls with his fingers. The images were quite blurry if he didn't touch it entirely, but a mere hint was what he sought, and that was what he wanted.

His steps halted as his mind hinted on the lower basement, so he followed his instinct and the never-ending memories from the items, before finally reaching to a complicatedly decorated door.

He raised his brows, staring at the little contraption in front of the door.

Password, he should have known.

As he touched it, he had come to know that this was recently installed, apparently due to a certain burglary in the house.

Oddly however, nothing was stolen.

They had concluded that it was a false alarm, but precautions were made in case things like that would happen again.

He didn't understand exactly, but from his level of understanding, he liked to wager that it was true.

The burglary was probably committed by his brother, he presumed.

He scrolled over the many memories of the contraption, passing by the guard's bland life of sitting stonily at the same spot day by day. Finally, Ikhwan founded the scene he was searching for, the scene where someone was entering the room.

His housemaid, apparently.

His eyes expertly stored in the code, watched as the lock unlatched, giving him privilege of viewing the room.

He made a mental note of the code, slowly releasing the memories from his mind as his fingers carefully typing on the little pad.

It was a job well done, at least at the moment. He briskly strode into the room, his eyes searching up and low for potential clues in order to obtain the painting of Mr. Ventris.

It wasn't hard to locate the painting. Ikhwan didn't need to reminisce to notice the familiar piece of art, rigidly plagued on the wall. He took the painting with his hand, disengaging the frame from the artwork, and carefully, slipping the replica into the frame.

It was a good thing that there weren't any sort of precautions revolving the frames. If not, he would be in a deep trouble.

It was also a good thing that Khalil rarely visited the room to notice the slight differences between his own masterpiece and the artwork of others.

Ikhwan rolled the painting, placed it into a tube, and proceeded to exit the room. Within minutes, he had returned to the original living room, just in time to hear the painter said, "It's the mariposa."

"The mariposa," Danial echoed obligingly, "What happened to it?"

"I..." he fidgeted in his seat, his face furrowed over the dreadful memory, "I no longer have it."

"You should take it back, then."

"No," he gulped, conspicuously denying any other possible option, "I don't think I can."

"You can," said Danial encouragingly. "It's in your mind."

"It is not."

"It is not," he couldn't disagree with that, "But the essence is."

For that, Khalil didn't feel comply to reply.

"Try to recapture the essence of the mariposa."

"I can't—"

"You can," Danial gently murmured, expertly handling the troubled patient. "Visualize the mariposa. Try to lock all the memories of the mariposa into your visualization," Danial's façade was undeniably ruthless, "And try to convey it with your pencil."

Khalil took a deep breath, rigidly sat, focusing entirely on his concentration.

Ikhwan crept back onto his original seat, occasionally halting for precautions, but when he knew that the coast was more than clear, he quickly tiptoed to his brother's direction, carefully sitting on the leather couch.

He could see that Khalil was clutching a sketching pencil, complete with an opened sketchbook lying on his lap.

It was part of the plan. They needed to learn everything about this man.

"I," suddenly, Khalil spoke, "I can see the mariposa."

"Good," Danial's said appraisingly, "Try to remember every single detail. Relinquish all of your guilt into your artwork."

Ikhwan grinned at the enthusiasm in his brother's voice. He was definitely a skilled actor.

"I," Khalil hesitated, "I hear it coming."

"What is it?" Danial's voice was thoroughly alarmed, but Ikhwan knew that it was all an exaggerated act.

"The footsteps," Khalil's words sent shivers down Ikhwan's spine, and he held his breath as Khalil spoke, "Of my inspiration. I heard it approaching."

"Do you hear it now?" asked Danial in his greatest genuinely-sounding hospitable voice.

"No," he said truthfully, "It stopped, as soon as I saw the mariposa."

Ikhwan had always known that he had a knack of good timing.

Or maybe this was just one of his lucks.

"But you heard it approaching."

"Yes."

"Do you hear it leaving?"

He considered for a while, reluctantly answered, "No, I don't think so."

"Then it must have still be in this room," Danial was intrigued, his voice concealed none of his excitement.

"If- if you say so," he stammered.

"Take the inspiration."

"P-pardon?"

"The inspiration," somehow, Danial sounded more like an overly enthusiastic psychic than a mental psychiatrist, "Summon your courage, inhale the inspiration."

"How—"

"The method that you are most comfortable with," said Danial intellectually, "Is the method best conceived, and the method you are most confident in, I presume," his eyes lightened, "Lies in your art skill?"

He said nothing, before slowly bobbing his head down in agreement.

Danial was content, his voice gently ordered, "Open your eyes."

Khalil squeezed his eyes, reluctant to open, but slowly, he braced himself, and inch after inch, his eyes began to look at the two frauds once again.

Danial gestured at the sketchbook and commanded, "Now sketch."

He exchanged glances with Danial and the sketchbook, occasionally averting his gaze at Ikhwan, and back to the sketchbook. He gnawed his lips, and after a loud exhale of breath, his hand began to stencil the little paper with ferociously mechanical movement, sketching to his heart content.

He gasped as he finished, putting down his pencil and gawked at his drawing. "I...I did it."

"How is it?" asked Danial.

"It's..." he gulped, impulsively tearing the page from the sketchbook and handed the book back to Danial. "You are a genius."

He grinned, and Ikhwan knew that the grin was the most genuine expression his brother had concocted during the entire evening.

"I," Khalil stared at the torn page in amazement, "I never thought—"

"I'm glad to help," Danial swiftly interjected, still grinning idiotically over his proclaimed genius state.

"Thank you," the words were a barely audible whisper, "How could I ever repay you—"

"The company will pay us," Ikhwan decided that it was time for him to intervene, "You don't have to worry."

He hesitated, but realized that it did conform to the truth, so he steered the topic away, curiously remarked—perhaps a bit too curious, "I do wonder what you've done to me, I feel quite," he beamed, "Rejuvenated, if I may be frank."

"Our methods are confidential," Danial returned his beam with his own polite hospitably smile, "Like I told you before."

"I know," he nodded, but he wasn't willing to admit defeat, "Although it was remarkable how your treatment only lasted for a few minutes and no more."

"Ah," Danial grinned, "I believe you should forward your gratitude to yourself, for you have made things easier for us, which would make it easier for you as well."

"Yet your methods are highly enticing."

"Like I said," Danial's eyes were menacingly secretive as he said, "Highly confidential, but I assure you, it was not mere talking."

"I suspect as much," he agreed, and Ikhwan knew that his level of suspicious could be dangerous if he were to become too familiar with them, "You are truly one of a kind," he subsequently grinned, "Just like me, I expect."

That was definitely their cue of departing from the dragon's lair. The situation could get out of hands if they were to mingle further, even if Ikhwan had Danial by his side. Danial had the ability of exploring a human's mind, and while reading the core was superbly great, he had a better ability under his wings.

He could manipulate the minions' mind and mold it to his heart desire.

Ikhwan knew that no matter how skillful or talented a psychiatrist was, Khalil would never open his heart like a free bird. Only to Danial would he do such a thing, since Danial undoubtedly trespassed his mind, selected the exact memory to be outspoken, casually extracting under the false pretense of his natural and charming demeanor.

Perhaps charming wasn't such a fake demeanor for Danial after all, since he was indeed, born with it. And he flaunted it on every occasion.

But the frightening part didn't stop right there. If Danial weren't such a refined person in term of common sense, he would become a big threat to the world. He can stop a person's special mind power if he desired, limiting a person's ability if he wanted, or even boosted a person's true power to full-blast if he was feeling generous.

That was what he did to KK. He tuned his rusted senses anew, and he succeeded.

However, Ikhwan wagered that his share of work wasn't as tedious as Danial. He wasn't literally playing with one's mind. Danial on the other hand, was playing with fire, messing with a person's head, and if the person was too sharp for his own good, Danial could lose his measure due to his resentment of being bested.

Like older brother, like little brother. Ikhwan too was repulsed at the thought of being outwitted.

"Here." Danial handed Ikhwan the little sketchbook from earlier, conveniently stored in a plastic file, right after they'd escaped from the suspicious yet jovial elder who insisted them to stay the night.

Of course, Danial politely refused Khalil's offer with a little tweak in his mind.

They barricaded themselves into Danial's car, catching their breath, and as Danial ignited the engine, Ikhwan decided to ask, "Did you hear anything interesting?"

Danial smiled meaningfully. "Of course."

Ikhwan arched his brows. "Did you know something that you didn't hear aloud?"

He chuckled. "Don't worry. Every crucial thing is in there. Your little friend would be able to crack it in no time."

Ikhwan didn't feel the need to touch the sketchbook, since he knew that if he were to pry deeper into the scene, the scene would only be the one that he saw, an elderly being conned by a young adult, not exactly appetizing, not when the audio seemed to be muted.

He needed the audio, and while the curious sensation in his heart was hard to mollify, he waited for the next day to harass the little friend for her undying help.

He wondered if he should rephrase it to friends.

Fattah and Nadirah were gaping at the painting, staring in wonderment after they'd neatly unrolled it from the tube. The sketchbook lied in front of them, still barricaded in the plastic file.

"What did your brother see?" asked Nadirah quizzically. "I see nothing," her eyes flickered toward Ikhwan, and quickly amended, "Extraordinary."

"Neither do I," Fattah nodded. "But one would think that this is my first time seeing a painting like this, which arguably doesn't remind me of KK's arts, but I don't think I could comment, since my knowledge of KK's arts are quite low, although it is bearable to be honest, but nothing could be say about my judgment towards arts—"

Ikhwan gently tugged the painting away from their hands, his brain busy processing the newly acquired information from the painting. He cleared his throat, clearly said, "The painting...has been overlapped with wax."

"Keyword accepted, wax. Keyword accepted—"

"Oh no," Nadirah muttered. "Everything is black again."

Ikhwan grinned, clearly enjoying the glorifying sensation. The computerized voice was back, and the voice asked, "Where could the Plain Jane be seen plastering the wall?"

"The ball," answered Nadirah matter-of-factly.

"The ball?"

"The wallflower."

Ikhwan nodded understandably.

The darkened view didn't linger for long. Almost at once, they found themselves standing in a room, complete with wardrobe and bed.

Well, it was Viscount Vincent Ventris's bedchamber, to be exact.

"Where are we?" asked Nadirah, flabbergasted, or perhaps exhilarated. She did look as if she was about to hyperventilate.

Ikhwan wondered if he should reply, because the answer would miraculously appear in just a second.

He decided not to, but instead flashed his knowing grin, which apparently didn't sit too well with her.

The door creaked open, and out came the familiar face, blinking rapidly at them, before clearing his throat and said, "How nice to see you both," he tilted his head curiously, "Again."

"You did wish for our appearance," smiled Ikhwan.

He did. That much was true.

"I did," Lord Ventris didn't make an effort to deny, "Nevertheless, it is quite a pleasant surprise to make your acquaintance again."

"Pleasant, it means you are pleased to see us," Nadirah grinned, "We are not annoying you, aren't we?"

"Perhaps not as annoying as a leprechaun," he replied, "But bearable, and at least, proven to be useful."

"We shall be useful to you again, then?" asked Ikhwan testily.

Lord Ventris didn't answer, but instead, he proceeded to the inner room, tying his cravat and waistcoat, "I do wonder, and perhaps you could supply us the information."

"That would spoil the fun, wouldn't it?"

Nadirah exchanged glances at them, her expression grim. "If you're thinking of extracting information from him, then I advise you to forget it. He yearns to be the most knowledgeable person in the world—"

"I didn't insinuate that," it's hard to contain the grin from his face.

"Where are you going, my lord?" Nadirah ignored Ikhwan thoroughly, curiously scrutinizing his appearance. "You look like someone who'd be going to a 19th Century themed prom."

Ikhwan clasped his mouth with his hands, barely containing the spluttered mirth.

Vincent curiously stared at them, wondering if his sanity would prevail the odd evening. Finally, he replied, "I am going to a season."

Nadirah gaped, blurted out without thinking, "Why do you bother?"

Ikhwan raised his brows. "He's single."

"He's an eligible bachelor."

Ikhwan stifled a chortle, "Exactly."

"He needs to find a viscountess."

"For his heir."

"I'm starting to change my mind," Vincent muttered, "Possibly the both of you are much beleaguering than that of a leprechaun, and no, I wasn't there entirely for the sake of my descendant. I have a matter to attend." He strode briskly until he was exactly in front of them, "I'm afraid I couldn't participate in the conversation any longer, for my valet will be tending me any minute from now, but if it proved to be of any use, then I would advise the two of you to accompany me to the ball."

Nadirah's jaw flew open, her eyes exchanging wary glances between the both of them, before finally settling on Ikhwan's face. "Did I hear what I think I heard?"

"What did you think you heard?" asked Ikhwan amusedly.

"We're going to the ball?"

"Yes, you are," Vincent instinctively replied, "My carriage would depart in a matter of few minutes, so if you could kindly await me there, I would much appreciate that."

They nodded their heads, grinning broadly, but suddenly stiffened when the door was opened—under Vincent's permission—and entered by a skinny valet.

Vincent's eyes flickered at them, gesturing to the opened door.

And off they went.

"Is he trying to be nice, or maybe, trying to get rid of us?"

"Both, maybe," Ikhwan smiled. "Aren't you thrilled to finally be able to go to a ball? Your deepest desire has come true."

"In case you've forgotten, going to the ball is the last thing I wanted."

He shrugged, spontaneously answered, "Fine then. Let me tell him that we much enjoyed snooping around his house."

"S-snooping?" she stammered. "What are we going to find here?"

"I don't know. It is not in the history." Truly not, he didn't see them lingering in the house.

"Then we are altering history!"

"I'm simply doing you a favor."

Ikhwan had the hunch that her deepest desire was actually to spank him in the head.

Instead, Nadirah scowled, gravely said, "At least it's not a pumpkin carriage."

"Such helpless fairies we are."

Nadirah opted not to speak, and once Vincent had settled himself in the carriage, along with Avery, the horses started to yelp, tugging their seat forward.

"Vincent," Avery's face was ghastly pale, "I don't feel particularly well."

"Of course you don't," answered Vincent blatantly.

"Why do you suggest such a thing happened? I sure hope it wasn't a premonition of a disaster that has yet to come."

"Your premonition was a tad late. It has already come."

He blinked, not understanding his brother's words. Slowly, he replied, "I don't see your point."

"Exactly," Vincent nodded. "You don't see."

He blinked rapidly, before realization soaked him thoroughly. "The elves are here."

"Fancy that," Ikhwan sniggered, "We are the elves."

"No wonder we couldn't change the carriage into a pumpkin ride," said Nadirah with an equally exaggerated realization.

Vincent ignored their outbursts completely. "The elves have been upgraded into leprechauns. It would be much fitting if they were Irish."

"They weren't?"

"They weren't."

"Still, appropriate it is to be called as leprechaun," said Avery, "Such popping creatures they are."

"If you wanted information about a debutante that caught your eyes, Mr. Ventris," Nadirah grinned, "We could become your undercover agents, no problem. Just like you with the marchioness."

"That—" he bit his lips, "If you could promise of not making a fool out of myself, then I gladly accept the offer."

"You have done such a great deal to us, Mr. Ventris," said Ikhwan, remembering the painting, "We would never backstab you even with a blunt blade."

"Si-since when have I done a great deal for them?" asked Avery, still paled by the spooky ghosts.

"I'm not sure Avery," Vincent raised his brows, "The children of the future speak the darnedest things."

The footmen were trained to be completely oblivious to their masters, but the conversation was too bizarre for them to not question their masters' sanity.

The ride came to a halt, and as the two of them jumped down from the carriage with their feathery light bodies, Ikhwan couldn't help but reflect Nadirah's gaping expression on his own face.

Tremendous amount of carriages scattered on the roads, each bearing the bachelors, while others bearing the debutantes, excitedly accompanied by eager mothers.

From the corner of Ikhwan's eyes, he spotted the sight of Lady Laura stepping out from her carriage, assisted by her footman. Her face bore the same purity, but suddenly, it changed into an alert expression.

He hastily whispered to Nadirah, "Let's get inside."

She casted him a bewildered look, but followed his lead anyways.

As soon as they were inside, Ikhwan let out a subtle sigh of relief, instinctively asked, "Does this meet your fantasy standard?"

She startled at the question, vaguely answered, "This wasn't centered around the prince himself, so I can't tell."

Ikhwan grinned, subconsciously moving farther into the edge of the wall. So many faces he could see, so many goals, so many resolutions, so many imaginations...it was vividly painted on their faces.

Vincent cleared his throat, startling them both, and as they swiveled back to meet his gaze, he creased his brows, "Such fast legs you have."

"We couldn't wait to see the interior," answered Ikhwan. "Our first time, you see."

"I hardly doubt that's your ulterior motive." He was right. "But I dare not question further. You will accompany Avery, yes?"

"If that's what he craves."

"Not at all, but I shouldn't linger—"

"Lord Ventris," said a familiar feminine voice, "How nice to see you here."

His expression flickered at the sound of the voice, and adopting his nicest expression, he bowed down and kissed her gloved hand. "Lady Laura," he murmured. "It's my pleasure to make your acquaintance again."

She scrutinized him with her deepest concentration, and said, "I hope I'm not interrupting your affairs."

"Not at all, I was merely..." he glanced at the leprechauns, adding ruefully, "Chatting."

"Chatting," she echoed, and glanced at the leprechauns as well, "With whom, exactly?"

"A penny for your thoughts," said he, "I would love to hear your theory."

"I'm not one to concoct much of a theory."

"Yet this theory is definitely right up your alley."

Her eyes deeply pierced his reckless demeanor, suspiciously answered, "Yes, I suppose so. Pardon me, my lord, if I were incorrect, but I think you are speaking to my illusions, and by no means was I dreaming, for my sanity is still within my grasp, although not many have much faith in it nowadays."

That elaborate thought deserved more than a penny. She was being exceptionally frank, and that was quite hazardous, especially to someone like this lord over here, who might or might not question her sanity, much like the other spectators.

"You are not dreaming, I guarantee as much," said Vincent, "But may I contradict your statement, I am not talking to your illusion. But I'm merely communicating with..." he glanced at them, unable to squeeze the right word, "The children of the future, as hypothetical as it might sound."

"Children of the future?" she creased her brows. "What makes you think that my illusion is the children of the future?"

"What makes you think that the children of the future are your illusion? Did you visualize them to appear at my house? I think not."

That promptly shut her mouth from further ado, but she held her chin high, covering her tracks as she said, "Nevertheless, my lord, you owe me a penny."

"I would give you more than a penny," he smiled, "Care for a dance?"

"What makes you think that your dance worth more than a penny?"

