Looking into memories someone was reliving at that same moment differed from searching the ones tucked away. Isla was standing in a corridor of Cris' mind and she could see doors. They were unlocked, but closed. The memories Cris played in his mind stood outside, but she did not want them. She needed the ones behind the doors.

She only had her mind to will them open, then with her senses, she entered like a ghost, witnessing everything, all the while fighting the ones in the corridor because they could be loud, demanding attention. They would attempt to pull her out of the rooms, but with years of practice, she had mastered how to navigate the mind, recognizing the future, the current thoughts, and the memories by how they made her feel.

"You look taller," she heard herself say, and she felt Cris panic a little. She remembered it was that morning.

Instead of answering, he said, "You're needed at the Emperor House now. Emergency."

She went out of that memory room and back in the corridor, meeting other memories that did not interest her, searching for the night prior that one. When she found it, it was not a familiar scene.

She was looking at herself through his eyes. She could sense Cris' frustration. He might be scowling. Her own words echoed as she watched herself talk. She looked weary; her eyes worse than Ivor's drooping ones.

"We can't travel by plane. All Opulent flights are banned at the moment," Cris was saying.

He followed her eyes to the clock on the wall. Three hours before midnight.

"We won't make it."

Cris nodded.

"I don't want you to tell me when I wake up. I'll freak out."

He took the folded paper from the table. "We'll let Ivor tell you."

She sighed, closing her eyes, weary.

"I can tell you about the Curse when you wake up."

She shook her head. "Don't. Just have Lola call me."

"You'll see the dates everywhere."

She looked around her home office and pushed her phone toward him. "I'll be confused, nothing more. Give me my old phone. We'll travel by land to Emperor House." Then she handed him a card case. "And keep this for now."

Then it went blank and Isla was back to the present. She frowned at Cris. "I think that's enough," he said.

A breath of disbelief escaped her lips. She turned to her great-grandfather, then at Lola who came when Isla demanded for her. "This is bloody crazy."

The grimace on Lola's face reminded Isla of the time when Ivor asked her to check the memory of the toilet bowl to see if he accidentally dropped his missing ring there.

Dread was not enough to describe how Isla felt. It was like that time again when they received the news of their father's accident just months after their mother's disappearance.

Her sister walked closer. "Your memory froze two years ago," Lola calmly said, but there was a hint she was tired of doing this. At that thought, Isla's heart raced as everything slowly sank in.

She pointed at Cris, frustration with each word. "I don't understand anything from what I saw."

"Your memory froze at the eve of your 23rd birthday two years ago. Anything after that only stays with you for six months," Lola cautiously said.

"You're saying that I can only accumulate what—six bloody months? Then it happens again?"

Lola reluctantly nodded, biting her lip.

Isla believed them when they said she finally had her Curse. In fact, she had been expecting it, been trying to prepare for it because Curses could come anytime, at any point. She had imagined the worst Curses ever documented and thought of ways to deal with them. But she never considered this one.

"For two years now, your memory resets every 24th of March and 24th of September," Cris explained. "We call it a reboot. Everything from the last six months just vanishes and you wake up again thinking it's March 24, 2018, a day after your 23rd birthday."

Her head snapped to Ivor who had remained quiet. "You're now a hundred-and-fifty-two?" He nodded gravely. To Cris, she said, "And you're seventeen."

"I'm twenty-three and you're twenty-five," Lola impatiently added. Clearly, she had done this too many times.

"It's March 2020."

"Yes," Cris replied, walking back to her with his phone in hand. "Fourth reboot, same memories retained. You have six months until the next reboot. We've been probing for ways on how you can regain your memories, but we can't find any permanent solution," he said, answering the questions in her head. "The only thing we've established so far is that the memory resets are always on time—always the 24th of March and September, and always at midnight."

Breaking his silence, Ivor said, "You'll review memories to get a grasp of the present through the people around you. But it wore you down—all of us, I should say. Cris the most. He had to be in every meeting you had. He had to review all missions and cases your team handled so he could brief you. Then you decided—we all decided—that you use the Booth."

The word sent chills up Isla's spine. Whirling on her heels, she said, "You must be kidding me, Ivor. I agreed to use that bloody thing?"

"Yes, because you realized it was necessary," Cris replied, holding up his hand to show her the card case she gave him.

"Last week, I had to make a hard decision and pulled you out from the Department of Villainy," Ivor said in a grave voice.

Her eyes widened at Cris who said, "That's why we weren't able to get here in time yesterday. You wrapped everything up at work until yesterday. The arrest of the Opulents on that plane just made it more difficult because no private Opulent planes were allowed in Vestian air."

