Metamorphosis

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 drow
ned 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—”
br />   “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.”

&nbsp
; “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 sh
abby,” 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