Frankly speaking, Lady Laura was as frank as she could be.

"Unforgettable memory it would be, and you would agree that it meant a lot more than a mere penny?"

What could they buy with a penny in this time of age?

"If you will excuse me," said Lord Ventris politely at the two of them, "I will be back shortly."

They smiled sheepishly, ogling at the pair as Laura placed her hand on his arm, following his lead to the floor as the musician struck up a waltz.

Truthfully, the scene at the ball was a stranger to his eyes. The eyes of the painting had never once been enlightened with the current ball. He had no choice but to roam his eyes curiously toward the countless guests, when he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.

By now, he chose to believe in his instinct.

"Nadirah," he called, "Follow me."

She nodded, following his back with extreme loyalty, passing by some intriguing guests until he stopped and stared at the face of an elder lady.

"It's the marchioness," his eyes never left the marchioness's face, "The culprit."

Ikhwan studied the face of the marchioness closely, trying to detect anything extraordinary from her expression and body language, and also to confirm his fleeting suspicion that the gifted psychics could feel their presence.

She didn't flinch, nor did she shiver, thus daringly, Ikhwan stepped forward.

Still, no expression whatsoever.

He pondered for the reason, but his concentration betrayed him when a guest marched to their place, swiftly greeting the marchioness.

"My lady," the man exclaimed, "What a lovely coincidence!"

She stared at him felinely, retorting, "Do you believe in coincidence Queensberry?"

"Coincidence never coincided with you, I think not," he laughed jovially, "There are only two things that could cause you to commit such a glib tongue, and I am pondering for the right one."

"It wasn't difficult."

"I'm thinking," he roamed the hall with his eyes, missing Ikhwan's and Nadirah's shadows as he smiled devilishly, "Both?"

"Both," she smiled smugly. "Thankfully, the lady here doesn't have the slightest clue for what would be heading her way."

"I appreciate it if you could shed some lights towards my direction."

Her smile went dangerously broader, "The butterfly."

chapter 10

"May I steal your dance partner, my lord?"

They stared quizzically at him, before Laura decided to break the silence, "You are right, they did say the darnedest things."

"I take it as a compliment," Ikhwan grinned, ignoring how a lady shouldn't be uttering a word as vulgar as that aloud.

But she wasn't a normal lady, so he supposed she deserved the exception.

"No matter," Vincent smiled, "I do need to be excused, so if you would allow me—"

"Run along sir, I mean lord," Nadirah blinked, "My lord. Run along, my lord."

He bid his farewell, swiftly leaving them to finish his much-neglected errand.

Indeed, his errand required his presence much more than this ballroom ever did.

"I dare not speak in front of the viscount," Laura remarked, "But I might visualize the both of you at his house."

Nadirah arched her brows. "Why would you do such a thing?"

"I have yet to hear your opinion of the man. I truly enjoy his company, yet I couldn't venture into his mind. I fear for my safety, what if he was not to be what he appeared to be? And thus, all this while, I have been waiting for the response."

"Well, no need to worry, my lady," replied Nadirah truthfully, "You saw how friendly he was with us, and I assure you that he's nothing but a great person."

She fidgeted, and proceeded to lean on the wall. "That is remarkably helpful, and it was equally interesting for him to be able to detect my illusions, yet my previous experiences have prompted me to take extreme precautions. And excuse my beleaguering behavior, but I sincerely am highly suspicious of everything."

Ikhwan considered his confirmed fact carefully, and nonchalantly asked, "Is that the reason for your dance card to be empty aside from the viscount?"

She tucked her loose strand of hair behind her ear, restless as she answered, "I am not as comfortable, definitely not compared to my late sister." She caught her breath, and continued, "This is my third season since my debut, two attended by my sister, and this is my first time. I doubt I could receive any proposal, not since my scandal. In fact, one would think that I would be kept on the shelf for eternity, for who could understand my doddering mind? I am much insane than people gave me credit for."

"Then why did you attend the ball in the first place?"

Ikhwan and Nadirah had the slightest idea for her reason, but it was nice to hear it from her own mouth.

"I couldn't let my father down. He waited for the day when I will get married, yet I couldn't bring myself to admit that I will never be betrothed. Such a sad ending for a lady, but surely, I wouldn't be the only spinster." She was a girl that was engulfed in so much negativity and misery, but she hadn't finish. "Moreover, I am a person of adventure, and adventure is what I seek in my lonely life."

"Adventure," Ikhwan echoed, occasionally stealing a glance at Nadirah. "You knew, didn't you?"

"I'm afraid I don't comprehend."

Nadirah ran toward a balding man, yelling on the top of her lungs, "Who is this?"

From the corner of Ikhwan's eyes, he could see that Avery was wincing upon hearing the loud volume of the voice, consequently darting his eyes around the hall.

"Duke of Queensberry," answered Laura as soon as Nadirah returned. Her eyes narrowed. "You know something."

"That you know," Ikhwan politely finished the sentence. "Did he ever propose to you?"

She gasped, clasping her mouth with her gloved hand. "The man's daughter is nearly to come-out!" she hissed.

"Just wondering," Ikhwan grinned, "He took a whole lot of liking towards you."

"Me, or my sister?" she scoffed. "I only have experience talking to the nature, unlike my friendly sister."

"Your sister then," Ikhwan raised his brows, "But at least he was quite on your side than say, the marchioness."

She studied his face intently, literally resembling the wallflower as her eyes widened, "What did you know that I did not know?"

"I know that you are here for the sake of investigating the marchioness, and I do know that you know how she has secured a butterfly for herself. But did you know that she has gotten the wrong butterfly, and Lord Ventris is here to retrieve the other butterfly for the sake of his dear friend, namely, you?"

For the longest time, she didn't reply. But her voice was throaty when she finally spoke, "Why does so many cares about the butterfly?"

"Because you care," Nadirah grinned. "They are all after you, the duke, the marchioness, the viscount—"

"Yet the viscount is your ally, through and through," added Ikhwan. "He genuinely cares about you."

Her cheeks flushed, but she tried her hardest to resist the feminine quality. Instead, she announced, "I think it's time for me to retire from this dreadful ball."

"Can you do me a favor?" asked Nadirah, quite seriously to be honest, and it caught Ikhwan's guard off since he never, ever seen such a determined expression on her face before.

She certainly could concoct numerous expressions on her tiny face, that was for sure.

"What?"

She crept along with Lady Laura, into the inner corridor of the house, away from the blaring music. They stopped to make way for the passersby, and once the line was clear, they gestured Laura to come forward, heading toward their destination. "If the time is up, I want you to give me a reminder first."

"What time?" he spluttered.

"Obviously, you'd know when our time in this century would be up," she said impatiently. "I don't want to be caught off-guard and said the keyword too early," her eyes staggered. "Just in case."

"Oh." He didn't expect the favor to be quite odd, yet if it was Nadirah, then surely it would be odd.

Nevertheless, he replied, "I can tell when, I can't tell what."

"The keyword would miraculously fly out of our mouth, I know that much," she retorted, "I just want to savor the entire ancient world before returning to our modern era, you see."

"Of course," he nodded. "Here's a clue. If you saw the painting, then it means that our time is nearly up."

"The painting is still in Lord Ventris's room, isn't it? So it means that we won't return until we go back to Lord Ventris's house."

"Probably." He rather not spoiled the fun.

He stopped in front of a hard, solid door, glimpsing at Laura. "They are in there."

"What are they doing?" whispered Laura, her voice irrevocably shaky.

He stared at the wall, and said, "Why don't we see it together?"

"That is not possible," she hissed. "They could see me!"

"But the marchioness couldn't detect your illusions, couldn't she?" he smiled. "You could impersonate anything, disguise as anything, wish for anything, and she wouldn't know."

She creased her brows.

"What do you suggest we do, Lady Laura?"

She licked her lips.

And subconsciously wished that the wall was invisible.

Her eyes widened as the wall became transparent, and as she ducked her head from being in the view of the marchioness, realization hit her hard in the chest.

She couldn't be seen by the eyes of the unnecessary behind the concrete wall, saved for Vincent.

He stared at the three trespassers with his piercing silver-eyes, occasionally stealing glances with the marchioness and the duke. He had successfully locked the mind of the two aristocrats from seeing the impossible, yet the quivering lips were muted to their ears.

Nadirah apparently realized about the situation, so she firmly suggested, "I should listen to the conversation and forward it to both of you."

She jumped over the intersection of the wall, her eyes widened as she said amusedly, "Did someone turn on the volume?"

"I think that someone is you," said Ikhwan, and averting his gaze to Laura, he asked, "Can you hear her, my lady?"

She nodded, too flabbergasted to speak.

Nadirah began to talk, roughly mimicking the voice of Lord Ventris, "On what account do you held him captive? I don't appreciate the nonsensical and callous actions portrayed by you both."

"He could provide threats to the country," answered the marchioness, of which Nadirah impersonated with a touch of arrogance, "I am simply doing us a favor."

"So many foreigners, so many people, yet the one who was holding a threat was a guest of mine. How inappropriate."

"So many people, so many foreigners, yet none of them possessed such a threatening ability, as portrayed by your guest. I am highly condemned."

"Threatening," his eyes were sharply tearing the marchioness's deceiving words, "To the country, or to you?"

"Now, now, Vincent," the duke spoke for the first time, "Let's not freely accuse of another when you are struggling on a non-existent basis. It is not the least charming."

"Pardon my callousness, your grace," he crossed his arm, "But my basis is not struggling on mid air."

"Oh really?" the duke raised his brows. "I'm intrigued, yet your confidence is overbearing."

Nadirah crossed her arms, staring at Vincent, "You know, Queensberry took a liking towards Lady Laura."

He arched his brows.

"We have the slightest hunch that he actually liked the late sister of Lady Laura."

His brows went up, high up. He covered his tracks, mildly suggested, "I do wonder for your sudden involvement in this whole matter. It is highly unnecessary."

"My lady's business is my business," he grinned, "My involvement is inevitable."

"Ah," he nodded in agreement. "Which lady do you mean, exactly?"

"Of course it's Lady—" he stopped, nervously glancing at the marchioness. "It is self-explanatory, I didn't feel comply to explain."

"He is simply doing me a favor," said the marchioness in Nadirah's voice.

"A favor in return would always be a favor," Vincent smiled, "And dare I say I know perfectly well for the returned favor in question. Yet I wonder Queensberry," he arched his brows. "Would your happiness last for a lifetime, or merely for a few days?"

"Months, perhaps," Nadirah clasped her mouth, "My lord you are too frank!"

"They are discussing about my mortality," Laura stared at Ikhwan warily, "Are they not?"

What was the most suitable reply for such a question? Maybe a mild shrugging would suffice, and Ikhwan did just that.

She pondered for a while, and asked, "If my life didn't concern the butterfly, would it jeopardize my existence?"

Ikhwan sorted his thoughts, and said, "Big chance, you won't survive, because you are too reserved to trust Lord Ventris, and since you wouldn't open up, big chance he would leave you alone, and you would die in shame, literally."

"So, if I have the butterfly—"

"You would die at the ripe age of—" he grinned, for he wasn't enlightened with such information anyway, "Your life wouldn't be as miserable."

"Are you insinuating that I would kill the poor lass?" the duke bellowed in Nadirah's voice—she was connecting to her role very well, "You have crossed the line, Vincent!"

"Your grace, you are highly mistaken," he said blatantly. "I am wondering about the period of your happiness, simply that, and for you to conspicuously consider the worse, I would have to assume that you are not denying the fact."

"I would never allow anyone to kill the lady," he jabbed his finger at the marchioness, "Including her!"

He sighed, nodding sagely. "But she did, your grace, she has killed your beloved."

"Hah!" he spat. "Then who is the lady in lilac waltzing with you minutes ago? Her runaway soul?"

Vincent was tempted to chortle, he really did, and coincidently, it was due to the apparent runaway souls of the children of the future, but he sucked his mirth to the lowest of the pit and said, "I expect you remember the case relating to Lady Laura, your grace."

"Of course," he held his chin high. "Her poor sister was killed, but she was proven innocent, much gratitude to your brother, of course."

"And my illusions," added Laura, "One would think that the magistrate wouldn't freely release a convict, so I need to create a fleeting illusion in order to escape, for none would believe the marchioness to be the culprit."

"Ah, yes," replied Vincent, "Her poor sister, such identical sisters, one would assume they were twins."

"I believe not," answered Laura, "I didn't experience any of those much-exclaimed twins' specialties."

"I have not seen the bastard in my life, so I shan't comment."

"But you did," insisted Lord Ventris. "In fact, I think everyone saw her, clad in her Lady Laura façade, bearing the name and waltzing with the gentlemen," he smiled. "If anything, I will say that today was the first time for anyone to see the real Lady Laura in her most respectable getup."

The blood drained from his head, stammering as he said, "But the lady—"

"And now you are holding my friend's captive due to the order from this lady here," his eyes flashed toward the marchioness, "Just for the sake of the butterfly, of which you would present for the proposal? It couldn't get more original than that."

"I think you are mistaken, Vincent," spoke the marchioness coolly. "I admit that the butterfly hold dear to my heart, for it is one of a kind, but I have no intention of ruining his happiness with a slit on the throat, and for you to insinuate such a thing, I am thoroughly disappointed."

Subconsciously, Ikhwan and Nadirah touched their neck and shuddered.

Cruella de Venetia couldn't get crueler than that.

"I shan't remedy your thoughts towards me, my lady, but inauspicious for you, the butterfly wasn't the one she seeks."

The marchioness lifted a brow, chuckling in her most ladylike manner, and said, "We need to sober you up."

"No need," he smiled, "I am as awake as ever, and my words are as truthful as the fact that you killed her sister. The butterfly in your hand is not the one she seeks."

"There is only one sparkling butterfly in this world, and that is why the term is one of a kind," she said smugly. "So if I have the butterfly, then unfortunate for you, you don't."

He shoved his hand into his pocket, taking out a glittering butterfly-shaped hairpin. "Then what is this?"

"The fake one!" squealed Nadirah. "I mean," she cleared her throat, "The other one. Wait," she took a closer inspection of the butterfly in his hand and said, "This is the other one." She raised her head and stared questionably at Lord Ventris. "You don't have the real one."

The duke and the marchioness stiffened as they saw the ornamental in his hand, and it took a while for the marchioness to finally say, "Where did you get that?"

Vincent merely smiled. "Unfortunately for you, it is not one of a kind, and this is the one she seeks, and not the other."

They stared at the butterfly, and laughed. "You are delusional, Vincent. I never thought that a fine gentleman such as you could prove to be such a disgrace to the community."

He didn't flinch, and instead said, "If prove is what you seek, then we ought to ask for the confirmation from the lady herself."

"I don't think that's necessary," the marchioness answered primly. "The butterfly is not the main concern here."

"Then what is, pray tell, the main concern for holding him captivated aside from the reason you mentioned? Because I do not find the reason particularly satisfying, nor did the magistrate I don't think, and even if he thinks so, I could make him to think otherwise."

She didn't say a word, and instead held her chin high as she said, "Fine then, I'll take your word. But remember, if he were to cause chaos in this country, I would put the blame solely on you."

"Once again, my lady," he said coolly, "You'll have my word."

"I shall be dismissed," she flapped her fan open and started fanning herself, "This room is too stuffy, and possibly," she wrinkled her nose, "Stink."

Nadirah smelled herself impulsively, and watched the marchioness's departure in ambiguousness. "Should we stop her?"

Yet none of them said a thing, just trailing her steps with the corner of the eyes until she shut the door close.

If the wise choice for Lady Laura would be to hide from the witch, then she was too late to consider that option now. The marchioness was standing right in front of her, eyeing her up and down in a sneering smile, "I see that you are up and well, Lady Laura."

She bobbed a curtsy, politely murmured, "How do you do, my lady?"

"You nauseated me, do you know that?"

"Likewise, my lady," she said tactfully.

The marchioness grunted, pursing her lips as she retorted, "I will find out the secret of the butterfly, and you would be writhing in agony once I discover your secret, you'll see."

"I'll be waiting for the day to come," she answered, "If the day would come, that is."

"Your sister is much more negotiable."

"I am not she, in case you have gone senile."

The marchioness gritted her teeth. "You underestimated me, Laura. I will not allow such uncouth remarks to spat on my face fearlessly."

"It is not an uncouth remark," replied Laura simply, "It is what you called an insult."

Ikhwan could feel his heart nearly popping out, sizzling due to an unexplainable rage, much resembled the sensation he felt during his grandmother's uncontrollable wrath. And as he swiveled his attention to the rest of the corridor, he saw Vincent resting himself against the doorframe, discreetly eavesdropping on their conversation while effortlessly halting the duke's movement.

Terrifying.

He might as well be as terrifying as Danial.

Red-faced, the marchioness strode away from their presence while rapidly fanning herself with the lace fan. After she was no longer in their sight, Vincent released the duke from his clutches, enabling him to lock his eyes with Laura.

"Lady Laura," the duke said breathlessly, "Tell me that you are Lady Laura."

"I am Lady Laura, your grace," she bobbed a curtsy, "How nice it is to meet you."

"No," he strongly denied. "You are not she."

"I am she," she added, "But perhaps you confused me for another."

"No," his face was pale, "But where is she?"

"If my sister is who you seek, then I'm afraid she no longer exist, your grace," she answered pertly.

"This..." he licked his lips, "This is preposterous." He stormed out from the corridor, heading toward the center of the ballroom.

"That ought to do the trick," Ikhwan averted his gaze back at Laura, "Everything should fall in the right places by now."

"If you don't mind me," Vincent's voice was strangely sharp that the three heads couldn't help but instantly focus their attentions on him, "What are you doing here?"

"Perhaps the excuse of lost is no longer legible," Laura muttered.

"Not when you are accompanied by the unmentionable," he answered.

"Suffice to say, I was dragged by the leprechauns."

"Not entirely impossible, yet I find it hard to believe."

Ikhwan and Nadirah stared at the pair of beleaguered faces in much amusement.

"We need popcorns," commented Ikhwan.

"And two large sodas," Nadirah agreed.

"I never thought I would enjoy historical movie as much as this."

"Join the club," she grinned, "I would never have the same feeling when watching historical movies again."

"How twisted could they be," Vincent muttered, "I apologize for my hasty behavior, I was beyond thrilled to see you here."

"To say that I was dragged was a lie," she admitted. "I specifically requested for them to lead me towards their hideout. They heard quite something out of the ordinary."

"What more extraordinary could it be if not for the fact that a dear friend of mine is held captive for bearing the butterfly, all for the sake of threatening your life?"

"They heard that the butterfly would be bewitched, and I would fall under their spell as soon as I possess the butterfly. Ruthless of them to concoct such a thing, I wonder if my life is no more but a pinch of salt."