Isla moistened her lips. She wanted to beg Cris to let her inside his mind again so she could replay everything. And then she remembered something. "What about Axon?"

"Oh," Lola said, throwing Cris a glance. "That one bit."

"What do you mean, 'Oh, that one bit'?" She turned to Cris. "You told me he's out of the country with his mother."

"He's still in London," Cris admitted.

"He never picked up my calls since this morning. His line is always dead."

With a straight face, Cris replied, "That's because he might have blocked you."

Before she could ask the question, Lola said, "He cheated on you."

She stiffened, and her eyes turned to slits. "He cheated on me when?"

"Oh, quite some time ago. Two years? A week after the first reboot, I believe?" Lola asked Cris, who nodded.

She blinked rapidly, trying to grasp the fact that her boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—had the audacity to cheat on her. "With whom?"

"Not important. She has a restraining order against you."

"Fucking half-breed bastard!"

Lola patiently said, "And I suggest you don't stalk him. You did on the third reboot before you were briefed about the Curse. You thought you were still dating."

"Did I make a fool of myself?"

Cris cleared his throat. "Lola had to pay for the woman's nose job. Then we had to appear in front of a human judge in a human courtroom."

"She's human?" she ground out, on the verge of frenzy. "Human? Please tell me she is at least a quarter nymph!"

Cris shrugged. "Red blood came out of her nose when you punched her, so..." He gave her a tight smile. "She was very human."

Her head fell back. Closing her eyes, she pinched the bridge of her nose and cursed under her breath.

"Your Curse is only known to everyone in this room." Ivor's voice made her open her eyes.

She landed the worst Curse known to Opulents. "Rowan will find the best way to kill you if he learns he has a higher chance to be emperor," Isla pointed out.

He smiled. "Tempting."

She stood up and paced. "This will be a scandal."

"No, it will be a banquet," Cris said. "They'll feast at the chance to prove your incompetence."

"Well, they would not be wrong. Who would want to have a ruler who can't even remember her boyfriend cheated on her? With a fucking human!"

Everyone just stared, their faces blank. Obviously, this had happened before.

"If I'm incompetent to be empress, then it's all over. Rowan and his father will win." Isla inhaled deeply. "Have we looked into other Opulents who might have gotten a similar Curse?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"Looks like you're the first," Lola replied.

Her muscles tightened, the weight at the pit of her stomach heavier. "Then the Booth is what I've got for now," she gritted out, not believing that after all these years, she'd have to enter one again.

"Yes," Ivor said.

"Then I can return to work?"

Cris and Ivor shared a look. "You can't remember everything you worked on. Worse, we fear that your agents are noticing the lapses," Cris answered for Ivor. "One filed a negligence report against you. You forgot to brief him about the water nymphs surrounding the target."

"And why did I have to brief him about the bloody nymphs? They're practically harmless."

"The agent had a hydrophobia Curse."

She gritted her teeth. "I just need to adjust using the Booth, develop a system of what to look for, where to go. I can still do my work—" She stopped at their utter silence. Ivor would not meet her eyes, his thoughts guarded. Cris cleared his throat again, his thoughts also unavailable. Lola had a frozen smile on her lips, as if she was on a verge of another dreadful news.

"The western Booth is fried," Cris finally spoke. "We learned two months ago. We tried everything but it's stopped functioning."

"You can't be serious. It can't be—"

"You tried to take it home, child," Ivor interjected, tone disappointed, almost angry. "Without my permission."

She froze. "You mean I broke it?"

The old man stiffly nodded. Lola looked away, wiping her hands on her jumper. Cris was the one who said, "Yes. Something must have gone wrong when we moved it from London. The Western Department of Lost Things is currently looking for a way to fix it, but it doesn't look promising. This is a big loss, Isla. There is only one Booth in each arena."

Isla shook her head. Who would think that the loss of the thing she despised the most could render her hopeless?

"There is an open position in the Eastern Department of Lost Things," Ivor said.

She groaned.

"We've already started working on the house there," her great-grandfather replied. "You can't uproot the Booth from there to here. We've already lost one."

Isla met her sister's eyes. Lola looked at her with pity and she hated it.

"You can't rely on someone else's memory to regain yours, child. You very well know how memories change over time," Ivor said. "You need the Booth."

Cris took one step closer, hands in his pockets. "It's at the other side of the world. No one will know you there. Because the western Booth isn't available, they'll start segregating work to the rest of the Department of Lost Things. The eastern one needs a manager as soon as possible. You're suited for the position."

"I'm beyond suited for the position, Cris. I'm overqualified."

