The next morning, Aida set off for the Victoria and Albert Museum. Despite many past trips to London, she’d never found enough time to explore its vast collections properly. Today, she was thrilled to have an entire day to wander its halls, finally fulfilling her long-held desire to see the famous Raphael Cartoons and tapestries.
As she walked through the building’s grand entrance, the familiar sights and sounds of a bustling museum surrounded her. But she froze in shock at the signs informing visitors thatthe Raphael Court and the Renaissance Britain and Baroque Europe galleries were all closed due to a fire in the neighboring fashion gallery.
“There was a fire?” Aida asked the elderly woman behind the glass of the ticket booth. She cursed herself for not paying attention to the news.
“Aye, it’s terrible what happened.” Her Scottish accent was thick. “A few days ago, someone managed to break into the area behind the glass cases and lit up a bunch of 1950s dresses and some of the Alexander McQueens. It spread through the room, taking down half the collection before the flames were doused.” She handed Aida her ticket. “Terrible, terrible. They have no idea who did it.”
“Weren’t there cameras?”
She nodded. “Worthless.”
Aida was disappointed, but she decided to make the most of her visit and explore the rest of the museum. Yet even as she examined the Medieval treasures of the Simon Sainsbury Gallery, Aida couldn’t shake the thought that it was related to all the other cultural disappearances MODA seemed to have a hand in. But why would they burn down the fashion gallery? Or destroy any of the other locations, for that matter. And how could they possibly erase memories? None of it made sense, and if it was all true, Aida didn’t want to think about what that meant for her—for her job, or her future.
15
December 2019
That evening, a little before 7:00 p.m., Aida donned her hat and wrapped her scarf around the bottom half of her face, hoping to obscure her identity from cameras and passersby. After a brief text exchange, she and Luciano decided to leave their MODA phones behind in their rooms with the televisions on for noise, hoping to convince anyone listening at MODA that they’d both stayed in.
She kept her fingers crossed in her pocket as she navigated the hotel, hoping no one would notice her. It was an old habit from childhood that she fell back on when hoping for parking spots, restaurant reservations, and other fortuitous events. She had no indication that it worked, and she almost crossed the fingers of her other hand to hope it did.
Luciano stood beneath the grand weathered clock that adorned the corner of the building—once a bank, now abandoned, its windows boarded up and its former purpose long forgotten. The stone facade still carried an air of dignity, though time had dulled its grandeur. Luciano’s long gray overcoat billowed slightly in the cool breeze, and a houndstooth scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck. A black leather messenger bag hung casually over one shoulder. He lit up when he saw her. “Ciao, Aida!”
When he kissed each cheek, Aida’s heart thumped so loud she thought he must be able to hear it. She willed herself tobe calm and to mute the giddiness that bubbled up inside her. God, she hadn’t felt like this since the first days when she was dating Graham.Fuck that guy, she thought to herself, and gave Luciano a big grin.
“Come, let us walk, and you can tell me this news,” Luciano said in Italian, gallantly holding out an elbow.
Delighted, she took his arm and together they crossed the street and headed toward Soho. As they entered the vibrant neighborhood, the festive ambience enveloped them. The streets were alive with a dazzling array of holiday lights, casting a soft ethereal glow on the bustling sidewalks. Strings of delicate twinkling bulbs hung above them, weaving a tapestry of light that danced across the facades of restaurants and shops. The December air was brisk, but she was warm inside, buoyed by Luciano’s proximity.
“So we know that more than two of us are working for MODA collecting happiness, right?” she said, continuing the conversation in Italian.
“Sì, have you learned more?”
“What if I told you that there may be more than two hundred Collectors?”
“No!” he exclaimed. “Two hundred? But why?”
“That’s the mystery.” As they continued down High Holborn into Soho, Aida explained what Yumi had discovered.
Luciano guided her around the corner at Soho Street. “You said you had a list of people we can look out for?”
“Yes, stop for a moment, and let me send it to you.” They paused in front of a construction site where a hole in the ground dominated what once must have been a public square, taking up the center block of the neighborhood.
“Wait,” Luciano said. “This place... something doesn’t seem right.”
Aida looked up. She’d been in this part of town several times before when visiting an old college roommate who once lived in the neighborhood, so she tried to get her bearings as Lucianoled her around the edge of the construction. On a corner down the street, one of the oldest buildings had a red banner around two sides with big yellow letters proclaiming House of Charity.
“I know that building,” she said. Her friend had lived just a block past and down the street.
“So do I,” Luciano said. He turned back to the dark hole in front of them. Running his hands through his hair as he stared into the darkness, he began walking the length of the fence.
Aida followed him as he wandered the perimeter, weaving around pedestrians and dog walkers until they came to a stack of wrought iron fencing leaning up against the chain-link barrier that surrounded the site. One of the pieces had a dented sign dangling from a paint-chipped black bar. Luciano stopped in front of it.
“I knew it!” He turned back to her and began digging into his bag, before extracting a Moleskine notebook and flipping through the pages. Sketch after sketch blurred by until he finally stopped and held the book so Aida could see. “This statue,” he said, pointing at the sketch, “is of Charles II.” The Baroque-era king wore a long curled wig and sported armor. One arm was on his hip and the other bent in front of him, empty of the great sword that his hand must have once held. “I drew it the last time I was here. It was summer, and a concert was playing.” He pointed to a building on the perimeter of the park. “That’s Paul McCartney’s office over there.”
Aida peered around him to see the words on the sign: Soho Square Gardens. She gasped.
“Wait, there was a brown-and-white gardener’s hut in the center of the park, wasn’t there?” she asked, remembering. “And a bench that...” She paused, unable to grasp the words that seemed to be on the tip of her tongue. “Why am I having so much trouble remembering?”