Vincent was tempted to argue over the comparison of her life, but decided not to since she had proven to be quite reckless and frank in her choice of words. And so he inquired, "How on earth could they bewitch such a thing?"

"I think, my lord," Ikhwan spoke to him for the first time since the encounter, "That the marchioness is not as normal as those people out there, but just as abnormal as you and I. If you were to think that she used black magic, well that's an interesting theory, but it wasn't true. She merely uses her mind power, the same way she killed Lady Laura's sister."

They didn't answer, and instead, waited for him to continue.

"She didn't need to slit one's throat to end one's life. If Lord Ventris wasn't there earlier, then by all means, I shudder to think of what would happen to Lady Laura. Her mind power was extremely lethal that it could fatal anyone that she desires," he swallowed, and continued. "I advise you to stay close to Lord Ventris, my lady, for that is the only current solution for maintaining your life."

"And the reason for our sudden appearance, my lord," Nadirah intervened before they could venture into the other topic, "Is that we are trying to delay the time when the butterfly would be manifested with the wrath. We have a subtle idea that you are confronting the culprits, and it would probably add more fuel to the duke's fire if he were to learn the truth," her voice was muffled as she added, "Hence, the reason for this meeting."

"Without the duke," said Ikhwan, "The marchioness couldn't concentrate on engulfing the butterfly with her mind power. Yet the duke is in deep agony, and from my observation, he wouldn't accompany the marchioness tonight. Instead, he would hide at his favorite hideout."

Vincent arched his brows. "You don't say."

"Yes, my lord," said Ikhwan. "He will surrender to the hypnotizing substance, making him extremely vulnerable tonight. And here's my proposition, if you don't mind."

Ikhwan peered out of the carriage, penetrating deep into the concrete wall of the splendor mansion. He averted his gaze back to the viscount and asked, "Should I enter first and make sure he's here?"

Vincent stared at the mansion for the longest time before answering, "That is not necessary. I have on good account that he indeed is here."

Ikhwan nodded, jumping down from the carriage and calculating his plan. "Have you been here, my lord?"

"Of course," he said casually, "But never as discreet. Nevertheless, you need not worry, I have everything in control, you," he cocked his head, "Just keep your word as being my shadow. Understand?"

"Understood," Ikhwan returned his notion with a lopsided grin. "I will be your phantom, my lord."

"Good," he lowered his voice, "We shall use the servant's backdoor. It connected right through the dungeon."

Ikhwan nodded, proceeding to perambulate the whole area, avoiding his hands from touching anything, with Vincent closely following him from behind. They reached the door in no time, and as Ikhwan touched the hallucinated door, he said, "I'll unlock this for you, but stay back, will you?"

He climbed into the house, up onto the second floor, just in time to see a maddening cat growling at him. "Hello, little kitten," he grinned, "Can you see me?"

The cat gritted its teeth at his shadow, growling ferociously. Ikhwan pinpointed the location of the key, and mockingly, he said to the cat, "Come and catch me."

He ran across the room, tauntingly aggravating the cat, and as the cat played tag along with him, the cat unconsciously rattled the key right next to her, her tail blown out with rage, tossing the key with its tail like the superb hockey player she was, out of the opened window.

"Nice shot, cat," said Ikhwan appraisingly. "Until next time," he headed for the window, "Although I don't think we both would like that."

He jumped from the window, and as the cat stared down from the second floor, she shied away from the spot, ascertaining on the option of potentially losing her life by the lower ground or the relinquishing the mocking grin of the bouncy poltergeist.

"I'm starting to wonder if you are actually a poltergeist in disguise."

"You gave me too many nicknames, my lord."

"You are an amusing creature after all."

"But I'm also a human," he grinned.

"I'll try to consider that," Lord Ventris said dryly, picking up the key from the wet ground, "How auspicious of you to have a cat and an open window at your service."

"If they didn't, then I'm afraid you need to be a cat burglar and break the window, my lord."

"Either way is fine," he entered the key into the keyhole, slowly unlatching the lock, "As long as we reach our goal."

He creaked open the door carefully, allowing Ikhwan to lead the way, and pocketed the key. The door led to the kitchen, which was thoroughly empty from any servants or that sort, and so they descended the servant's stair uninterrupted, occasionally slowing down to avoid any mishaps.

"The dungeon is down there," said Ikhwan, "There are no footmen guarding the place, and the keys are near to the lock-up, so I guess we'll be fine."

They reached the basement in no time, feasting their eyes with the dungeon, and Ikhwan was definitely at lost of words, because the only word he managed to utter was, "Cool."

Lord Ventris proceeded to lighten a candle, and began to torch his way toward the metal bar, stopping to observe the structures and planes of a face.

"Vincent," gasped the voice. "You have come."

"I couldn't possibly leave you here," he said, "I owe you your life." He turned his attention to Ikhwan, who was standing near the jumble of keys that was hanging on the wall. Vincent placed down the candle, and proceeded to grab the keys.

"It's the third one from the left of the handle," hinted Ikhwan.

Vincent obeyed his words, steadily thrusting the key into the hole. He slid the door open, stretching his hand toward Abdullah. "Come on."

"Am I safe, now?" asked Abdullah shakily.

"At the moment, yes," said Vincent, "But not any longer once Queensberry has returned."

They scrambled up the stairs, quietly crept out of the door and once they were safely tucked in their carriage, Abdullah said, "I am sorry, Vincent, but your butterfly was confiscated by the woman."

"I know which woman," he shoved his hand into his pocket and planted the butterfly on Abdullah's hand, "This is yours, I thanked you for lending it to me."

He stared at the butterfly, his mouth dry out of a sudden. "If I didn't mistakenly send you the other one, and naively went here to give you the real butterfly in person, we wouldn't have to endure such traumatic situation," he shuddered.

"Either way, you would end up here anyway," Vincent clamped his teeth. "You were here under the persuasion of the woman, weren't you?"

"Yes, but," he grimaced, "If I didn't send you the wrong one, everything would be fine."

"No," he chuckled sharply, "It is great that you send me the wrong one, or else I wouldn't have the upper hand," he glanced at Abdullah. "They wanted the butterfly. They thought that it was one of a kind. They knew that you had it, much more than they thought I had it. I apologize for endangering your life," he sighed, "Such troublesome people, they are."

"No," he shook his head. "It was I who disturb you first. I am dipping my toes in the piranha's lair from the start. It is not entirely your fault, as it is not entirely mine, since the one at fault here is the woman," he blinked. "It's the woman!" he whispered sharply, his eyes bulgingly terrified at a sight of a woman stepping down from a carriage, helped by his footman. She adjusted her cloak, and proceeded to enter the house.

"Where is the butterfly?" asked Ikhwan.

"Where is the butterfly?" echoed Lord Ventris, directing it toward Abdullah.

He swallowed, and said, "As I have mentioned, with the woman, and I believe she kept it under her possession. I wouldn't know for sure if she is carrying the butterfly at the moment."

Ikhwan jumped from the carriage, running toward the marchioness and daringly sniffing her around. He touched the train of her muslin dress with his finger, and it was like an electric jolt, running down his veins while cooperating with the adrenaline rush of discovering the necessity.

He released his finger, gasping at the terrifying marchioness who much resembled his grandmother in term of wrath, yet exhilarated he was for acquiring exquisite information, so he swiveled around to return to the carriage, before suddenly noticing a hidden carriage from afar that was much too familiar to his eyes.

Laura and Nadirah had done doing their errand, and they had conveniently hidden themselves from the marchioness's view.

Ikhwan hurried himself toward Vincent's carriage, gasping as he provided the information, "She has it with her. I think she's going to curse it tonight. And," he swallowed, "Lady Laura and Nadirah has arrived."

Vincent exhaled a sharp breath, focusing his attention fully to Abdullah. "You would listen to me, right?"

He nodded vigorously.

"Here is what you have to do."

Ikhwan knew that he wasn't required to stop his breathing in order to avoid his presence being sensed by the marchioness, but the intensity of the situation prompted him to do the notion, instinctively sucking his breath when he saw the marchioness leisurely sitting in the drawing room.

"I can't breathe," Nadirah gasped, "I'm too tense."

"You don't need to breathe," such hypocrite he was, but no matter, "Just enjoy the movie."

Few seconds passed, when the door to the drawing room creaked open, revealing a stunning figure of an aged man that belonged to the Duke of Queensberry, hostility clearly shown on his face. "My dear Helena, to what do I owe you this visit?"

"If you are anticipating for a warm consolation from me, Simon, then you might as well forget about our deal," she snarled. "You know as much as I that Vincent's sanity has gone questionably distorted, and do I look like a murderer to you? The sister of your beloved was proven to be a suicide case, which had nothing to do with me whatsoever," she flapped her lace fan open and furiously fanning herself. "Laura is such an accomplish actress, I shall refer her to the theatricals, after all. The place should suit well for a whore such as she."

The duke's face was contorted with anger, but he braced himself, steadily said, "I shall not permit you to say such a thing, Helena, but I will let it go for once. After all, your reason is impeccably strong that nothing could penetrate the depth of your reasoning."

"Exactly," her eyes glimmered, "I have been trying to get my point across for ages, and I am proud to be notified that your thick head has finally mastered my point," she beamed, gently fanning herself with flair. "I have no intention to end the life of the little minx, just a little spank in the head would suffice, and that's why we need to uncover the secret of the butterfly. Now, where is the prisoner?"

"In the dungeon, Helena, but pardon me," he hesitated, "Why do you insist that the butterfly bears the secret for Laura's unique feature?"

"Don't you see?" she smiled sweetly. "My rage has gone controllably tame since my discovery of the butterfly, and for her to desperately search for the thing, it must have meant quite a lot more than anything. What else did she hold dear in this life, if not for her ability? She is such a selfish little minx," she sighed, "But all the better. We need to diminish her power. It would be such a lethal thing if she were to pursue it further."

"What would happen, Helena? Surely, you would know?"

"Of course," she said impatiently, "Her illusions would come true, and it would be too late for us, too late, you see? She could visualize herself as the Queen of England, she could even visualize yourself as her footman. Do you want that? I sincerely don't want that, yet it would be my dream to trade my rage with her," she snickered, "And gain the ability in return."

"I never knew that your deepest desire is to create your own monarchy."

"Reign is not my deepest desire," she said simply, "I just hate to see someone gaining something that she didn't deserve."

"Oh, if you ask me, Lady Laura deserves everything in the world," he grinned. "She is a precious little thing."

"Of course you would," she looked at him distastefully. "You can have your share of her, once I have wounded her. No need to worry, now," she smiled, "Escort me to the dungeon, I couldn't afford to waste more of my precious time."

The duke smiled as the marchioness rested her hand on his arm, escorting her down to the dungeon, with Ikhwan and Nadirah following them closely behind. The duke lightened a candle, placing it on the floor and sniggered at the poor man. "Hello there, how are you holding up yourself?"

Abdullah opted not to speak, his face wiped out from any expression whatsoever.

"Such an unsocial person you are, aren't you?" he laughed. "Trust me, my boy, it won't last for long," he whispered devilishly, "Not when this lady is here."

The marchioness smiled smugly, fluttering her fan about as she said, "I tend not to believe in mystical things, but now I do. This butterfly," mystically challenged herself, she magically produced a butterfly that reminded them of the original one from behind her fan, no, it was exactly the original one, "Is absolutely enigmatical. Don't you agree, Simon?"

"Why, of course," he grinned. "One of a kind." Then, as if realizing something, he hesitated, "Actually, no?" He abruptly shifted his attention to Abdullah, "It is not one of a kind, is it not?"

Abdullah's lips were probably heavy due to his overlong silence, but then he admitted defeat. "It is not."

"How is that possible?" the duke's eyes widened. "I was informed that the one you possessed is not the original!"

"Depends on your definition of original."

"And what is my definition of original?" he asked, clueless.

"I wouldn't know."

"Tell me," the marchioness strode in front of him until he was only merely inches away, "Is this not the one that belongs to Lady Laura?"

"I'm afraid I have no idea to the person who named Lady Laura."

"Preposterous," she bellowed, "This was specifically made for her!"

"Ah," he nodded. "That is true. The butterfly was specifically made for a British Lady."

"Then, is this the one?"

"Part of it," he answered. "The butterflies are twins."

"Twins?" she creased her brows. "That can't be true."

"I wouldn't lie," he said gravely, "Especially in a situation as severe as this."

"He wouldn't lie," the duke nodded approvingly. "I can see it in his eyes."

"I didn't know that you are an expert in reading one's eyes."

"It's a male intuition," he said haughtily, "A famine like you wouldn't understand."

She crossed her arms, stomping her feet angrily. "Queensberry."

"Yes, madame?"

She stared grudgingly at her, her eyes narrowed into a slit, feline like the rebellious cat, "It is time for you to pay a visit to the delusional viscount."

"I don't think that is necessary, Helena."

Her jaws dropped in disbelief, stomping her feet furiously at the hard floor. "Have you been sucking nitrous oxide, Simon?" she sniffed him, and wrinkled her nose.

"Only a tiny bit," he laughed.

"A tiny bit," she scoffed, "I wouldn't know your definition of tiny bit would refer to how many bags."

"Like I said, only a little, but even if I didn't smoke, my reply would remain the same."

"You owe me an explanation, Simon," she said icily. "Or our deal would be off."

"Oh, it won't, for I have exceeded your expectation," he said triumphantly, shoving his hand into his pocket, "Look at what I have here." The butterfly hairpin dangled in his hand, as he grinned wickedly, "Vincent's hairpin, isn't it?"

She gasped, walking forward for a closer inspection.

The duke laughed. "I see that for once your wits have betrayed its master."

She abruptly strengthened herself, even if her eyes were still struck on the butterfly. "You have done well as my accomplice, Simon."

"Glad to be on service, the other butterfly, if I may compare?" he raised his brows.

"Of course," she smiled, handing the butterfly to his hand. "Such remarkable pieces, I envy the skill of the craftsman."

"The person would be me," said Abdullah lazily. "I am the one who made those things."

"Indeed you did," her eyes glimmered with devious glint, as she continued, "Now that the two of the butterflies are here, I expect there is no other reason for you to pursue your secretive side any longer."

"The Pandora box will be opened soon," said Nadirah excitedly.

"Seems so," Ikhwan was equally excited, "She is expectedly gullible."

They exchanged their idiotic grin, and focused their utmost concentration on the rolling movie. It was hard to see the exact expression that was portrayed on Abdullah's face, but his voice was loud and clear as he said, "I'm afraid there is no way out, and if Lord Ventris decided to lend his jewel to you, then it must have meant that he didn't mind the outcome."

"Vincent is not like what you think he is," she said menacingly. "You would fare better if you were to avoid him entirely."

"But I quite like the man," said the duke.

She scowled. "He wouldn't like you as much after this, so you ought not to waste your time." She didn't wait to hear for his retort, and instead she stared intently at the prisoner, "Tell me, I'm all ears."

"As you say so," Abdullah said. "The butterflies, if it were to lock together, every bit of your wish would come true."

"Laura wished for her to gain control of illusion?"

"Fantasy is often better than reality," he answered, "What's better than to make the fantasy a reality?"

"Such a conceited girl," she retorted. "I'm thinking that her ability is running out, so she ordered you to create a new set of twins."

"More or less," he answered grimly, "The production took longer than I expected, and that is why I am here, to hand it in person to the lady's servant."

"Ah, the servant," she nodded approvingly, "To maintain her reputation, I see."

"Poor Lady Laura," the duke shook her head, "Nonetheless, her reputation remained tarnished, what's with the mighty scandal."

"Better tarnished than thoroughly destroyed, however," her eyes exquisitely curious, "Foolish Vincent must have been under her spell."

"I wouldn't know," answered Abdullah.

She waved her hand airily. "Not my concern, for now I am more interested in fulfilling my dreams."

"If your words are proven wrong, mister," said the duke warningly, "I guarantee you wouldn't escape alive."

"I wouldn't dream of lying," he said murkily. "Very well, I will explain the ritual. However, for the ritual to become effective, the one in need shouldn't touch the butterflies, for he needs to stare continuously at them, but the eyes must be on the same level with the butterflies, or else the magic wouldn't happen."

"Simon," she ordered, "Hold the butterflies until they are on the same level as my eyes."

He obeyed her words, holding it rigidly in front of her eyes.

"You need to utter aloud of your deepest desire."

"Is that compulsory?"

"Yes, it is necessary."

She gussied herself, and said loud and clear, "I want Laura to be stripped from every honor or specialty she may possess."

"That is not possible," Abdullah said blatantly.

She arched her brows.

"The first wish is supposed to be for your own welfare, while the second and the third are vacant for the people in your mind. So if you would kindly provide your deepest desire for the sake of yourself, then by all means, say it and it would come true."

She thought for a while, and answered, "I am the Queen, I have my own court, and my people wouldn't call me 'my lady', instead they would pamper me with 'your majesty'—"

It was nauseating to hear, and Ikhwan was glad when Abdullah said, "Imagine you are a queen, and where are you located at?"

"The Queen's drawing room, of course."

"The Queen's drawing room," he echoed. "Of course. I need you to close your eyes, and after I finished counting to three, you would open your eyes, and you would find yourself crowned as Queen Helena."

Excitement conquered her soul, and so, she closed her eyes tightly, her ears perking up to Abdullah's voice.

"One," the marchioness's chest was heaving heavily, "Two," the duke had escaped, carrying the butterflies with him toward Vincent's carriage, "Three."

The marchioness's eyes flew open, and she gasped as her eyes feasted on the immaculately decorated pink and crème drawing room, everything exquisite to the touch, magnificent to the eyes, ludicrous to comprehend.

"I am a queen," the marchioness gasped, staring down at her adorned fingers with multiple jewelries, "I am really a queen!"

"Not so fast," said Ikhwan. "You have yet to overcome the trial."

chapter 11

The marchioness, or the queen, well, plain to say, Helena, stared at Ikhwan and Nadirah with her utmost dumbstruck expression, her lips taut from further retort.

"How can you withstand of being a queen if such a surprise knocks you senseless?" Nadirah clicked her tongue in mockery. "How disappointing, I would have expected that the next victim not to be as frivolous."

"I am not," answered Helena indignantly. "I am merely taking precautions. So trials," she held her chin high, "Is it compulsory?"

"Of course," Ikhwan smiled. "If you were to succeed, all of this glory," he cocked his head toward the magnificent drawing room, "Will be yours, your majesty."

She was flattered, and it was apparent in her voice. "I expect the two of you are the guardians of the butterflies."

"Yes," said Nadirah warily, "And that is why there are two of us...because there are two of...those."

"Indeed," she nodded. "Now tell me, what should I endure in order to gain what is mine?"