Everyone else fell silent. They were not expecting her to do anything. In fact, they must be so used to this that they were just waiting. She groaned and dropped her head. "It was my decision to go to the Eastern Arena."

"Yes," Lola said. When she looked up, her sister was smiling at her warmly. "And I said I'll come with you."

***

Isla skipped dinner and retreated into her old room. She looked around and scowled at the old photos of her teenage self with Lola and their cousin Diana.

Everything was white because it helped with the headaches. Spending an entire day looking into everyone's thoughts could bring a bout or two.

A knock came to the door and Lola slipped inside, hair orange with locks of silver. Her cheeks puffed with her smile. She crossed her arms in front of her, leaned against the door, legs crossed. "You look grumpy."

Isla scoffed. She was furious about many things. She was angry at the gods and the angels; the humans were given, their fairy friends included. She was angry at the Spell of Thousands for bringing the Curse.

Lola pushed away from the door. "Look, I'm here because you told me before the reboot to tell you something." She knelt in front of Isla. "Looking into memories of people around you took its toll and I'm telling you—you almost went insane. Using the Booth to scan your own stored memories would be heaven. And that's your word, not mine."

With a groan of frustration, Isla tried to roll away, but her sister held her knees, dipping her head to peer at her. "This is a different Booth."

"There are only four and they are all bloody the same, Lola. They all came from the same place and they all do the same bloody thing." But she knew what she would eventually do. It was her who decided on this.

"You'll be perfect for the job. The Eastern Department of Lost Things just lost a manager."

Isla scoffed. "I can guess where she got lost."

Her sister shook her head, and her hair started to turn pink. "She retired, that's all. There's an existing team out there."

Isla blinked a few times in disbelief. "I must have been a mess to decide that I could man this department."

Lola stared at her and said nothing, but she knew what her sister was thinking. She would not be an empress if the Senators found out. If their cousin found out.

With a sigh, Lola stood and placed her hands in the pockets of her denim jumper. "I'm sure it's not that bad."

"It will be one hell of a boring job, Lola."

"Ivor became Emperor because of his work as Booth Explorer. Dad, too. And mom was proud working with the Department of Lost Things. It was her legacy." The mention of their mother made her eyes narrow into slits. Lola's golden-brown globes became arrested, and she blinked, taking a step back. "I know how hard it is to be near a Booth, but I've seen you do it six months ago and you were amazing."

Isla walked to the door that led to the bathroom. "I know. No need to convince me. If six-months-ago me thought this is the best idea, I'll do it. It's not like I can return to being a Villain."

Lola grinned. "You'll miss killing creatures, I know. But I think you'll also enjoy this new position. Not everyone can walk around memories."

She shook her head, walking into the bathroom. "Good night, Lola," she said before shutting the door.

She rubbed her face with her hands and then turned to the mirror. She looked back at her icy blue eyes. If only she could look into her own thoughts through a mirror. Now, that would be famous. But that never worked. All she could see was a furious and lost Opulent. And a scared one.

The moment felt surreal. She wondered if she was absorbing it the way she should. Although she was feeling too many things at once, she felt a part of her was distant, just sitting there at the side, watching her go through this.

She swallowed. If the news of her Curse leaked out, she'd be damned. One touch from Rowan and she would be done for. And with his wing, he could manipulate the Senators and vote her out.

Isla turned to face the mirror again, thinking of the Booth.

How did she ever manage to get back in there six months ago?

Then she closed her eyes and sighed with resignation. Ivor was right. She could not go around looking into people's head to piece her missing memories together. The longer she had to live with this Curse, the more memories she'd lose. It would be more difficult to regain them because people's memories of her would change and fade. As time stretched, she'd have no memories of herself.

The Booth was the only option. It could give her the ability to revisit her memories. Her memories. Not of others—hers. Just as the way she remembered things and how she perceived them.

But the Booth was dangerous.

All memories are.

She closed her eyes and shivered as a poignant point of the past rushed through her.

Everyone knew her mother got lost inside the Booth and never came back. They also knew Isla was with her when it happened. And everyone remembered how she came back alone.

No one knew what happened inside the Booth. And for some time, neither did Isla. No one forced her to remember. Even the Booth could not give them anything because her memory of that day was blank—erased. It was trauma, they said.

But the funny thing about memories is they always come back to haunt.

Memories of that particular night with her mother rushed back to her. Every word her mother told her, the panic that followed, and the screams that came with it... they all came back to her all at once when she did not even ask for them.

And she never told anyone. How could she? Where would she start?

How would she tell them it was all her fault?

***

"Everyone now knows you're back in the Isles."

