Luciano nodded. “It’s not just you. It’s me too. I think you might be right about the bench.” He stared at the park momentarily, then suddenly gave a soft “oh” in exclamation. “Do youthink this could be tied to what you were telling me? About places disappearing.”
A throat cleared near them, and they turned to look. A woman stood a few feet away, her hand on the chain-link fence. She was breathtakingly beautiful, seemingly ageless and round of face, with ruby lips and coffee-brown hair coiled tightly in several elaborate braids against her head. Her clothes were elegant, with black riding boots over her jeans, a suede coat, black earmuffs, and a scarf resembling cashmere. She peered into the blackness of the construction site. “You’re both right. There was a bench in that park. A memorial to Kirsty MacColl. Now it’s gone. A tragedy, don’t you think?” Her voice was measured and clear.
Aida wasn’t sure if she meant the missing park or the singer’s death in a motorboat accident in Cozumel. In high school, Aida had gone through a phase of loving The Pogues, and “Fairytale of New York” quickly became her favorite Christmas song. MacColl’s death had left her feeling a deep sadness. “Yes, a tragedy,” she agreed.
“Interesting. You seem to know about the disappearances,” the woman said, turning to them. It wasn’t a question.
For a moment, Aida couldn’t breathe. Was this woman from MODA? Luciano must have come to the same conclusion because he tensed next to her before hastily closing his sketchbook and returning it to his bag.
“What do you mean?” he asked, his tone brusque.
The woman exhaled, glancing around the square as if confirming something. “I’ve been following disturbances like this all over the city. I was drawn here because something about this place felt... off. Hollow.” She looked back at them, her gaze sharp. “And then I saw you two. That made it even more interesting.”
Aida exchanged a glance with Luciano. “Why?”
“This park is gone, much like so many other London attractions. The Twinings tea shop burned down a few months ago.Madame Tussauds is long shuttered. Gunnersbury Park is being turned into a cemetery. No one is skating at Somerset House this Christmas.” She shook her head. “Too much is wrong. The balance is tipping.”
A light switch flipped on inside her with the mention of Madame Tussauds. “Dear god, the old folk’s home... and that juvenile hall. That was where the wax museum was!” Of course. She’d gone there once with her parents when she was ten, and seeing the figures of Henry VIII, Queen Elizabeth I, and Marie Antoinette had fueled her interest in history. How could she have forgotten it? But even as she thought about the museum, the sudden bright memory the woman had given her became hazy.
The woman peered at her. “You’re already starting to forget, aren’t you?”
“I don’t want to forget it...” Aida put her hand to her head. “What’s happening to me?”
Luciano touched her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
Aida drew herself up, the memory sliding away. “I think so. What were we talking about?”
“Places disappearing,” Luciano said. He pointed to the Soho Square sign.
“You only remember that because there’s a reminder in front of you,” the woman noted, looking at the dangling sign. “But something’s ripping these memories from your minds. None of this is right.” She put her hands on her hips and sized them up. “Yes. It seems it’s a good thing I ran into the two of you today. You clearly know more than you’re telling me. Come, I want to understand. My favorite Thai place is nearby, and I would like to hear your story.” She started off down the street.
Aida exchanged a look with Luciano, who gave a slight nod. “It’s probably the same place I was taking you. We might as well hear her out,” he whispered. “But be careful.” He held out his elbow once again.
She hadn’t needed the warning. And as much as Aida wasintrigued by this stranger, she was also disappointed that she wouldn’t be sharing the meal alone with Luciano.
The hostess recognized the woman and immediately led them to a table in the back corner of the bustling restaurant. Once they were seated, the woman regarded them. “You don’t know each other well, do you?”
Aida’s mouth fell open, and she closed it again.
The woman chuckled. “Ahh, I’m intruding on your evening. You’ll have to forgive me for that.”
“Who are you?” Luciano asked.
“My name is rather challenging to pronounce. You can call me Sophie.”
“Sophie who?” he pressed.
She smiled. “Just Sophie.”
“You’re with MODA, aren’t you?” Aida blurted out.
Sophie’s gaze flicked around the restaurant, her expression unreadable. Then, without a word, she raised her hands, palms up, and swept them outward in a slow deliberate arc as if shaping something unseen around the table. The air seemed to tighten, the murmur of nearby conversations dulling to a hush. “That’s better. Your devices will no longer work, and no one nearby will overhear us now.”
Luciano nudged Aida under the table with his knee. She pressed back, knowing her thoughts echoed his. This woman might not have all her faculties.
Sophie picked up the menu and glanced through it. “No, I’m not with MODA. I’m not with anyone. But I think it would be prudent if you explained to me what MODA is. Let’s start there.”
“We can’t do that,” Luciano said.