"She should marry a king in the first place instead of a marquis," Nadirah rolled her eyes, speaking intelligibly for Helena's ears. She grabbed a mirror, placing it into Helena's hand. "I advise you to stay calm."

Helena looked down on the mirror, and let out a huge scream.

"I thought I've told you to stay calm," Nadirah narrowed her eyes.

"This is not my face!" she swatted the mirror at Nadirah, "This mirror is defective! I demand for a new one, a new one!"

Ikhwan smiled, holding another similarly ornate black mirror to her face.

Once again, she let out a mighty howl.

"Wha-what is happening? Why is my face—"

"Distorted?" Nadirah regarded her choice of word, and retorted, "No, hideous than distorted to be honest, which is still remarkably fine compared to not having a nose at the center."

"My face is full with wrinkles!" her voice had gone out of control, "Bumps, rashes, flakes, what's with this lots!" she reluctantly touched her face, and let out a piercing scream. "What have you done to my face?"

"In case you have forgotten, your majesty," Ikhwan said coolly, "You are currently undergoing a trial."

"A trial?"

"A trial," he smiled. "Are you ready, your majesty?"

"This is not real, isn't it?" she asked wearily. "This is just an illusion, right?"

Ikhwan deeply ruminated the theory, and answered truthfully, "It is just an illusion."

"Everything would go back to normal once the trial is over, right?"

He smiled devilishly. "If you failed, your majesty, then I'm afraid your nightmare is reality."

"Wha—"

"So what would it be?" he asked daringly. "Succeed, and the crown will be yours. Fail, and I'm afraid you would be the town's laughingstock."

She licked her lips, her mouth dry out of a sudden.

"Surely, you wouldn't descend to defeat, your majesty," said Nadirah dryly, "Even a person like Lady Laura could overcome the trial, much less," she roamed her eyes toward Helena from hair to toe, "You."

The name Laura rang a bell in her head, and she laughed mockingly. "I would never lose to her."

"I wonder," Nadirah raised her brows.

"Never," she said scathingly.

"Prove it."

She stared at Nadirah deeply in the eyes, her voice loud and clear as she said, "I will overcome this trial, and I will indulge in my victory. Take my word, my victory would be much sweeter than Laura's ever had."

"Point taken," Nadirah smiled. "Then by all means, follow us your majesty, with extreme silence. You are not required to speak, not unless we ordered you so."

"Yes."

"We would be giving you objectives," Ikhwan interceded, "And your mission is to complete the objectives. Are we clear?"

"Yes."

"Good," Ikhwan nodded approvingly. "You have proven to be quite easy to manage, so I thank you for easing the difficulty in our task."

"Pleasures all mine, at least," she cocked an inquisitive eyebrow, "I am better than Laura?"

"Much better," they grinned, simultaneously commented, "Much, much better."

By then, the sun had risen and the damp land wasn't as gloomy, not as gray as when they retired to Helena's carriage in order to return to her place.

Nevertheless, Ikhwan said to Helena, "It is time for you to approach the lights."

"The lights?" she said in horror, halting her pace, which was nice, because all she had done for the past minutes were pacing back and forth in her bedchamber, "In this kind of state? Never!"

Ikhwan solemnly sighed, mercilessly taking out a parchment and was about to scratch it with a quill when Helena suddenly said, "Fine. The trial, I have forgotten."

"Not wise of you to be quite amnesic your majesty," Ikhwan rolled his parchment and safely tucked in back in his pocket, "Or else your monarchy would crumble before you could reign."

The words attacked her brain, prompted her to reply, "I would prove to you, and everyone that I am capable of dethroning even King Regent. You'll see."

If her name was Victoria, then perhaps Ikhwan could see.

Yet the era after the Regency wasn't the Helenian, it was indeed the Victorian, so safely to say, if they didn't overly perfecting the history to the point that they alter it, then the Helenian Era might as well not exist in the history book.

"Time for you to dress up, your majesty," said Nadirah. "Today I will be acting as your lady's maid," Nadirah regarded her words, and quickly amended, "I mean, your queen's maid," she laughed jokingly, "In preparation for your coronation."

She had the mistake of staring into the amused eyes of Ikhwan, and once again, quickly amended, "I mean, in preparation for the public's impression of you being the Queen, and how your wits would fare in terms of counterattacking the ferocious citizens."

Helena didn't waver, and instead she retorted, "Fine, we'll see how they fare in terms of counterattacking me."

"Coronation?" he echoed, low enough to become intelligible to the ears of Helena.

"I went too far," she grinned shamefully. "It would be nice if it was a coronation."

"We don't have much time to prepare."

"Exactly," she pointed at the door. "Neither do the Queen and I, so if you could kindly leave—"

"Gladly, servant," he snickered, and still hanging on the doorframe, he said to Helena, "She will attend to your needs, in the mean time, I would prepare for necessities, so if you will excuse me—"

Nadirah abruptly closed the door with a mighty force, might due to her rage of blatantly calling her a servant.

Grin still hadn't washed from his face, he descended the stairs, passing the butler and headed toward the carriage, located a few steps from Helena's doorsteps.

"Such a shabby carriage," Ikhwan skimmed the worn fabric with his hand, his lips quirked into a smile as he remarked, "I didn't know that you would go that far in renting a coach."

"When you have the power and wealth," Vincent said grimly, "Everything is too far." He examined Ikhwan with his silver piercing eyes, "You will understand, once you live on yourself."

He nodded. "I'm not legal yet," he shrugged. "I can't even vote, or even get driving license."

"Well, when you do," he said simply, blatantly ignoring the incomprehensive part, "You will learn to be responsible, but for this time," he said seriously, "I will hold responsible for anything that would happen to the marchioness."

"It might seem uncouth of us to disappear when the situation deems for it," Ikhwan admitted, "But believe me, the time in this age is not in our hands. We don't control the time machine, you see."

"I give you my word," he stroked the nape of the horse, "Everything would be fine once you have returned, so you need not worry. For now, just concentrate on your task."

"Aye, I have it under control," he grinned. "We'll be returning to your house in no time, providing you provide us with a coachman." He stared at the horse, and the horse blinked back at him, "Hello, horse. I don't wish to spank you in order for you to move."

"It would be odd if one was to see an invisible force driving the horse up to the wall, yet it would be a nice sweetener to our plan."

"I can't drive."

He smiled.

"I need to drive?" he asked, flabbergasted.

His smile went wider. "Good luck." Vincent left the place, and proceeded to climb into his own carriage.

Ikhwan grew speechless as he watched Vincent's carriage went out of reach, and still paled with shock, he stared at the horse, "Have mercy on me, horse."

He thought he saw its smile.

Why didn't he think of studying the facial expression of animals? It would prove to be quite useful in situations like this.

He walked toward the front of the horse, until he was exactly in the center of the two horses, and said "You'll listen to me, right?"

The horses neighed, which sounded like good news to his ears.

"A sovereign for a job well done," he grinned.

The horses clapped their hooves, agreeing with his words.

"You shall claim it from Lord Ventris," his grin grew wicked, "Got it?"

He thought he saw the horses nodded.

He never thought he would love animals, but recent encounters had really soften his heart, and he wondered if it would only happen in this age and not in the real time.

He climbed on the phaeton, intrigued by the sensation, and carefully touched the reins. "I see," he murmured. "Is that how you do it?"

The horses clapped their hooves again, much to Ikhwan's pleasure.

"How shrewd, I'm going to drive an opened carriage," he considered his words, "More credits to me."

The front door creaked open, and Ikhwan halted his tongue before any of those foolish self-appreciation words could see the world.

"What...is...that?" Helena's eyes widened as her eyes roamed the shabby opened carriage, which might as well belong to the dump.

More so, Ikhwan was amused on how his initial reaction was similar to Helena, for he too wondered what on earth was the creature dressed in the most hideous ensemble.

"Through your eyes," Nadirah's voice was filled with wisdom, "It might have looked like a shabby carriage, but I assure you, through the citizens' eyes, it is the most luxurious carriage they've ever seen. Remnants of gold, flecks of diamonds," she sighed. "Remember your majesty, it is part of the trial, and part of the trial is for you to detect the ugliness underneath the beauty."

"I have no ugliness within me," she said briskly. "But I shall evaluate the level of ugliness in others."

Helena might not notice the feline eyes from Ikhwan and Nadirah, but she noticed the dreamy look on Ikhwan's face.

"What's with you?" she swatted him with her lace fan.

"My pleasure to be escorting the future queen, your majesty," he bluffed, his hands still stuck on the reins, "Always a pleasure."

She creased her brows, but decided not to dwell much further into the complicated minds of the guardians. Nadirah lent Helena her hand in stepping up the carriage, and once they had settled, Ikhwan said, "Prepare to be enchanted, Queen Helena."

He yanked the horses forward, and in respect to their driver, the horses started to run, their steps clip-clop against the hard ground.

"I didn't know that you can drive a carriage," said Nadirah, impressed.

He flashed a secretive smile, much to her belligerence.

They drove to a busy area, of what seemed to fit the description of Stamford.

But then again, he could be wrong.

Nonetheless, it was packed with people, which meant all the better, so Ikhwan yanked the horses' halt, just in time for an equally plump woman to reinforce her attack. "My dear Helena, what happened to you?"

"You are in no place to talk!" she snapped. "And I look fine, mighty fine."

The woman was taken aback by the lecherous tone, but quickly recovered herself and inquired curiously, "Have you knocked yourself on the head?"

Helena climbed down from the carriage without the help from Nadirah, and held her chin high. "The question appropriately asks will be, have _you_ knock yourself on the head?"

"Funny," Ikhwan murmured, "Not the queen I have in mind." He took his parchment, and as he began to scratch with his quill, Helena quickly amended, "Why did you disregard me so?"

The woman laughed, pointing at Helena. "Look at your garb, and your carriage! You look like a gently-bred peasant!"

Ikhwan and Nadirah stifled a chortle, watching their plot unraveled before their eyes.

"A peasant's life should be embraced in order to understand the true misery of a peasant."

"Is that so?" the woman cocked an eyebrow. "I never knew that you are so..." she clicked her tongue, "Kind."

"To see the ugliness," she said sagely, "One must see underneath the flamboyant beauty."

"Is that why you are clad in such ugliness? Because ugliness is certainly you."

"Under my ugliness," she said triumphantly, "There is my beauty."

"Good luck for those who could see it," she shrugged, "For the ugliness definitely overwhelmed the beauty, and I couldn't even see a mere fraction of it."

Helena was enraged and tempted to tear the woman's garment away, but she controlled her fury and coolly replied, "Shame on you, I never knew your eyes are that shady."

Helena was definitely better than they thought.

"Helena," she laughed wholeheartedly, "Sotted, aren't you?"

She was tempted to counter with an equally witty reply, but the parchment obviously made such a great impact on her head, since she only snorted, "What do you mean?"

"You ride in a carriage," the woman cringed, but recovered herself, "Alone!"

"I am in good hands, so you need not worry."

"I worry about your sanity," she offered her arm, "Perhaps a nice cup of tea would ease your mind."

"I believe the time couldn't make an exception for a mere tea," she stared coldly at the offered arm, "I'm afraid I need to decline."

The woman blinked. "You are certainly feverish."

"Then you shall leave, for I fear for the infectious of my disease."

She shuddered. "I wouldn't dream of it. Until then, Helena," she quickly strode away, without any farewell gesture.

Helena watched the figure of the woman slowly leaving her side, and after the coast was clear, she climbed on her carriage again. "Drive," she commanded.

"Why?"

She fidgeted, and said, "I have an inquiry."

Ikhwan obeyed, the horses ran toward the outskirt of the city, and once they have landed on a secluded place, she asked, "Am I led to believe that none could see you?"

"Guardians of the butterflies," Nadirah scoffed. "You should have known."

"So it is," she nodded. "Yet what am I supposed to do at the place?"

"Before we were kindly interrupted by the lady," said Ikhwan, "The objective was supposed to concern the place, but it is unwise to go back."

"How is it so?"

"We have conveniently fled the scene, the objective would vanish."

She said nothing.

"The objective, I'm afraid, will concern this place," he yanked the horses in front of a homely cottage, humbly decorated and thoroughly...wrecked.

"What am I supposed to do with the place?"

"What would a Queen do with this place?" Nadirah raised her brows, "Razed?"

She stopped, and said with much uncertainty, "Tentative at the moment, but I expect I will learn more if I were to investigate further." She nervously glanced at the place, occasionally flinching at the sudden sound of rustling.

"Do not worry, your majesty," Ikhwan smiled, "We are here."

"Yet we can't do anything if things were to happen," added Nadirah. "We are nothing but guardians."

She roamed the place with her eyes, her voice shaky as she said, "I know this place."

With a flick of a finger, an illusion of Lady Laura, or was it her sister, came to life.

Helena let out a huge yelped, staggering on the doorframe, "Wh-why is she here?"

"Who is she?" Nadirah's eyes squinted at the figure.

"One of the twins, I don't know!" her tone was hysterical. "I never could tell them apart anyway!"

"Surely, now you have no problems whatsoever?"

"Of course," she spat, "The sister is here no more!"

Nadirah pointed her finger at the figure, quite unladylike for her, "But she is there."

"No!" she screamed, proceeding to confront the illusion, "No, you are not real!"

True to her words, the illusion was not real, yet somehow it could turn its head and said, "I am real."

Helena staggered backwards, her heart pounding as she said, "No, no," she gasped. "This is your trick," she laughed maniacally, "Your trick, is it not? The ugliness, my ugliness, this is my ugliness." She swallowed. "I have much ugliness, and I need to improve that in order to become the Queen."

"Much scandalize if the truth were out in the open. You might get dethrone as fast as you gain the throne."

"I wasn't intended on killing you," she confessed, too fast to comprehend, but it wasn't as intelligible, "It just happened!"

"Yet you think of it."

"Yes I do!" she gritted her teeth. "For you was one of the most loathsome people on earth to ever grace the world! Your ability and presence was too much for me to bear, you might as well wipe from my sight!"

"But it is not me," the illusion said, "It is my sister."

"Nonetheless, you," she jabbed at her, "And her, are the same."

"You would kill her too?" the voice was adamant, yet bitterly passive.

"If situation deems for such a thing, I would!"

"Then I'm afraid I need to kill you first."

The illusion grabbed a blunt knife, and as cold-blooded as a ruffian, she stabbed Helena without further ado. Gasping, Helena's eyes abruptly flew downwards, and at the sight of the flowing blood drenching her skirt, the stench quickly manifested the whole room until it smelled everything but heavenly. She collapsed, breathing haggardly against the rough floor.

"Did we go too far?" asked Nadirah.

Ikhwan reflected on the thought, and said, "Not quite."

Helena fluttered her eyelids open, and abruptly, it went wide.

"You're awake," Ikhwan said lazily, skimming his parchment. "Not quite satisfying, my lady, I'm disappointed."

"M-my lady?" she stammered. "I have been downgraded?"

"No," he shrugged. "You are merely the marchioness, not the queen."

"I have failed?" her lips trembling, paled with fright.

"Fail," he considered, "Well, the first trial at least."

"There is more?"

"Three," he supplied. "Two if you failed, three if you passed the second trial. Are you ready?"

"I don't understand," her voice trembled, "Why am I being coerced like so?"

"In order to become a _phenomenon_ my lady, one needs to understand oneself truly more than others."

"But I understand myself more than others!"

"Is that so?" Ikhwan creased his brows. "Then perhaps you understand the beauty of yourself and not the ugliness, for your mind insisted that ugliness doesn't exist in yourself."

"No?" her tone was wary.

"Next trial, Helena," Ikhwan said simply. "I wish you the greatest luck."

It was nice being the boss, Ikhwan thought, especially when you were bossing a marchioness.

The scenery changed with a flick of finger, and Helena found herself standing in a masquerade ball in London, her eyes hid behind a fluffy feathery mask, yet it didn't conceal the terrifying fury that lied behind in her mind.

Something was amiss.

If the person with the guise was her, then who was the person who was looking at her?

She stared down, and flummoxed with the whole situation, raised her head to see the woman in the ensemble.

That was also her, but...

"Different timeline, my lady," answered Ikhwan. "I gave you much credit. I thought you are smarter than that."

She abruptly averted her gaze at him, opening her mouth to speak, yet quickly closed as Ikhwan intervened, "Don't miss the play, my lady. You couldn't afford to fail any longer."

She opted not to speak, and concentrated her attention back to herself.

Lonely was not her. She had her friends, the Duke of Queensberry on her side, the plump yet glorified Countess of Ashbourne on her other side, plus, an army of minions for her aid.

Despite how Lady Ashbourne was probably the chattiest person of the ton, she wasn't as enemy of hers. Thus, perhaps Helena would be exempted from being the laughingstock of the town, since Lady Ashbourne couldn't possibly spill the secrets of her mingling around town, cladded in that ugly garbs of hers, couldn't she?

Yet if she were to fail the trial, she would certainly be the laughingstock of the town, probably wearing the shabbiest clothes for eternity, which no doubt matched terrifically well with her shabby personality, hidden thoroughly behind her high confidence character.

She began to consider whether her confidence was gained from those luxurious garments.

It was hard not to detect the narrow slits of eyes behind the mask, and as Helena pondered for the reason, her eyes fell upon a certain teenage girl in a leprechaun outfit. Teenage girl, no more than fourteen, was not the most attractive person her eyes ever laid on, which might due to her horrendous costume, yet she sparkled amongst the crowd, and she couldn't help but notice that everyone's attention poured on her instead of her majestic self.

Helena glanced back at her younger self, noticing the infuriating rage building immensely inside of her, not realizing that her dear plump friend was feeling quite out of the contrary.

"I need to go," said young Helena behind her gritted teeth, storming away from her friends without another word.

"Where to—" Lady Ashbourne coughed, and once her figure was no longer on scene, Helena noticed that her friend had gone well.

Trembling, Helena scattered around the ballroom, trying to find remnants of the butterflies' guardians.

"Searching for me, Helena?" asked Ikhwan tauntingly.

"I don't understand—"

"Exactly. You don't understand yourself."

"Then—"

"You should understand yourself."

Her lips quivered, "I shall find myself."

She ran toward the corridor, her steps halted as she heard her own voice quarreling with a child.

She staggered, advancing her steps slowly until her eyes were enlightened with the memories in her head.

"I demand you to do what you did to her to me!"

"I did nothing!" the leprechaun shouted in fright, trying to release herself from her clutch.

"Lies! I saw you dissolving her fury with that power of yours! You must—"

"It wasn't me!" she ran, leaving young Helena in supreme outrage.

Nadirah popped in, staring at the furious young marchioness. "Well of course, the one who could do that was Lady Laura. That," she deliberately stared into nothingness, "Was not her."