Lucas sighed, bounding down the last steps of the charter plane.

"These people are crazy. They're still at the airport waiting for you to get out. But no news about Cale yet, so that's good, right?" Judah, his assistant, squinted at the blazing sun. He cursed with awe, looking at the empty runway behind them.

Lucas walked away from the runway and into the airport building, Judah behind him, shouting about the line of palm trees and the mountains to their right. "Do people even know you here?" he asked.

"No. And I'd like to keep it that way."

They walked out of the airport, Lucas with his canvas bag and Judah with his giant black suitcase. Hot, humid air swept past them, whistling around the empty bay.

A honk and a green classic Land Rover rolled in front of them. Behind the wheels was a grinning young lady in white shirt. She waved at them through the open window before jumping out.

"Sister?" Judah guessed just as the woman approached Lucas for a hug. "How's my famous brother, Luke Edner?" she asked.

"He's dead. It's Lucas for now," he replied with a grin, kissing her cheek before circling to the driver's side. His sister climbed into the passenger seat; Judah struggled with his suitcase into the backseat. "That's Judah. Judah, Tina. Sister."

With a huff, the man poked his head between the two front seats and asked, "Younger?"

"By one year," Tina replied. "Welcome to Cale."

Judah tuned to Lucas. "So, I know that you're planning to stay for a month, but I've already set up a meeting with a few endorsers. It's at three and—woah!" The man cried out as Lucas stepped on the gas, sending the younger man back. "Slow down!"

Tina turned to look at Judah, a wide grin on her face. "He's the new one?"

Lucas just nodded, veering the Rover onto the highway.

Tina pulled one leg under her, facing him. "When are you losing the man bun?"

"The hair has a contract," said Judah. "He can't lose the man bun."

Tina's jaw dropped. "He's not serious, is he?"

Lucas shrugged. "He's not lying."

"You signed a contract on your hair?"

"I now have legal reasons to keep it."

"And the five million Western dollars that came with it," said Judah. "Are we in a Vesta?" Judah asked, bending low to assess the view of the mountain outside the window to his left. At the opposite side was the ocean.

"Yes," Tina replied.

"Looks like an Erebus."

Lucas looked at his assistant through the rearview mirror. His confusion was understandable, having lived all his life in the west. This must be a new world to him.

Here, the sun shone brightly; the sea was both shy and harsh; storms were constantly unforgivable. Unfortunately, the gods were as equally crazy as they were on the other side of the world.

And this was home. No crazy fangirls. No meetings. No cameras. Nothing but the farms and family. Nothing but his privacy, which also had a contract. His agency would have to pay if the town of Cale and Luke Edner were to be mentioned in the same sentence. The contract was not his idea. It was his grandfather who insisted because he would not have random girls knocking on their doors looking for Luke Edner, the jazz singer they wanted to fuck.

"Since you're new, allow me to let you in on some interesting facts," said Tina to Judah. She pointed at the right side of the road. "We're in a Vesta, but that woodland is an Erebus."

Judah peered closer at the window to his right. "An Erebus inside a Vesta?"

"Not really. It extends to the sea," Tina said, sharing an amused grin with Lucas.

"I've never been inside an Erebus. I mean, I've been while riding the train, or the plane. But never stepped foot in one."

Tina looked at him with incredulity. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven."

Tina smiled at Lucas, brows raised high. "Young. And clearly ignorant," she said, clucking her tongue. "People in the West sure live in a bubble."

Judah slid closer to the window. "Is that a roof?" he asked.

"The Wyrd House. For the children, it's the Haunted House."

"Ghosts?"

"Sure. Nothing's impossible in an Erebus. They say that a woman lives there, trapped by the god of the underworld. The usual stories."

Lucas' smile slowly died. He had been in the woodland many years ago. In fact, he had stood outside the Wyrd House. A shiver ran up his spine and he cleared his throat, brushing off the memories of that one afternoon.

"Which underworld god?" Judah asked.

Tina snorted. "Take your pick. We have a couple of them in the East.

"Is that house owned by humans?"

"Not anymore. It's now Opulent property. But it was once a hospital during the last human war. Then a prison after."

"Prison for who?"

"Humans, of course."

"You're kidding. A prison inside an Erebus?"

"Frightened yet? That's why you don't venture in the woodland. Never even think about it."

Lucas did not say it, but he felt different. The woodland was a looming presence, a place that called out to him, to enter its sleeping enchanted world. The locals would claim to feel the same, but only a few dared enter. It was simply not for humans. No Erebus ever was.

Judah turned his attention to the other side of the road. "And this plantation?"