The younger Helena clutched her knuckles tightly, her veins nearly bursting from the porcelain skin. She swore under her breath, deeply thinking—

"I will make her suffer, for disobeying me," Helena bit her lips, reciting her old words. Remembering, she admitted, "I do make her suffer, instead of Laura. I made her suffer, for Laura didn't disobey me. Her sister did." For the longest time she said nothing, but abruptly continued, "Laura's illusions are indeed phenomenal. The potential it carries is terrifying. I have wronged her, she must be thinking of vengeance, and before she could unleash her revenge, I shall do the same first." She swallowed. "I shall become the Queen and extinct her existence, for what good would her existence bring if she would only prove to be a rebellious disaster? She outshined me, she denied me, and she didn't deserve to live." She paused again, her head swiveling the place for the presence of Ikhwan. "But now, I began to think, I don't want the power of being a Queen. I don't want to strip Laura from her power. What I do want, is for my wrath to be outstripped from me, for I fear for it to consume for soul, to consume everyone I loved," her voice muffled, unable to contain her sob, thus lowering it into a barely audible volume, "That is what I want, always have, always will."

Ikhwan smiled mischievously. "Congratulations, you have passed the second trial."

The entire scenery vanished after the last syllable was enunciated, leaving Helena feeling quite queasy. "If I pass the last trial, I would be the Queen?"

"No," he shook his head, "Simply, your wish would come true."

"My wish," she muttered. "I wish that the wrath would strip away from my life, and the life would retain its original state."

"Yet if your third trial failed, you will live your life like this," he flicked his fingers, and automatically, she was in the park, wearing her shabbiest ensemble with countless staring, "For eternity."

The stares began to evolve, resembling huge laughter, deafening Helena's ears.

She swallowed convulsively, eyeing Ikhwan for mercy. "What should I do?"

"What should you do, to gain your wish?"

She licked her lips. "Laura."

At once, Helena ran before he could utter another word, ignoring the insulting remarks from the passersby. However, as much as she tried to concentrate her mind on her goal, she couldn't miss the frantic whisperings, and out of a sudden, the whisperings sounded full blast on her ears.

"So the rumors are true, she really is out of her mind..."

"Maybe the rumors that she killed her husband is really true, she is too sotted to be taken seriously..."

"I will never invite her to my parties again!"

She ran and she ran, until the voices were no longer audible to her ears. The voices in her mind, which was usually monotonous in accusing her of her crimes, of murdering her husband and Clarissa, while unintentionally, wasn't as lecherous as this. The thought of countless of mouths muttering insults wherever she went shuddered her, even more so when she knew that she indeed was the reason for the deaths.

She knew that Clarissa was unwilling to aid her in her attempt of avoiding tormenting her husband any further, but she did intentionally let her rage out of control, all due to her annoyance with Clarissa's reluctant cooperation.

Clarissa's death was quite intentional as well. She might not want to cooperate, so she might as well die.

Helena didn't know what possessed her to think into such a crude way, but what was done had already done, and now, repairing the massive lacuna that she had created was what she needed to do.

She arrived at the front door of Laura's house, gasping for breath. She reached for the door, when it suddenly flew open by its own.

"My lady," said Avery. "What a lovely surprise."

"I wonder if Mr. Ventris will be fine with the marchioness." Nadirah fidgeted against the soft cushioned sofa in the Ventris's drawing room, all the while gawking at the spectacular golden and forest green walls that much resembled an emerald on a gold band. "He's such an agitated old man."

"If he's old, then what am I?" asked Vincent amusedly.

"You are a dashing young-by-heart man, he is an agitated old-by-heart man," she grinned. "I should have made myself clear, but I haven't been clear for the past..." she blinked. "Well, I haven't been clear for quite a long time."

"She has been extremely clear when we were coercing Queensberry," Lady Laura beamed, "Such a witty brain. Her memorizing ability definitely came in handy during my impersonation of him last night."

"He was heavily intoxicated with nitrous oxide. He wouldn't remember the bewitching in our part, and we need all the information in order to execute Ikhwan's plan."

"Yes, I am the true genius," Ikhwan's self-proclaimed statement invited a beleaguered look from Nadirah, so he added, "It's true, my plan in cornering the marchioness is outright genius." He stumbled in his seat, as he caught another beleaguering look from Vincent, "Of course, it wouldn't be without Lady Laura's flawless illusions."

"Yet true as it is, if Lord Ventris didn't nurture my ability to the greatest potential, we wouldn't be here."

"Yet, if Avery wasn't here to become the ear to the marchioness's guilty nagging, we wouldn't be in my drawing room."

There was a silence and a vexing stare exchanging between the two, so Nadirah decided to break the ice by remarking, "We should proud ourselves for contributing much help to the world by avoiding this land being reign by Queen Helena instead of Queen Victoria—"

"Where is Abdullah?" asked Ikhwan, quickly shutting Nadirah's vault of secrets from the future, "I hope he hasn't returned to his homeland yet."

"No, he was evaluating whether the butterfly was the fated item, or was it the other."

"The other being..."

"The dungeon's lock," Vincent said doubtfully, "Apparently his beloved is not the sort to accept courteous items. She is more of an adventurous sort."

"I am also an adventurous sort," Laura interjected.

"Yet you accept the butterfly all the same."

"I am adventurous regarding to nature," she said dramatically, "Abdullah's beloved is probably adventurous to a highly different matter."

"I am glad that your interest is in nature and nothing too extravagant."

"And what if I am?"

"Then I would surely worry about your welfare, my lady," he said devilishly, "If you were to be surrounded with chains instead of leaves, then I'm afraid I need to chain you with my own lock."

It was uncalled for, and Ikhwan and Nadirah shivered as if it was hailing on the top of their heads.

"Well," Laura definitely could sense the bizarre tinge in his words, "If he decided to leave the butterfly with us, what will we do with it?" she stared at the two poltergeists. "I have never known the reason for your utmost effort and perseverance in discovering the ornamental."

Ikhwan exchanged glances with Nadirah, and spoke earnestly, "Quite bizarre for me to utter this aloud, my lady, but I sincerely did not have an idea at first."

"And now?" Vincent raised his brows.

"Perhaps a small wild guess."

"And the guess being?"

He considered his answer, and replied, "My grandmother suffers the same wrath as the marchioness. The butterfly was hers during the earliest of her adolescent life, yet it was stolen years ago by an unnamed thief." Not true, but he didn't have any decisive evidence either. "She ordered my brother to retrieve the butterfly, and he successfully tracked it, yet it wasn't the one she sought, it wasn't the one we concocted. I was hidden from the fact, yet I knew nonetheless, and so I was apprehended when my grandmother ordered me to search for the butterfly. I wanted to know the reason for her desperate measure. Truthfully, my investigation went nowhere at the moment, and I have yet to crack her motive."

"Is that so?" Laura clasped her mouth. "She possessed the same wrath as the marchioness? It must have been dreadful to you."

"It is dreadful," Ikhwan wasn't sure if lying through his teeth would do any better to the situation, "She said that the wrath would vanish if she found the butterfly."

"Then by all means," said Laura, "Her wrath would vanish if she were to found the butterfly."

"What do you mean?"

"You have helped me, Ikhwan," Laura looked at him with much appreciation, "My life wouldn't be extended if you were not here, might have been alone without humans for all I care, but you have changed it. Not just me, but even the marchioness."

Vincent regarded his thoughts, and said, "I owe you for easing my life as well."

Ikhwan had a small hunch that he understood what Vincent meant, but he decided to not dwell into it much further.

"But how would you do it?" Nadirah spluttered. "How is that possible—"

"I just hope it won't take as far as 200 years," she laughed quietly, "But I will think of the concoction. You need to find the two butterflies, and your grandmother's wrath would be cured. You have my word."

"You have my word, as well," said Vincent. "Although, what should we do to inform the brother of yours about the two butterflies? I was informed that you weren't the one who discovered it."

"Yes, it was my brother, and he—" Ikhwan stared at Nadirah warningly, and as Nadirah roamed the room with her eyes frantically, she caught the shadow of a painting. "What is that?"

Vincent looked toward her direction and explained, "Avery's painting of the butterfly."

"Why is it there?"

He stared at them quizzically. "He thought it would be nice to give Abdullah a memento of us."

It was impossible to speak, and they only managed to utter, "Oh," aloud.

Concerned, Vincent asked, "Are you alright?"

Ikhwan hesitated, and stared at Nadirah.

"I will refrain myself from speaking," said Nadirah adamantly.

Two pairs of eyes questionably stared at them. "What is the matter with you both?"

"My apologies, my lord, my lady," said Ikhwan, "But I'm afraid our time in your world is ticking up," he grimaced, even more so at Nadirah's obvious reluctance in returning. "We would return soon, and anyway," he smiled, "We need to be off before the marchioness makes her grand appearance."

Exactly on time, the butler came into the drawing room and said, "Mr. Avery is waiting at the blue-and-silver drawing room."

Vincent creased his brows, reluctantly answered, "Tell him to wait."

"Yes, your lordship," he exited, his eyes never fell on the two poltergeists.

"They are here," Nadirah sighed. "Oh well, it's time to bid farewell." She smiled. "I enjoy the random dreams about both of you in my nights, and even more to be able to see you in the flesh, so my deepest gratitude for making my life interesting than the usual bland."

"What...are you talking about?" asked Lady Laura.

"Perhaps you would understand in some point of your life," Nadirah stared at the painting, and chuckled. "Of course you will."

"We thank you for adding spices to our life," this time, Ikhwan grinned, and stole a glance toward the painting as well. "As for the painting..."

They looked at each other, and respectively look at the lordship and the ladyship. "You can use wax."

As if waking up from a long dream, they fluttered their eyelids, and found out that they are still in the daylights in her grandmother's garden, their fingers touching the painting.

"Where have you been?" Fattah raised his brows. "I know it's only been a second, but it feels longer than that, I can't explain really, my brain might have been playing tricks you see, yet I know my instinct, and I know that you've been flying somewhere for the past second—"

"Wax," Nadirah snorted, spanking the painting, "Why doesn't it work?"

"Honestly, I don't want to endure more time in purifying the marchioness."

"Still," she spanked a bit more, "It was the greatest time in my life."

"Funny, greatest time in your life doesn't happen in this life, apparently."

They laughed, inviting a beleaguering look from Fattah. "What happened, really?" this time his tone was dead serious, and they knew that they couldn't evade from it any longer.

Ikhwan reflected on his actions over the course of one second, over the fact that they somehow traveled to the 19th Century's bedchamber, which sounded quite odd now that they were to speak it aloud, but nonetheless, they were in a bedchamber, watching a gentleman getting ready for his prom with the valet on his side. They didn't quite get to watch the rest of the movie, nor the bickering with the valet if he had one, since they were off to bewitch the coach, which didn't look any different than before.

Yes, such a dream came true for a person who wanted to go to a 19th Century's season ball.

Nevertheless, they weren't there for the ball itself. The fated conversation that was filled with discretion code between the Duke of Queensberry and the Marchioness of Newcastle provoked a remarkable scheme out of his head that would probably save Lady Laura's life. He laid down the plan in front of them, and after a few reenactments and clashed opinions, investigation and a trip down to the memory lane with the possessions of the marchioness, the blueprint was finally done and ready to construct.

It was risky for Laura and Nadirah to go to the lair of Queensberry, yet she had proven her illusion top-notch, and coupled with Nadirah's ability of memorizing practically everything, they were impenetrable and invincible. At least, it was better than having them breaking into a dungeon to meet a person that they didn't know.

Granted, Nadirah knew the man, but the man didn't know her all the same.

As Nadirah and the lady coerced the duke for his well-kept secrets to aid in their journey, while smuggling a couple of pointers about his natural habits, Ikhwan and Vincent were supposed to smuggle the prisoner out of the house. They needed to let him meet with Laura, for him to understand the current situation, for him to see with his own eyes—the illusion of the duke. They couldn't afford to smuggle Laura into the house, for the house was much more of a dragon's lair than the dragon itself, and knowing the marchioness, she probably would notice the scent of Lady Laura roaming the air.

They told Abdullah about the plan, about his scripture for the act, and then they sent him back to the dungeon with the door remained unlocked.

Then the play had begun.

Apparently, the duke liked to visit the marchioness during the darkest hour, especially when the servants were dismissed. It was splendid for them, for they could execute their plan well without the nosing nose, and off the illusion went, bearing the face of the Duke of Queensberry.

The luring of the marchioness—it should be noted that the illusion did better than they thought, even more so when Abdullah's acting appeared to be top-notch, and Ikhwan wondered if this wasn't the first time for him to lie behind his teeth. No matter, he might be an experienced actor, but truth remained that he did his deed supremely well, further convincing the marchioness that the butterflies hid a thousand secrets behind its thousand reflections.

The illusion changed yet again, and this time, Laura lifted the silhouette behind the marchioness's eyes, allowing her to see the two poltergeists, which was hidden under the guise of the guardians of the butterflies.

They didn't necessary call themselves that, but since the marchioness kindly provided another nickname to them, they should have considered themselves as that and get in the mood.

Ikhwan couldn't say if he thought the marchioness was the cruelest person on earth, because he did possess a grandmother of the same age, and even if he could torture the lady senseless for her uncouth demeanor, he knew that it wasn't entirely her fault for such things to happen. If he didn't have the same experience with the grandmother, who knows what he will do to the marchioness? He might leave her alone humiliated for the rest of her life, and that was, if she didn't have a concrete reason for her cruel behavior.

They escorted the marchioness back home, dissolving the illusion except for their images, purposely dressed her up in an awful coordination, attempting to make her the laughingstock of the year. They drove the carriage to the busiest park in the city, deliberately meeting her with her good friend, the Countess of Ashbourne, who was quite a chatterbox who couldn't keep her door of secrets shut. By the time they arrived at Laura's hidden cottage, the town was buzzing with rumors of her sotted appearance, humiliating her with her stuck-up persona yet shabby form.

Humiliation was definitely a splendid way of breaking an arrogant person out of her comfortable shell. There was no other way for a mind full of hatred to realize her wrongdoings than by unleashing the same amount of hatred and shock, further nestling her with the newfound kindness from her purified heart.

The image of her sister, the illusion of the stabbing was all in their plan. Ruthless, yet for a person as she, it was the only plausible way of molding her into a newborn.

Once she had realized the gruesome of her error, they created another illusion, this time concerning her never-ending feud with Laura, or was it Clarissa? She never knew, she knew it now, and she knew what her heart wanted.

Mission accomplished.

The veil was up, the illusions had dissolved, the marchioness ran toward the house of Lady Laura for the sake of her own goal, ignoring the blatant remarks about her uncouth appearance, yet none of it matters, because the burden on her shoulders was the only thing she cared.

As soon as she arrived at Laura's house, they had planned for her to be greeted by Avery. Avery, the minion of the marchioness, knew every secret of her, the perfect candidate for an emotional outburst, for refreshing her mind and tying the loose knots of her dangling curiosity.

By this time, Ikhwan and Nadirah's works had finished, and as soon as the marchioness's persona had been fixed by Avery himself, they would make a grand appearance at the House of Ventris, waiting for their time.

And the time had come, taking them back to their original world.

But still, how could Laura banish the wrath? What would become of the marchioness's fate after the huge mess? Would she live in humiliation, or would her life return to normal, minus the wrath?

Ikhwan pondered for the answers, yet he knew that it wasn't his main concern now, since something else was definitely bubbling inside of him.

Lady Laura. She had promised to banish the wrath of his grandmother, yet it sounded so strange, so bizarre, and he didn't know what to expect.

"Either way, we need to find both of them," Fattah commented, after diligently listening to the lengthy explanation of their getaway. "Maybe that's why your grandmother decided to find both of them, she cracked the mystery."

"How?" Ikhwan arched his brows.

"Maybe," just maybe, "She felt an incredible force bursting out from those things. The wrath was hers, wasn't it? Surely, the one who would feel anything would be she." He drummed her fingers on the table, curiously staring at Ikhwan, "You haven't even touched it yet."

"I'm not sure if now is the right time."

"When is the right time?"

"When I think it's the right time, it's the right time."

"When would you think it's the right time?"

"I'm getting a headache," Nadirah sighed, "Anyway, the real butterfly is with her."

"Seems so."

"If we gave her this butterfly, then everything would be over."

"True," Ikhwan nodded, "But the mystery would be left unsolved."

"So what are you planning to do?"

He touched the notebook that was filled with KK's memories and said, "We shall grant the wish of Fattah's grandfather. It's only appropriate."

They blinked.

"You have much to learn," he gave the book to Nadirah, "Study it."

Clueless as she was, she accepted the book, not hiding even an ounce of her curiosity.

How odd, he thought he was beginning to understand her better after all this while.

"How did you—"

"My brother is dangerous."

"I can tell."

He arched his brows, "That is my only comment."

"I can tell."

Maybe he didn't succeed much in reading her after all.

"Well, in honor of Fattah, we should do this differently," he motioned Nadirah to hand the book to Fattah. "Why don't you sketch his painting last night, Fattah?"

"Sketch?" he blurted out, fluttering the pages incredulously, "I can't draw—Oh."

The magical appearance of a charcoal ultimately shut his mouth off, further adorning it with an idiotic grin. "Trace it back, I see."

"He used a pen last night," Ikhwan explained. Funny how that significant information nearly escaped from his head due to the tremendous activities from the past second, "He puts a lot of pressure in his drawing, so the traces are visible on the other page."

Fattah nodded in understanding, lightly coloring the page with the charcoal. He smoothened the binding of the page and placed it on the center of the table, allowing them to gape deliberately at the expected subject of art.

"Mariposa," Nadirah remarked loudly.

"Butterfly," Fattah creased his brows. "It reminds me of a certain group. They named themselves as mariposa, the Spanish word for butterfly—"

"It's a miracle that I've yet to become sick of them."

"You have, but you have no choice."

"Yes," she made a face, "I've been exposed to the thing all my life," she scorned, "Good thing it's not a caterpillar."

"It has evolved into a butterfly," said Ikhwan, "Metamorphosis."

They looked at him quizzically, which prompted Ikhwan to gesture at the sketchbook. "If you could assist me, Nadirah."

"Of course," she nodded, bringing the book closer to her. She concentrated on her ability, and further scrunching her face in concentration.

He lightly brushed his fingertips with the edges of the book, unwilling to be sucked further into the realm of flashbacks. Inhaling a deep breath, he began to explain, "My grandmother's wrath used to only crawl like a caterpillar. Tingling, subtle, yet undeniably exist. Controllable, which was due to her friends' companion and magical properties, much like us."

He continued. "They found the greatest weapon in countering her wrath, and that lies in the sparkling butterfly. It always makes her feel good to have it by her side, even more so when accompanied by her three friends. Everyone found a use for the butterfly. Nadirah's grandmother used it for the sake of investigating the gems, the painter used it for the sake of his art, your grandfather used it for the sake of..." he stared at Fattah blankly, "For experimental properties?"

Fattah opted to not reply.

"Yet from the rest of the friends, only one felt compelled to avoid separating with the butterfly, due to his offer in the city. He too, is evolving into a butterfly."

"Khalil?" Fattah's voice was strangled, as if it was clogged with a lodge.

"Yes," Ikhwan smiled, "The butterfly was his inspiration, the reason for his flourishing career, so separating with his only inspiration seemed like a dull choice. He resorted to pursue his advantage in my grandmother, softly enchanting her in handling the butterfly over as some sort of a memento."

"Your grandmother believed him," Nadirah intervened, "Until the story about his wedding hit the shore of the town."

The article of the painter's wedding played in his mind, letting him skimmed the content as if the news was really in front of his eyes. Huge, bold title caught his attention, captioning the words, _Wedding of The Year._ The wedding photos were absurd with exuberant details on the decorations, yet the most interesting part was the bride's and groom's interview itself, which conveniently mentioned the sparkling butterfly.

... _butterfly accessory on her head, the bride smiles with such elation, describing how it was the perfect jewelry to adorn on her wedding day. She had known it to be the truth since the day she saw it with her own eyes, and she can't imagine marrying without the inspiration creation by her side. "When I first saw it, I was awe-stricken, but upon wearing it, I was speechless. This butterfly is ethereal, and I was further moved when I know that this piece right here is Khalil's inspiration," said she. She further mentioned how Khalil decided to let her wear it, since she is his newest inspiration, and it is only fair to let the inspiration meddles with his other inspiration. "He even drew a picture of me and a butterfly," she commented. "His imagination is really high. It's a picture of me with the butterfly, and I was wearing such a soft and flowing silk dress in a garden of lavender, sitting on a wooden carved bench. It's the daintiest thing I've ever seen," she smiled, clutching her new husband hand as tight as the lovebirds they are._

Fattah snorted.

His snorting pulled Ikhwan back into the real world, noticing that Nadirah'd been reading the passage aloud.

No wonder the words were screaming at him.

Khalil, or someone else, must have been reading the article aloud, letting her grasped the situation despite being videoless.

"Judging by your expression," Nadirah raised his brows at Fattah, "The object of the painting must've not been her then, or else you won't snort."

"Then who else could it be?"

She sighed dramatically, "Safe bet would be his grandmother," she swiftly gestured at Ikhwan, "Providing he didn't have a secret crush on my grandmother or any other woman for that matter."

"Now, wouldn't that be such a tiresome twist," Ikhwan murmured.

"I don't need that," Fattah spat. "Not the twist, I mean the other love-triangle, I loathe love-triangle, why can't people make up their mind—"

"I hope you won't be having a love-triangle."

"I have a very peculiar mind," he waved his hand airily. "Such things won't happen. I know," he said smugly, "And you both know that I know."

"You do know something else," Ikhwan said quietly.

He creased his brows. "Such peculiar accusation, and what makes you think I possess such secrets?"

"How do you know that the painting is not the wife, then?" Nadirah cocked an inquisitive brow.

"Of course, one would expect that such an old painting couldn't be a premonition for the wife, not when the said artist loves his career more than the daintiest lady on earth. It's widely known that he is someone who painted what he sees, or felt maybe, and not someone who paints based on imagination, from what I gather at least, or maybe it's not widely known, maybe I picked it up from my grandfather's diary—"

"Diary," Ikhwan smiled secretively, "I see."

"D-diary," he stammered. "No big deal, just a big book of—"

"Old?" Ikhwan intervened. "Have you seen this old painting? How old is it?"

He shrugged nervously. "This is hypothetical, but I saw the painting, and the subject of painting is quite young, not to mention the painting itself doesn't measure up to KK's level of expertise, not to say that the painting is a hoax, only that it is kind of a novice piece of work—"

"Where is the painting, and the diary?" he leaned in, his expression beguiling, "You need to show me."

chapter 12

Ikhwan's threat wasn't much of a threat, yet there must have been something provoking in his tone for Fattah to admit defeat so easily.

Fattah was easy to corner, Ikhwan admitted, he knew it would come sooner or later. It wasn't much of a surprise to him, yet it always agitated him to no end.

Indeed, reality was much sweeter than fantasy, or alternatively, premonition.

Truthfully, even though the sketchbook was nothing but Khalil's lovely memories of the butterfly, something caught Ikhwan's attention, and that was Nadim's constant appearance in the memories. Even after Khalil was practically disowned by their friends, he was still in touched with the late master of silk, and Ikhwan had the slightest cloying feeling that Nadim knew something that he didn't.

He had known Fattah since forever. It wasn't difficult to purge the most secretive or insignificant information out of his vault.

That was why they were here, in the cottage that belonged to the master of silk, dusty and abandoned without care, saved for a feisty teenager who didn't feel comply to tend the house with a little cleaning.

"So because of my furiousness towards Arina and the two of you, my mind must have fastforwarded the important thing, because now that I think of it, it is important, but I haven't read it for ages, not since I enrolled in secondary school—"

"Where is it?"

"Wait." His fingers ran along the book, and after a while, he finally pulled a tall tome from the shelf, carefully cracked it open before grinning broadly, "This is it."

To say that it was a diary might have been an overstatement, since it wasn't a daily journal, nor was it a monthly journal of any sorts, but might fall into the category of life journal.

Important, significant events that happened in life, forever engraved in a book that would soon rot by age.

The scrapbook of life. Now that sounded appropriate, but much to Ikhwan's dismay, it was a yet again journey toward the memory lane, but perhaps it would prove to be useful in many ways.

The big scrapbook of life was too innocent for Ikhwan's eyes, and so he cleared his throat and inquired, "Did it mention anything about Khalil's wedding?"

Fattah skimmed the pages, carefully turning the delicate yet yellowish papers with his fingers. "I don't think so."

Ikhwan considered the answer, and said, "Actually, I was trying to find out if he mentioned anything about my grandmother's reaction regarding the wedding."

Fattah nodded, and carefully skimmed the pages again. He stopped, and asked, "What about the moment when he was admitted to the hospital?"

Nadirah gasped. "Oh, the heartbroken rumor!"

"He was not heartbroken."

"Nearly, literally by his grandmother."

Fattah feigned ignorance, and concentrated on the book. "This is the page," he showed Ikhwan, "He mentioned that he was hospitalized."

Ikhwan didn't necessarily want to touch it, so he deepened his inquiry, "What about the page before?"

Fattah read it, and awkwardly recited aloud, "The cat is out of the bag. Everyone knows! Such a shameful thing, yet nothing could be done. Might as well get over it, but I doubt it."

From Ikhwan's observation, the handwriting was quite scribbly, and definitely sounded like a diary entry. Yet it didn't match the other entrants in the book, which portrayed the significant times in his life. This one was fairly short, and as his eyes caught with Nadirah, he knew that Nadirah had the same suspicion, so he smiled and said, "You must be exhausted."

She raised her brows inquisitively.

He touched the parchment, choosing the right scene, and feeling quite light on the head, he said, "Visualize this. The boy with the cropped hair has grown up. He was sitting in your grandmother's living room, accompanied by your grandmother and my grandmother. My grandmother was beyond furious, her hands tightly clutching the newspaper."

Ikhwan knew that if he gave the right description to Nadirah, they would be sucked into the grand theater, forcing them to watch the movie unrolled.

Mind unison was what they needed. Without it, the movie will retain its audioless for Ikhwan, and videoless for Nadirah.

"Look at her head," the voice of his grandmother pierced his ears, and as he swiveled his head toward the lucid illusion, he smiled.

It had worked.

"I am exhausted," Nadirah drawled, "But for the sake of your butterfly, I must endure."

He grinned. "Good, enjoy the movie."

Their attention spanned back toward the elders, who didn't look much older than their parents. Well, younger, presumably.

Fatima swallowed convulsively. "Not exactly appealing when it was stuck in her head, but it is a hairpin, and a hairpin belongs," she dreaded for her current situation, "At the place where there is hair, which 80% means head."

"Why is it 80%?" asked Nadim.

"I don't know," she answered truthfully. "I'm just fibbing."

"Fibbing is never you."

She rolled her eyes.

Maznah was on the verge of turning into the fire of hell, her voice venomous as she said, "I don't care if he decided to keep the bloody thing by his side, but he crossed the line by sharing it, don't you understand?"

Yet instead of agreeing, Nadim murmured, "Bloody."

Fatima on the other hand, provided a much lengthier response, "I do, but it's no use for you to tell me that, since I'm not he and I can't do anything."

"I know that, I'm merely expressing my opinion!"

Ikhwan flinched, staggering like the suddenly shattered vase near her presence.

Fatima swiveled her head toward the vase, and after a long stare, she nonchalantly shrugged, genuinely attempting not to speak of anything at all.

Nadim knew that he needed to do something in behalf of the two muted ladies before any of the priceless things in the house would face the same fate as the vase, "Despicable of him to resort to do so, but the butterfly is with him."

Maznah grunted, forcing him to sit straightly. "So you are blaming me, now?" she asked between her teeth. "Is that it? Just because I lend him the stupid thing, he could do whatever he pleased with it?"

"Of course not," he said defensively. "It might not be within his will to avoid her from wearing it."

She solemnly scoffed. "How crude of him."

"Women are difficult," he murmured.

Two pairs of eyes, or was it three, darted their dagger stare at his face.

"Well of course," he said flatly. "He has openly announced that the butterfly is his inspiration, so wouldn't it be a good publicity for the inspirational thing to be on the newest inspiration?"

He deliberately avoided the sensitive topic, Ikhwan could tell.

"Newest inspiration," Maznah echoed dryly. "Newest inspiration..."

With just a slight movement of fingers, the paper tore into a million shred of dust.

Ikhwan shuddered.

"She is not his inspiration," she said icily, resembling more like the marchioness that Ikhwan's stomach did a strange churning, "I repeat, not. Not in a million years, not ever—"

"Why do you care so much?" Nadim was desperately craving for answer, even though deep down, he knew all along.

Although definitely, Nadim wasn't curious because of the complexity of the heart, but rather, more toward the complexity of the mind, and that was what Ikhwan gathered from his observation.

Maznah gnawed her lips, fidgeting over her inability of a witty retort. Frustrated, she spanked Fatima's arm, taking her back into the real world. "Why are you standing there so quietly?" Maznah said scathingly at the rigid state of Fatima. "Say something!"

"What is there to say?" Fatima flinched. "I rather not say."

"Why is everyone being so persistent on backstabbing me?"

"We are not," Nadim quickly interjected. "He's living in his own world right now—"

"So his world with us is a lie?"

"Not a lie, but he has explored a new world—"

"And we are too shallow because we're still stuck in here?"

"Please woman, I know that you like him but grow up—"

"It's not about that!"

The whole house, or probably just the room, roared with the intense volume of Maznah's voice, and to Fatima's horror, and later Maznah, they saw Nadim staggering unstably, his hand clutching his chest, before slowly, he became paralyzed, and crashed on the floor.

"No," Nadirah clasped her mouth. The two of them watched helplessly as the frantic elders called for help, panicking at Nadim's unconscious state.

"He was fine," that didn't come out right, "For that moment, at least."

"Oh, I've forgotten," she swallowed convulsively. Acknowledging the mortality of humans was tougher than it looked. "He looks familiar, though."

"There's a big possibility that you met him at your grandmother's house," he shrugged. "I bet everyone in this town looks familiar to you by now."

She laughed at the obvious fact, before suddenly, she blanched, unable to utter a sound.

But then, she laughed again.

He seriously did not understand her.

"Fattah's grandfather," she was still laughing, and he wasn't sure to whom exactly the words were meant for, "I should have known, or should have suspected."

Now, in this current situation, which was the best option? Should he pursue the matter, or let it rest?

He flipped the coin mentally in his brain, and it landed on the former.

"What are you talking about?" he inquired curiously.

She closed her mouth, and expectedly replied, "Nothing."

Yes, it was an absolutely typical answer. But he wouldn't let it go, not when the coin had sealed his fate on asking the question. Thus, summoning his most authoritative voice, he said, "I deserve to know."

Maybe this time the story would include a dame.

"I met him once."

Maybe it won't.

"He asked me to," she exhaled a sharp breath, "Follow the butterfly?" she laughed halfheartedly. "Is that why my favorite store is Métamorphose? I don't know."

Maybe it wasn't as useless.

"Why would he say that?"

"Why wouldn't he say that?" she asked a comparatively inquisitive question, "Maybe he knows that we created the butterfly."

"Maybe he did."

"Maybe—" once again, silence engulfed her from head to toe. She looked at him suspiciously, "No, he did. He definitely did. You know that he did."

"I know he did," Ikhwan nodded. "But I didn't know that he warned you about the butterfly ages ago."

"Well, now you know," she answered blatantly. "Now wha—"

The changing of the scene took them by surprise, and instead of being in the living room, they found themselves in an unmistakably, rather old-fashioned, hospital room.

Nadim was on the bed, deeply staring at the hospital's ceiling. His hand shot right up, perfectly in synch as he said, "The person who could see everything, and the person who could hear everything," he paused, his frail hand stumbled on the bed again. "Who are they?"

"Okay," Nadirah said breathlessly. "He certainly knew."

"I wonder if they're here," his voice grew anxious, "They are probably here."

Nadim's mouth was trembling, eager to continue his speech, but was quickly interrupted by the loud creaking sound from the door. Three pairs of eyes quickly darted toward the door's direction, only to see a familiar face peeking behind the wooden panel.

"Nadim," said Khalil, advancing toward a nearby stool, "How are you doing?"

It took a while for Nadim to reply, but when he did, "Fine" was the only thing he said.

"I'm very sorry, Nadim," he said ruefully. "If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't—"

"You would get married sooner or later," Nadim answered simply. "But it would do a great deal for all of us if she didn't actually wear that butterfly thing."

He fidgeted in his seat, his mouth opened for another chance in explaining, but Nadim cut him off. "You are not held responsible if any bad thing were to occur to your wife, aren't you?"

Khalil hesitated, finding the right words to say. "I regret my decision. I shouldn't have let her wear it, but," he clamped his teeth. "But," he was at loss of words, and sighing, he said, "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for you, you shouldn't have promised Maznah for finding things that you weren't certain, just because I said so."

Once again, Khalil concluded that silence was the best option at the moment.

"My research and investigation are nothing but hypothetical."

"I know, but," he licked his dry lips nervously, "I need to have the butterfly."

"She needs two," Nadim eyed his friend with a hint of bore, "And you only need one, so that's why you took it from her."

Khalil stood up from the stool, pacing back and forth before bursting, "I did intend to search for the twin."

"When? After your career's been thrashed?"

He stopped, staring at his friend gravely. "If those people are right, then the butterfly will lose its sparkle after it consumes Maznah's wrath. I couldn't afford to lose the sparkle, the essence."

"Yet you can afford letting Maznah lives her life with her uncontrollable rage, even when an option of banishing it is right in front of our eyes."

Khalil wandered the room, impatiently blurted, "Do you honestly believe all those things that Uncle Tajudin said? All those things that those people said?"

"Do you believe my research paper then?" Nadim asked.

"You have a lot of data to back up your claims. Those people only spoke on air."

"In case you've forgotten, I recognize things once I saw it. If I saw that the butterfly can cure her wrath, then it could."

"I know you can do that! But they have no basis—"

"Basis, coincidence, I don't believe that," he said flatly. "I believe in coincidence, but not in this case. The box, the handkerchief, the painting, the butterfly, even those gems on the butterfly, those are extraordinarily linked. All of those are supposed to be handed down to the person who could see everything, to the person who could hear everything. Coincidence doesn't happen for four times in a row." He paused, taking a good look at his friend. "If you don't believe my instinct, then tell me, why would her mood go increasingly high after a mere touch with the butterfly? Coincidence, again?"

Khalil crossed his arms, fidgeting as he said, "I know, I know. I've been selfish, I know that—"

"Just promise me," Nadim looked at him intently, "Search for the butterfly, please?"

He said nothing.

"If I couldn't find it until the last of my breath, find it for me."

He fidgeted, but Nadim just smiled knowingly. "Well, if you couldn't find it, someone will bring it to you anyways."

His eyes widened.

"But don't fall for the person who comes alone, there must be two, or maybe three."

"What are you talking about Nadim?"

"Like they said," he answered pertly. "The butterflies concerned two people, one who could see everything, one who could hear everything, and possibly from my discovery, one who could," he reflected on the thought, "Well, I'm not quite sure about that one."

Khalil was obviously uncomfortable at the request, but reluctantly he nodded, "Of course."

"Hard for you to do so, I know," he arched his brows, "But you would do that, one day."

The scenery abruptly changed again, but instead of teleporting them to another scene, they were back in the dusty cottage, filled with silks and a boy named Fattah.

Ikhwan stared cluelessly at the rapid change of exterior, but he was momentarily distracted at Nadirah's even more puzzled look.

However, knowing her, she was probably more dumbstruck by the elders' conversations than these fast changing scenes.

"What did you do?" Nadirah asked Fattah incredulously, pointing at the book.

Ikhwan sighed. She was still as leather-bounded as ever. Reading her was an adventure of its own.

"I-I closed it," he stammered. "Am I supposed to not do that?"

"The conversation is ending so," Ikhwan smiled briefly, "I don't think you've done much damage."

Fattah stared suspiciously at the two of them, gulping nervously as he remarked, "Why does he look triumphant?"

"He's cracked the mystery," Nadirah answered, and shivering, she continued, "He knows the reason for his grandmother's odd request, and," it should be noted that she enunciated the syllable quite strongly, "Your late grandfather was terrifying."

"You met him."

"Yes," Ikhwan couldn't contain his smile. "And he purposely ordered us to help Khalil in his quest of patching things up with my grandmother."

Fattah narrowed his eyes, assessing the situation. He must have realized the usefulness of the two butterflies, because out of a sudden, he widened his eyes back and said, "I see."

"Don't worry," he grinned. He knew how intimidated the two—maybe Fattah, not quite sure about Nadirah—really were, so he assured, "Just leave it to me. But you," he gestured to Nadirah, "Needs to explain everything to your grandmother. And try to get her approval."

Even if the shortest path for them to meet the painter in their real identity was by manipulating Danial's common sense into helping them again, but alas, Ikhwan couldn't be bothered.