"Ours." Lucas turned into the dirt road that led further into the sugarcane plantation. "Welcome to Hacienda Gaston."

His new assistant looked amazed, the Erebus woodland now forgotten as they rode past the village of farmers that worked the fields, fine dust clouding behind the wheels. Finally, two giant gates and an enormous courtyard.

"Whoa, what is that?" Judah gaped at the giant tree in the middle of the courtyard that blocked the view of the mansion.

"What? The tree?" Tina asked.

"Yeah."

"Balete. A century-old. See those?" She pointed at the roots hanging in the air, sprouting from the thick crown. "They're called strangling figs. They will eventually reach ground and grow; thicken, until they eventually strangle the host tree."

"You've got to be kidding me."

Tina chuckled. "You're so oddly amusing and ignorant. I think I'll enjoy showing you around."

The mansion was big enough to cover the view of the mountains behind it and Lucas shared another amused smile with his sister as Judah gawked in astonishment.

"I knew you were rich—the charter plane and all—but... this is something else. You're filthy rich."

"Not us," Lucas replied. "It's the older people living in this house."

"We're not rich until they die," Tina added.

Stopping the vehicle at the bottom of the stone stairs that led up to the doors, he looked over his seat at Judah. "Get out."

The man struggled out of the vehicle and pulled his suitcase out. Tina closed the passenger door and poked her head into the open window. "Are you going to join us for dinner later?"

"If the old man will tell me why he summoned me back home, I might," he said.

"Wait—you're going?" Judah asked, looking bewildered. "Where?"

"Home," Lucas replied, as if Judah should have known. "I don't live here."

"But you can't just leave me he—"

"Feel at home," he said, driving away.

"But the meeting!" Judah shouted helplessly.

Lucas just smiled and drove home.

A small, rough road led to his little harbor and no one, not even the farmers who worked the surrounding fields, could enter. He parked outside the concrete and hardwood tiny house deftly hidden from view in the middle of a rice field. Trees surrounded the patch of land.

His tiny secret.

Inside was an open space: kitchen, living room; a bath and toilet that opened to the outside; above was a half-deck with a mattress and a lamp. One side of the house was entirely glass, looking out into the wide, open rice field, spilling sunlight during the day, and displayed the lit interior at night.

After drinking a glass of water, he swung his bag over his shoulder and pulled the reclining sofa away from the wall. Then he bent down and pulled open the hidden trapdoor on the wooden floor.

The narrow staircase squeaked under his weight. The sunlight from upstairs spilled down to guide his steps, the floating dust motes visible in the light. He flicked on the switch, revealing all of his secrets.

The yellow light flickered, then stilled. In the middle was his table, empty save for a lamp. Shelves lined the walls, some empty, others displaying his priceless secrets, sitting there waiting for him.

Lucas placed his canvas bag on the table and with deliberate ease, pulled out the only object inside—a long cloth woven with red and white geometrical patterns. It looked and felt just like any cloth.

But it wasn't just any cloth.

Hundreds of people, even the gods, had sought the legendary birang of King Laon. And now it was home, just where it was meant to be—in his possession, safe inside a Vesta.

Myth said that King Laon gave his people anything they wished for through the birang he wore around his head. There were many tales of what happened to it after the king died, most of them false. Lucas read countless books to track its trail around the globe.

One good thing about being famous was brushing shoulders with the upper echelons of society. For Lucas, he preferred the demigods. Not for their charms and godly presence, but for their secrets.

It took five long years of arduous research, befriending demigods, a few Opulents, and at one time even a minor god, just to get his hands on this mystical artifact.

He found an underground auction—very illegal, of course. There, he bought the birang, and it cost him the entire fortune he earned from his last ten concerts.

"I'm not even sure if you work," he said to the cloth.

The auction was held in an Erebus, in an abandoned temple of Veritas, the Goddess of Truth. That was the only consolation he had. The auctioneer did not have to show them if it worked. He only needed to tell them it was the real thing. So yes, this thing could work. But like many mythical artifacts, the birang demanded someone worthy.

He carefully folded the cloth and placed it on the shelf. It was not even aesthetically pleasing. Stepping back, hands in his pockets, he still admired his collection: A vase he got from the south; a blade from a forest in the west; a piece of paper; a pipe, a necklace. A few others lined the other shelves, all worth his entire fortune and agonizing journeys.

He did not consider himself a hero by protecting these things. He was just a crazy collector who appreciated the story of each, hoping that perhaps, someday, someone worthy would need them—perhaps even him.

He turned away from his collection, switched off the lights and climbed back upstairs.

He slid the sofa back into place and looked around.

Now, why did the old man call him back home?