He couldn't be bothered because he couldn't be bothered explaining the bothersome stuff, and what could one planted in one's mind if there was a gaping hole in the testimony? Their previous endeavor had been easy since the painter was in such a vulnerable state, and it was acceptable that they were there in behalf of nurturing his ability, of which they did, but now, they had ran out of excuses, and the painter was up and running, so what could they do?

The only reasonable way was for them to schedule an appointment with the lad. Yet that was bothersome as well.

If there was a person who had full authority of demanding to meet the celebrity, it would be...

"Dear Mr. KK."

Fattah typed, and paused to look at Ikhwan. "What's next?"

He shrugged. "Aren't you the grandson, shouldn't you have the upper hand?"

He grunted, and continued his typing, loudly reciting in the process, "As you have known, I am the grandson of Mr. Nadim," his voice grew animated, "And I agree with you before you could say that I am a mere grandson, nothing more than a person who shares his blood, but—"

"That is extremely excessive."

He narrowed his eyes. "I hate dealing with you."

"I can tell," Ikhwan smiled lopsidedly. "You should press him more so that he would call us as soon as he received the text."

Fattah scratched himself, and wrote, "As the grandson of Mr. Nadim, I have in good authority that I could help you in fulfilling his last wish, and that is regarding the thing with the butterflies. Do not fret, my lord—"

Ikhwan's eyes flickered toward Fattah, tempted to spank him on the head.

"It just sounds appropriate," he mused, "I would've loved to see the 19th Century, but alas," he sighed, concentrating yet again on his cell phone's screen. "I am not alone, possibly accompanied by one, or perhaps two, so you can expect three guests, or two at least. One who sees everything, and one who hears everything," he stared at Ikhwan questionably, "Should I send? Wait," he tapped his finger at his temple, and began to type, "Fiat justitia et pereat mundus." He laughed, and pressed the button to send.

"Why do you need to add that?"

"It aggravates him," he said mischievously. "Though the world perished, justice needed to be done, which alternatively could have meant, even if the life is nearly over, don't let your unfinished business unattended." He showed a peace sign with his fingers. "He would know that it is indeed me, or even if the phone was in the hands of his underlings, they knew the threat once they saw that piece," he laughed. "I should have said that magic words instead of wasting on more spaces."

"At least it would make you sounds nice," Ikhwan grinned.

"Yes, I need to polish my reputation, don't I?" he nodded thoughtfully. "The phone will ring in a count of three, one," he looked at Ikhwan jubilantly, "Two," they began to chant together, "Three."

The phone rang, causing the room to break with laughter.

"We are supreme magician," commented Ikhwan, "You should answer that, or else he'd be too flustered to comprehend."

Fattah pressed the loudspeaker button, and said loudly, "Assalamualaikum, Mr. Khalil."

"Waalaikummussalam," there was a short silence, and he said, "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Well, yes," he hesitated, "I was quite busy investigating about the butterfly. You know, in memory of my grandfather—"

"I'm aware of that," his tone was weary, "It's nice of you to succeed his research."

"I'm always up for a bit of pump in my life!"

Ikhwan snorted, quite loudly perhaps, because there was a sharp intake on the other line. Khalil recovered, and said, "I see that your research has advanced far lengthier than your grandfather did."

"Well, my team consisted of one who could see everything and one who could hear everything," he said matter-of-factly, "My grandfather is alone, you see."

Ikhwan mouthed the word, "Team," and buried his face into a nearby pillow.

"More than that, I'm actually the middle person," he amended, high-pitched at the sight of Ikhwan's reaction. "See? I'm acting as the middle person now as well, but my team is the middle person as well, the middle person for Grandmother Maznah and you, all for the sake of the butterfly—"

"Can I talk to your team?"

"Team?" Fattah's eyes flickered toward Ikhwan. "Team. Of course, I only have one at the moment, the other is absent from—"

"Assalamualaikum, Mr. Khalil," said Ikhwan, hoping that his voice didn't spark any familiarities from their previous encounter. "It's nice to finally have the chance of speaking to you, although I expect I would appreciate it better if the chances were lengthen to a real acquaintance."

"W-waalaikummussalam," the voice stammered, "I bear the same sentiment. I am honored to be acquainted with you. From your voice, I can tell that you are a respectable person."

"I am flattered," Ikhwan grinned.

Fattah was probably envying his skill in communication.

Feeling adventurous, he added, "I do apologize on behalf of my friend. This matter has such a big impact on his brain that he has inconveniently created a certain paranoia towards butterfly, so do ignore his agitation."

"Indeed," Fattah joined the banter, mostly due to his own amusement—he might enjoy tarnishing his own reputation, "Humiliating, to be honest. What kind of a person would hate an insect that didn't bite? Not did I know whether such things could bite, since I have not come to even a mile radius to that creature, and so such things never occurred to me—"

"Especially," Ikhwan pointed out, "When his grandfather produced silk, which makes it such a humiliating scene to witness."

"All those cocoons," Fattah shivered. "You don't have any cocoons there, do you?"

"I'm painter," Khalil answered flatly.

"Ah yes, your butterfly is forever engraved on the canvas, while those other butterflies are made from silver and gems—"

"I expect you still have it."

When one asked a question that was hard to answer, what would be the greatest explanation to reply?

"But," Ikhwan knew that in the art of deceiving, it was vital to twist the words around, "If we didn't have a truce with you, then I'm afraid there is nothing that we can do."

Yet another silence, before he slowly tore it open, "I've delayed it for a long time," his voice was muffled, "It's time for me to make it right again."

"Are you sure Mr. Khalil?" Ikhwan's voice was deliberately inquisitive, "The butterfly might lose its sparkling essence if it were to surrender to the wrath."

Ikhwan could hear the loud gulping from the other line, but the response made him smile. "It no longer matters. I have been selfish for too long. So many things haunted me, I—" he faltered, "I just want to sort everything right again."

"Then your wish shall be granted," Ikhwan said primly. "We need to meet. Do you mind if I provide the location?"

"As you wish."

"You do know the cottage that belongs to Fattah's grandfather, do you not?"

He let out a sharp breath, and replied, "I do."

"Then kindly meet us there, Mr. Khalil. We'll be waiting," he smiled at Fattah, "The two of us, but soon it'll be four, or five, if it went well."

Having Fattah at his side, as most of the time, was fortunate. His ability in correctly predicting the outcome of a situation—or as he humbly referred as assessing the matter in an extricate way—proved to be useful in more than one occasion, and probably never valued as much as this moment.

That said, he wondered the difference between his ability and that of Arina and Nadirah's grandmother, because it was a mirrored version of each other...or was it not?

Nevertheless, he didn't live in their head so it wasn't fair for him to comment, especially after hearing the green lights from Nadirah's grandmother about the matter, which prompted Fattah to say, "If she said it's going to work, then it's going to work."

This came from someone whose words always foresee the truth, and someone whose words always lead to the truth. Not much difference, but Ikhwan had the slightest hunch that their method and view of the world differed completely from each other, and so he didn't have much to complain, since there was nothing to complain, especially when your deal was thoroughly sealed with intense double layer glue.

He deliberately walked into his grandmother's room, touching the cabinet and drawers, reminisced the ancient memories behind the articulate creation, and swiftly captured the box of butterfly from the inside of his grandmother's bag. He caressed the butterfly with his hands, and once again, the memories flooded into his brain, the memories of he, the memories of Lord Ventris and Lady Laura...

Strangely, it concerned quite a lot of memories of his.

It was not something that he should be concerned about at the moment, he knew that much.

He descended the stairs, his eyes closely searching for the shadow of his grandmother. And when he caught the sight of her leisurely lounging in the kitchen, he demanded in an alarming voice, holding the butterfly up in the air, "What is this?"

His grandmother's jaws cluttered on the floor, as well as whatever it was that she was holding, probably a spatula. But she reassembled the cluttered utensils and nonchalantly said, "I found it."

"Quite a long time ago, I see," he drawled, subtle enough to exhibit his naturally dry demeanor.

His grandmother knew perfectly well of his capability of the deadliest things. In fact, his grandmother was often daunted by her grandsons' superior ability, yet she seemed to not realize that the same grandsons' cowered over her lethal imperfection.

She sucked in her lips. "I've lied to you, apology given."

It didn't sit well on him that she apologized too quickly since indeed, she wasn't the only lying company here, but he needed to coerce her more. "Why did you lie, then?"

"You won't understand."

"Really?" he raised his brows menacingly.

She knew it wasn't true.

Ikhwan, the one who went to great lengths in order to discover the butterfly, and of course, Ikhwan, the one who knew everything...who could guess anything just from some mere moving pictures.

"I'm not certain if two duplicates exist," she admitted. "It might've been a fake. I'm not good in determining the genuine state of those things, but your friend proved me wrong," she said glumly. "I need to have both of them, but how? I couldn't ask Danial again, since I don't want to burst the bubble."

"Is the bubble too precious to be burst?" he said dryly.

"The bubble is too bizarre to be taken seriously," she answered, "Danial wouldn't understand. He understands the mind alright, but he doesn't understand the emotion behind the memories, he just doesn't."

To that, Ikhwan was clueless for the right reply.

"Simplest way was to ask for your help. You would know that the blackmailer is your friend. You would know that there are two butterflies once you've touched the bloody thing. You would know that I possess the other wing. Unfortunately, I have miscalculated," she said regrettably, "You have discovered it much too early."

"I don't think so," he said matter-of-factly.

"You don't?"

"Grandmother," he grinned, "Your best laid plan has succeeded. I have become your marionette, so to speak," he tilted his head, "I have acted the way you've planned."

"Why does it sound as if I'm being ridiculed?"

"Probably because the plan wasn't much of a secret, and we both know that, but we both tried to appear ignorant. Truthfully, grandmother," he smiled secretively, "I have discovered the butterfly for quite a long time."

She blinked, his outburst somehow made her box of clue vanished out of sight. "You did?"

"I did," he smiled.

"Why didn't you—"

"If I ask you now about the reason for your persistence in acquiring the butterflies, would you answer?"

She gnawed her lips, carefully said, "No."

"There you have it," his smile went broader. "I need to acquire the answer myself."

The clueless expression vanished, replaced with an understanding yet vexed face. "I see that you know."

"I saved you those minutes of concocting the perfect explanation. You should give me some credit."

She scoffed.

She truly loathed the mechanism of explaining. "You know me well."

"I did inherit that trait from you."

"Good for you." The reply was more sincere than dry.

Ikhwan knew how his grandmother loathed a pat on the back and a sympathy stare, so he made an effort to appear blasé, "At least the other could potentially be removed."

She blinked yet again, "It's hypothetical."

"Still, worth a shot."

She shortened their distance, her eyes narrowed, "What have you learned, my boy?"

He grinned. "I hate explaining."

"You have to."

"Perhaps there's a better alternative way..."

Her beleaguered expression was enough to daunt him from his usual confidence, but thankfully, it didn't last for long before it changed into a sly expression, "You'll show me, but you need to hold my bag, carrier boy."

"Yes Madame," he grinned.

"I don't appreciate that kind of attitude," she said with her feline eyes.

He managed a sly smile, resisting the urge to flinch. "Yes grandmother."

For sure, he became the carrier boy, but he didn't mind, because the butterfly was finally in his hand.

But he still couldn't shake away his anxiousness. The event that had yet to occur was still shady in his eyes.

Few minutes later, they were on the patchy road toward the lavender garden. A couple minutes later, they were on the fragrant road toward the cottage. And finally, six minutes later, they had arrived at the front door of the cottage.

Alone? Not quite.

"Assalamualaikum, Maznah." Khalil's voice broke the silence, sending a wave of agitation toward every living mortal in the area. His eyes fell on his own hands, clutching an identical-looking butterfly, before shifting to Maznah, who was still staring alertly on him, and finally on the bag in Ikhwan's hand.

He swallowed. "I see you've come prepared."

"Waalaikummussalam," she answered briskly, her cool demeanor chilled the air. "Haste is not a virtue of mine."

He nodded understandably. "Yes, I'm aware of that." His eyes fell on his butterfly, and glanced back to her face. "Possibly mine as well."

"You are just painfully slow," she scoffed, "Took you forty years to find a single butterfly, whereas those kids found it before aging a year."

"I've not been as dedicated," he admitted, "As opposed to my paintings, but I am standing right here," he approached them. "I hope it's a good enough sign of my determination and guilt."

"Guilt?"

"I apologize," his face was burdened with unspeakable miseries, "I have been selfish, and to that, my utmost sincerest apology."

Maznah was thoroughly taken aback by his sudden behavior, yet she was Maznah, and Maznah never lost her cool, so she said smugly, "I've always forgiven you. I'm just devastated at your lack of competence in preserving a promise."

He grunted regrettably. "If time could be rewound—"

"You would still run away with it," she held herself primly, "I rather not change the history, I like it the way it is. Except," she smiled ruefully. "Well, I probably wouldn't have bothered if someone didn't spark my interest."

"I did," he swallowed, "It was indeed Nadim's research, but it is I who sparked your interest," he paused, carefully constructing his words, and looked at her straight in the eyes. "And I would make your interest a reality."

"How?" she eyed him strangely. "You have not the slightest idea."

"I might."

A voice popped from the inside of the cottage, and out came a figure that Ikhwan had come to recognize familiarly from the past days—the grandmother of Nadirah, Fatima herself.

"You might?" she creased her brows.

"Not certainly so, but I might," she tilted her head, "Or might not. Possibly might."

"Then tell me, how? Why—" she narrowed her eyes, "Nadim told you."

"No," she shook her head, "These kids told me."

Nadirah and Fattah came out from the cottage, bearing the big book of Nadim's life, and stood beside Ikhwan.

The book did subtly hint the answer beneath the hazy possibilities.

"Such intelligent children," murmured Khalil. "Our legacies are impenetrable."

"And it shall remain so," answered Fatima.

To that, Ikhwan—and potentially Nadirah—had no idea for the underlying meaning behind the grown-up talking.

"Dreadfully so," Maznah acceded. "I've sacrificed my arms and legs for it to happen. We shall see," she exhaled sharply. "At least it happened to one of them, but that is not my main concern." She grabbed the bag from Ikhwan's hand, and said, "Future concern, perhaps, but now is not the future." She shoved her hand into her bag, taking out a suede pouch, untying the little knot and slid down the content onto her hand.

"The butterfly," said Fatima. "So it's true, you were the one who changed it."

"Not me, your granddaughter did," her eyes flickered at Nadirah, "Not that one. But fine, my orders, my fault anyway."

"I should have known that you won't tell."

"It's such a mouthful to spill, and I don't have that kind of motivation. I might owe you a vase instead."

"Then would you tell me everything, if your uncontrollable rage were to wipe out from your list of dislike trait?"

Maznah staggered to reply. "Possibly, but don't hang on my words," she reached for the butterfly in Khalil's hands, and after comparing the two of them, she stared admirably and said, "Twins, aren't they? Exquisitely similar."

Some information was better left unknown, and Ikhwan decided to do just that, and let the truth behind the production remained a mystery.

Maznah paused, ruefully glanced at Fatima. "I've been waiting since forever for this moment."

"Don't you worry about the complications?" Fatima blurted, remembering the children's warning regarding the action's potential risk, "What if—"

"Everything has its complications," she replied simply. "I've lived enough. One might think that I'd have forgotten about this, but my life is filled with mysteries." She smiled. "I should crack it as often as I should. Mundane life is dull, much duller when the wrath was hanging on everyone's heart, inconveniently sucked by yours truly." She sucked in her lips. "I adore the ability of understanding others emotions, but not implanting it in my soul. Even someone with a cold heart couldn't possibly carry the emotion of at least ten people at once, and I hate being a threat for the people that I love."

"Then you should get it," Fatima said quietly. "You should be free from the wrath."

Even if they had prepared for the worst, as soon as Fatima said her magic words—which was the reason for her involvement in the whole matter—the sight of his grandmother falling down, unconscious on the ground was enough to alert everyone about the vague complications.

Had things gone wrong? Was the theory was faulty, hence the life-gripping situation? Worse, had they overlooked a certain part in history? Did they conclude the mystery too early?

That, that—

"Say something," Nadirah's voice broke, her attention fully spanned on Fattah, "Is this within your calculation?

Fattah examined at the situation carefully, his voice calm as he said, "Mr. Khalil, you should bring her to the hospital now. Ikhwan," his eyes fell onto him, "Your last meeting with them, it's not exactly the last, isn't it?"

Ikhwan did see himself visiting the lordships more than necessary, but it was such a hazy scene, clouded by an invisible force, as if it was missing a puzzle of its own.

Ikhwan blinked. Surely, the missing puzzle was right in front of his eyes?

He approached Khalil—who was busy supporting his grandmother—and politely inquired, "May I have the butterflies, please?"

By this time, Khalil knew that it was wise to place your utmost faith in a potential savior, even if he couldn't grasp the situation as much as Ikhwan. Moreover, if his few minutes of bonding with the kid told him anything, it was that Ikhwan cared for his grandmother more than he could ever have.

Therefore, even if this green teenager haven't sailed the world as long as he had, at least the kid had more knowledge in this area than he, because he for sure, did not venture it as far as Ikhwan did.

He gave the butterflies without further ado, or much of a word, and left the place with Fatima, hurrying toward his car. They needed to reach the hospital as humanly fast as possible.

The butterflies were in Ikhwan's hands, and the memories rushed into his brain, so much that he nearly was blown away by the intensity of it all.

He swiveled to his friends, shortening the distance between him and Nadirah. "Touch it," he said quietly.

She obeyed, and swallowing, she remarked, "Would there be a magic word?"

He shrugged. "I wouldn't know."

She pinched her lips. "I thought it's nearly over."

He blinked, and stifled a smile as the computerized voice hit his ears again, as well as the blinding darkness covered his eyes. "Keyword accepted, nearly over, keyword accepted..."

"Can we talk in peace?" she yelled, shaking her head in mocking annoyance. "I guess we can't."

"You shouldn't talk when you're touching the historical items."

"Yes," she grinned. "I shouldn't."

The voice began to squeak, piercing their ears as it said, "Question—"

They groaned.

"—Is not necessary."

They blinked.

"Please key in your destination."

"Destination?" she blurted out. "You mean I can go to the age of Dinosaurs?"

"Destination unavailable, destination unavailable..."

"What are the options?" Ikhwan inquired, "This seems to have restricted destination."

"Option one, the Ventris House, option two, Malacca."

There was a silence.

"That's all?" Nadirah spluttered.

"That is all, please select your option."

"We need to see Lady Laura," said Ikhwan firmly. "We need to go to the Ventris House then, since her house is not an available location."

"The Ventris House, unlocked location, pending—"

"It feels very arcade-y..." Ikhwan arched his brows.

"Very gaming-oriented, simulation game perhaps," she ceased to speak as the scenery changed, teleporting them to the drawing room of the Ventrises.

"Yes," Ikhwan snickered, "Simulation game indeed."

"Our goal is to search for Lady Laura," Nadirah mimicked the voice of a computerized narrator, "You have a second to spare."

"Which means million of seconds in the Regency world," he added. "Awesome."

They were about to leave the room, when Avery popped in, reluctantly shivered against the chilling air. He inspected the windows, lowered the drapes, yet he still shivered.

The children of the future were adventurous, and they shall live up to their names.

"Mr. Ventris!"

Of course, his shivering worsened.

He stroked his chest, his eyes staggering all over the room, searching for any dent that may lead to the existence of the children of the future. "How can I help you, my dear poltergeists?"

"We are not poltergeists!" Nadirah objected playfully.

"That remains to be seen," he answered nervously, "Since you couldn't be seen."

Ikhwan was reminded of a certain memory that he had trespass. Nonchalantly, he said, "We are here to meet Lady Laura."

"Oh, of course," he nodded understandably. "Come along, you should meet the viscountess."

They nearly crashed on the walls. Not that they could, but they would if they were not as hollow.

"That's outrageously fast!" Nadirah couldn't help but remark as loud as the news.

Avery creased his brows. "Well, it has been more than a year since you last visited."

"A year," Nadirah mouthed. "It has only been for a day. The courtship only took a year?"

Avery opted to not reply.

"Has it been a day, though?" asked Ikhwan, pitying the deliberate ignorance.

"Less."

"Opposite then. Less than a day equals more than a year."

She scowled.

He grinned.

They arrived at another room, undoubtedly a drawing room as well, softly enhanced with the color of blue and silver. Laura sat on the sofa, her hand clutching the handle of the cup, and nearly slipped it when she saw the guests.

"Oh my," she clasped her mouth, "The children of the future have finally come."

"That sounds like a line from a horror movie," Nadirah reluctantly glanced at Ikhwan.

He nodded. "Uncomfortably intense."

"And they still said the darnedest things," added Avery. "Well, at least it proves enough of their real identity."

"What do you mean?" asked Laura. "Of course they are not hoaxes."

"Well, one can't be too sure when one can't see the creatures."

Laura nodded, and pointed at them, she smiled, "Think again, Avery."

He swiveled his head, and jumped at the sudden vision in front of his eyes. "T-t-t-t—"

"Do we resemble a poltergeist, Mr. Ventris?"

"N-n-n-no," he stammered, "Y-y-you look," he swallowed. "N-normal," he smiled warily, regaining his composure. "H-how old are you lot again?"

"Sixteen," they answered simultaneously.

He smacked his lips, and burst out, "Spectacular."

"It's nice to finally have a formal introduction with you, Mr. Avery Ventris," said Ikhwan politely. "My name is Ikhwan, and this is Nadirah."

He tilted his head slightly and said, "Good to know that you have such immaculate manners."

"I don't," Nadirah grinned, "So best to not expect that from me."

He licked his lips nervously, glancing at Lady Laura. "I-I'm afraid they requested for you, Laura."

She nodded, and added in last thought, "Could you inform Vincent about their arrival?"

Ikhwan and Nadirah stared at the lady with an awestruck expression, barely digesting Avery's words, "Of course." He darted off from the room, and after recovering, Ikhwan solemnly said, "You don't have to call him. We don't want to intrude the viscount with his affairs."

"Oh, but I do," she said, more on the top of her head. "It is a fine excuse. I haven't seen him much in the daylights."

"No?" Nadirah arched her brows.

She thought about it, and answered, "For two consecutive days. Helena requested to be moved, again."

"Moved?" Ikhwan echoed.

"After our little scheme, Helena couldn't bear to stay in this area, even if all of those are nothing but my mere illusions. She wagered that if she stayed even a second in this town, the words about her misbehaving will flood around the ton, and the exact some thing will truly happen. Thus, she requested to be moved to the location of her choice. We have been cooperating with her constant mood thriving, as you see now. I expect she will move again in a matter of two months or so," she sighed. "More or less, it is certainly my fault, and that is why I vowed to help her as much as I could, even if she hated me once."

"And killed your sister."

"I can't bear to hate her," she pinched her lips. "Call me foolish, but humans deserved a second chance, even if my life is on the line. I have indeed made her wrath go away, but no one knows what life could bring. The deeper you venture, the higher the risk."

"The risk," Ikhwan pondered over the potential risk of his action that he tended to overlook, mostly due to his overbearing confidence, and of course, the fact that he couldn't see any faulty, except for maybe the current one, "That's why we're here."

"Would there be a moment when the two of you are only here to enjoy the atmosphere? I think not."

"I think you're wrong."

She smiled. "Then I'll look forward to that."

Nadirah stared at Ikhwan, openmouthed, "We will travel again?"

How vague could he be? He just shrugged, naturally.

After all, their next adventure will concern Nadirah more than he, because she indeed, needed to repair her rattling box, and Laura might know the trick.

His eyes averted back to the ladyship, carefully constructing his words and was about to let it dance on the wind, when the door blasted open, revealing a distressed face of a besotted man.

"Is everything alright?" Vincent obviously didn't notice the presence of the so-called poltergeists. He took his wife's hands, slowly caressing with his thumb, "I am told that—"

"What did Avery tell you?" Laura narrowed her eyes. "You must have been jested."

"Yeah," Ikhwan snorted, "Did you catch an express coach on your way here, my lord?"

"First class coach that rivals the speed of jet, possibly."

"Why does it need to be first class?"

"Because he's a lord," she said matter-of-factly.

There was a silence, before it was broke with Vincent's small chuckle. "I see, no wonder he was extremely agitated."

"You don't say," Laura muttered.

"Yet it didn't stop him from insinuating that the worse has happened to my wife."

"What? Her life's in danger again? That couldn't—" Nadirah halted her tongue, and spanked her head with her hand, "No way."

Ikhwan blinked. "You are pregnant."

"Let's not make me the center of attention here, shall we?" she shot a nervous glance toward Vincent, and muttered, "If you're still wondering, I'm fine."

"As you say so," he murmured. His eyes flickered toward the children of the future—seriously, they have too many endearing nicknames—and said with much authority, "I don't wager that the both of you are here for the sake of leisure chitchatting."

"Always the smart guy, you are," Nadirah grinned, "And you should know that my grin is not exactly a happy grin, but rather, it's an emotionally distress grin that was produced under the sheer thought of the doomed world."

"Doomed world," he echoed.

"Doomed world that consists of Ikhwan, me, and a couple of others," she answered grimly, "His grandmother is unconscious after touching the butterflies."

"Is she now?" asked Vincent.

"I don't know, probably yes," Nadirah waved her hand airily, "Not much could change in a matter of one second."

"I don't deny that, and of course, not much could be done in a matter of one second. I advise you to stay calm, and let us do the work."

They blinked, and suddenly it made sense. Yet logically speaking, it didn't, yet logical no longer cooperate well with them for the past days—no, for the past years they'd lived in this world, if they were being perfectly honest.

"Can your illusion stretch into the future?" Nadirah asked ghastly. "It couldn't be right? I accept all those nonsensical things, but this is the most illogical thing I've ever heard. You have nothing to communicate with the world—"

"We do," he said calmly. "We could easily transpire everything through you, and of course, the butterflies," and as if having another thought, he added, "The box, the handkerchief, the painting. I expect that is the reason for your sudden teleportation into our world, and as for the reason behind the selective timeline," he stared at them thoughtfully, "Perhaps that is the work of Laura and me. She transpired the illusions, while I locked them in place, exactly on the specific time that might deemed useful to both of you. We might not live to such a long age, but the illusions lived through the years, thanks to me of course."

"And what are you going to do now?"

He smiled. "Laura would make her illusion comes true, and I would lock it into place. You need not worry, your grandmother would wake up, and possibly not accompanied with her wrath."

Watching Laura in action was like watching nothing at all. Her posture didn't scream any abnormality that may occur during the critical seconds, yet who knew what went on in her mind.

Danial might have a firm idea for the excruciating detail, and while Ikhwan could mildly guess, he knew that he was only receiving a mere fraction of the intense concentration she portrayed at the moment.

Same could be said concerning Vincent, for he too was deeply coordinating with Laura. The act was gracefully mesmerizing that Ikhwan and Nadirah nearly swayed with the breeze and failed to notice the dissolving concentration, if not for Vincent's words, "We are done."

Ikhwan smiled, and Nadirah grinned. They approached the couple, gratifyingly said, "I have no idea how to repay you, my lord."

Laura creased her brows. "I thought I've told you that this is my way of repaying you."

"Oh, right," Ikhwan grinned. "My mind has been hazy."

"You can't blame him," Nadirah was still grinning widely, because Ikhwan's happiness was infectious, "He must have knocked his head somewhere in his quest of recovering the butterflies for Her Majesty."

Three eyes stared at the poltergeist with not much of a blank look, yet not comprehensive either.

"I'm trying to not say the magic word," she said dryly.

"Magic word?" echoed Vincent. "Mind to elaborate? Or is this one of your stupor moments?"

"The talk about the quest was indefinitely her wacky moments, but magic words," Ikhwan smiled. "Well, she was refraining herself from saying the word that would teleport us back to our age."

Vincent nodded thoughtfully. "Do you wish to return now?"

"I do want to see the condition of my grandmother," Ikhwan said truthfully.

"Then this time," he allowed, "No force would restrict you from the freedom of your own journey. If you want to extend your stay in this world for a little bit longer, then the choice is in your hands, and of course," he smiled glumly, "On us. If we felt it is time for you to return, that is."

"Oh, my lord," Nadirah was bawling her eyes, "You are so nice my lord, can I call you Lord Vincent? I love to call you Lord Vincent, oh please—"

"You can call me Vincent," he smiled warily.

"No," she adamantly pointed out, "I will call you Lord Vincent, and Mr. Avery, and of course, Lady Laura," she smiled contentiously. "I'm a happy camper."

"Glad to be of service," Vincent pondered whether he was feeling amused or plainly flummoxed, but decided to digress, "Anything else? Perhaps I could help."

Ikhwan thought for a while, and replied with a smile on his face. "It is time for us to return. If we have more inquiries, then we know where to find you. The butterflies, isn't it?"

They nodded.

"You don't mind if we drop by and spook your baby, don't you?"

Laura narrowed her eyes.

Ikhwan laughed. "Until then."

The scenery dissolved itself, and again, they discovered that a mere second had passed, the butterflies were still in their hands, and their grandmothers had yet to reach the car.

Ikhwan's eyes squinted from afar, his voice placid as he said, "We should go to the hospital as well."

Nadirah and Fattah nodded to their leader's command, and quickly ran toward the elders' direction.

EPILOGUE

"How old is this house, miss?"

Nadirah was distracted, and when she recovered, she gave the house a short glimpse and retorted quite blatantly, "Who cares?"

Okay. That had not been her intention.

She was infuriated, definitely infuriated, but that didn't mean that she needed to lash out to an innocent man.

She smiled at the journalist from the Friday's Journal, or maybe the photographer, she couldn't tell, all of them looked the same, and all of them were...a lot.

Her grandmother knew that the interview was set by Grandmother Maznah, but instead of bursting into an emotional disaster over her friend's deceiving manner in order to ransack the poor house, she welcomed with open arms, clearly taking advantage of the whole situation.

Well, how could they stay mad at a person they love, especially when it meant that they will get a full coverage story on some stupid journal? That had to count for something.

Furthermore, she needed to protect her grandmother's reputation, and everyone knew that the journalists' mouths were the ones that were hard to plaster.

Therefore, she cleared her throat, answering primly over the obvious fact, "I don't know, but it has been living for four generations already. My great-grandfather built the house, you see."

Yes, she was strangely talkative. All of those practices with Laura had paid off.

Of course, when you had billion of seconds to spare, things like that could happen.

Including tracking the rattling box down and burning it to ashes.

She missed the box however, since the rattling did help her in recognizing potential danger.

The danger of surrendering to her tongue, of course.

However, she must admit, as talkative as she was, never had she been this chatty with a stranger.

Nor was she like this with the rest of her cousins.

"So I was told," he nodded enthusiastically, which sounded as if he was agreeing with her thoughts, but she knew that was preposterous, "So you are the fourth generation of the house?" he peered into the mansion. "You have a lot of cousins!"

She glanced toward the cousins, noticing their odd behaviors of leisurely lounging in the living room, doing nothing whatsoever since the journalists was occupying the spaces. "Not as much as others."

"And who are those others?"

She shifted her view back on the journalist. "Why do you need to nose into someone's business?"

"Why are you so rude, missy?"

She arched her brows. "Don't call me missy."

"Then what should I call you?"

"My name is Nadirah," she crossed her arms. "This is your trick of gaining my name, isn't it?"

"Always the pleasure," he grinned, "Works every time."

"I am not going to ask your name."

"Suit yourself," he shrugged, readying to escape from the scene. "I'm sorry, but I have an appointment with a friend of mine. If you could tell your grandmother, then I would highly appreciate it."

"What appointment?"

"My friend has sired a son," he raised his brows. "I shall prepare myself for spooking the baby—no, that's not right," he drawled, "Oh yes. Coo. I shall coo the baby."

"Okay," she shrugged. "How fun," although, what fun would a baby have at the sheer idea of someone literally spooking him senseless? Well, she might do that, but that was an entirely different situation—

"Hold it, Wafi!"

Wafi swiveled toward her direction, his brows rose in utmost surprise. "How did you know my name?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm a psychic."

"Oh really?"

"No."

"No?"

"Yes."

"Can't you make up your mind, missy?"

"No wonder I'm starkly mean," she wrinkled her nose, "It's you, isn't it, Ikhwan?"

"One and only," he grinned. "You ought to know me better."

She stared at him from his auburn hair to his worn-out sneakers, taking his deepened, bloodshot eyes into consideration, as well as the color of the eyes, not to mention the sickly pale skintone, and of course, the nosey voice—it was hard to detect any hint of his true identity.

"I'm joking," he said quickly, noticing the distress. "You said you wanted to see me as Wafi."

She was still baffled. "You should become an actor."

"Troublesome," he waved his hand. "Let the future unfolds itself."

She snorted.

"I'm not joking," he pointed out.

She hid a smile, and said, "I see the future, and the future is the past."

He raised his brows.

"Let's meet the child!"

They retired to a nearby couch, quietly sitting to avoid garnering the interest of others. Ikhwan dug about in his backpack, taking out a small, rectangle book. He propped it open, revealing the real identity of the book, which was actually a box of some sort. Both of the section bore the nearly identical butterflies, each staring deeply at them with their enchanting gems. It wasn't as sparkly as before, but it was still exquisite to the eyes and senses anyways.

Maznah had successfully gotten rid of the wrath, and true to its words, the sparkle began to fade, and as illogical as that sounded, no one really questioned about it further, since what was the point of asking, since the answer was yet to be ascertain?

Nadirah and Ikhwan had a hunch however, and their theory was that Laura visualized the butterflies to thoroughly absorb the negative vibes, and thus, the reason for the dimness of the gems.

They had asked the lady about the matter, but the ladyship more than often sported this particularly secretive side of her, and locked her lips shut.

If she didn't want to tell, they might as well respect that decision.

They brushed their fingertips on the butterflies, and automatically, they were teleported to the world of the Ventrises.

Laura glanced up from her son at the sound of the visitors, smiling as she said, "Welcome." She gestured at the sofa. "Have a seat."

They obeyed, staring down at the successor of the viscount.

"Ikhwan, Nadirah," her smile went broader, "Meet Calvin Ventris."

"Calvin," they echoed, and as if waking up from the hypnotizing stare of the baby, Ikhwan asked, "Why Calvin?"

She smiled. "I thought you would never ask. The idea is quite foolish, but Vincent like it—" she chuckled at the impatient look of the visitors. "C is for Clarissa, A is for Avery, L is for Laura, V is for Vincent, I is for Ikhwan, and N is for Nadirah. I just thought that it would be charming to embody our names in the name of this child."

There was a silence, before a slight choking sound escaped from Nadirah's throat. "Oh my ladyship—"

Nadirah half-expected for Ikhwan to swiftly cut her off with another of his self-righteous words, but instead, even he was flustered as he cleared his throat, "Oh. My ladyship."

She didn't know if he was touched or repulsed, but she didn't care.

He noticed that he was talking aloud, echoing Nadirah's words no less, so he quickly amended, "You shouldn't have."

"Well, I should," Laura smiled sweetly. "It's a good thing that our names perfectly created a name. If not, then I might have to forever engrave both of your existences in some other way."

Nadirah was on the verge of bawling her eyes out, and Laura's soothing words made it worse to be honest, "I hope he grows up to be such an admirable person as the two of you."

That did it. The fountain of pool in Nadirah's eyes leaked down to her cheeks, hastily wiped with her hands, "Please, my lady. No more, I am as flustered as I could be."

Laura softly chuckled. "Vincent would arrive any moment now. He has been especially alert these days. He knew that the two of you are coming."

"Such an intuitive man he is," Nadirah said amidst her running eyes, and caught Ikhwan's gleeful look. "No, it's not a crush, just mere respect. Respect I tell you, respect."

Ikhwan ignored the emotional outburst, and asked, "What about Mr. Avery?"

"Oh, he is preparing himself mentally in order to meet you both."

"Such a coward person he is," Nadirah sniffed, and yet again caught Ikhwan's sneering look. "No, it's not a crush, just sheer amusement. Amusement I tell you, amusement." She averted her attention to the lady, "Such a beleaguering kid, Ikhwan is."

This time, the viscountess's eyes curiously gazed into her own.

"No, I shall not comment," was Nadirah's only reply.

She was saved by another expressive staring by the creaking of the door, and once she saw Vincent entering the room, she squealed in delight, "You've saved my life!"

Vincent blinked, curiously staring down at Nadirah. "What did I miss?"

"The blatant murder of yours truly," she whispered.

"Murder?" he echoed, equally matching the low tone.

"Why do you need to whisper?" asked Ikhwan curiously.

"Murder is not a suitable word for a little boy's ears," she said, still whispering.

Vincent found his place beside her wife, notoriously said, "Not to this boy," his eyes flickered back to them and said, "I would like to point out that futuristic words are not suitable for this boy's ears either."

"Wouldn't escape our lips," Nadirah said haughtily. "I'll give you my word."

"You shouldn't believe her word," Ikhwan stifled a chortle at her annoyed look, but then he added, albeit truthfully, "And I also give you my word."

Four pairs of eyes stared lovingly at the newborn, and as Nadirah looked up, she saw the picture perfect family of her dreams, wondering if such a thing could happen in some part of her life.

Well, thrive to your dream, as one say. May the best person win, for the hard earn prized always tasted much sweeter on a pair of victorious hands.

