When she was finally done, Isla felt as though she had traveled miles on foot. Every single one of them had concerns tucked somewhere in every bloody door.

One, however, was so loud that she could not concentrate. His mind echoed loudly, forcing Isla to draw back and glare at Al. He pestered her with questions. Why was she here? Was she banished from the family? Was she here to dissolve their department? What happened to the western office? How did their Booth get broken? Could it be fixed? What time would this end? Oh, he felt tingly. Was it because she was in his mind?

Isla stumbled back and scowled at Al. "Now, I understand Fran," she growled under her breath.

Al blinked. "Understand Fran?"

Fran stiffened, afraid Isla would tell Al of her ultimate dream that concerned him.

Isla smiled. "I can't tell. I don't reveal anything I see in your thoughts unless I find the need to. And that's what I also expect from everyone I'm working with." Isla lifted her hand and Cris dutifully handed her a black folder. "You all heard about what happened with the western office. Their Booth is currently getting fixed, which means that all other offices should expect more clients. I'm here to improve the performance of this office. But while I'm here, I want everyone to grace a contract."

"Grace a contract?" Al asked, gulping, looking at the folder.

"Of confidentiality."

The five Opulents frowned.

"Reviewing everyone's file, it seems that all previous managers have neglected to let every staff grace a confidentiality contract whereas all matters concerning the department could not, in any way or form, be repeated to anyone else in any manner—written, oral, or mental. Such as the likes of a novel or any form of storytelling, gossipmongering among them," she added the last words with her eyes on Al.

"We don't speak about our work to anyone—"

"I know, Das," she answered the priest, realizing just now that the man was wearing a priest's collar around his neck, tucked under the collar of his white shirt. He could put on a robe and they would all be in a bloody mass. "But Opulent security is a concern that all other previous managers ought to have thought about. With the delicate information this department handles, you should be the first to grace nondisclosure agreement. We cannot have anyone start spewing secrets to enemies, can we?"

Esha gulped. "Enemies? But we only work on—"

"The Department of Lost Things was created not to find a goddess' missing trident, Esha. It was created, first and foremost, to investigate memories and provide assistance to all other Opulent departments. But it seems that it had strayed away from its mission. The Department of Lost Things started to focus on collecting payments rather than actually using them to their advantage." She smiled at Zaara. "And yes, Zaara, to answer your question, the Office of the Emperor rarely considers your help for this reason. You may have a bank of memories, but all of them are useless because, yes, Al, your clients have been paying you short."

"But if we do not accept their terms—"

"Then we do not offer our services."

"Then we do not receive payment!"

"They pay us with their memories," Isla said, voice stern and cold. "That is what we are after. Not them or whatever they have lost. We want their memories because we want to use them against them or someone else if we need to. We need their memories to improve our research, our weapons—everything. We use their memories because they are leverage. If you let them give you a day or three of their memory for their missing underwear, then you are not doing your job."

Everyone was now thinking she was indeed from the West.

"I'm an Opulent. You are Opulents. We don't care for our clients. We only care that they pay us big." She handed the folder to Esha. "Get inside and grace the contract." Esha groaned, thinking of the process. "You only have to prick a finger, Esha" Turning on her heels, she added, "Cris will facilitate the gracing. And once you're done, Al, I want to see the Booth."

***

Isla rolled her eyes when Esha pulled her finger away from Al, crying that she couldn't do it. Al growled at her, calling her a baby as he pulled her hand and, without warning, pricked her finger with the needle.

Esha cried out, but her friend only glowered while pressing her finger until a drop of glowing blue blood oozed out from the wound. Cris, who had been holding the woman's other hand, released his hold and grabbed the folder. Al guided Esha's finger onto the paper, sealing her to the contract.

They called it gracing because all Opulents had the grace of the angels in their blood. Any Opulent—Versant or Waif—would do anything stated on the contract, which meant they had no choice. They were bound to it.

Isla swiveled in her chair with relief. Now, anyone who would ask about her or the Department of Lost Things would get nothing from her staff. They may want to share something, but their grace would stop them. They would die without uttering or thinking about it.

She stood and walked out the door.

Of course, she was scared, but she could not show that to these Opulents. Everyone was a Waif here. Not one bloody Opulent was useful, but they were skilled. They knew their job. Their hearts were not just dark enough for the actual Villain work she was used to. Al was a good Keeper. He trained in the west. And most importantly, according to his record, no one had been lost in his watch. Yet.

"Al," she said at the door. "It's time."

The large man straightened and turned away from Esha. Das and the others were behind their desk, silently watching.

"How much do you know about the Booth?" Al asked.

"My mother was an Explorer. She taught me. The Emperor did the same thing. Is that answer enough?" He shrugged and walked past her, hips swaying as he did so.

"I have your cards here," Cris whispered beside her.

"We're not using them," she said.

Her strides were long and sure as she followed Al into a corridor adjacent to her office. The brick walls were old and rough; the floorboards creaked and thudded with their steps.

When they entered a dark room, memories bombarded her. It was designed exactly the same as the one in the west. She remembered her mother saying all Booths were the same. She never told her all rooms were similar too.

The only light was the one coming through the small skylight above them, directly over the typewriter sitting on a table in the middle of the room.

"I want to test it," she told Al, her voice echoing around the room.

"Really?" Al asked in surprise.

"Not me. Him," she said, motioning her head to Cris.

Cris sharply turned to her. "But—"

"Do you have something to hide?" she asked, eyebrow arched high. Al looked on with interest.

Cris sighed. Her memories of the past two years had been wiped clean. Even the Booth would not find the whole of it.

Cris gritted his teeth. "Where do we start?"

Al hesitated and looked at Isla. "Do you want to do it yourself or—"

"I'll do it."

She looked around, her back straight, shoulders pulled back. Shelves lined the walls, and she did not have to ask what they held. There was a red door to the left. She did not have to ask where it led to either.

"All Booths are the same, including the rooms," Al said, tone completely professional, reminding them that this was his turf. "The entire office is a Vesta, but the Box is in a five-meter Erebus."

"I know," she nodded.

"This Booth, however, has a bit of a problem. Nothing major, of course."

"What is it?"

"Sometimes the dial gets stuck. Not when you let go, of course, because then that will be a big problem. Sometimes you just got to use a bit of force when you go clockwise." He hesitated. "When was the last time you were in one?"

Her jaw clenched. She could not say six months ago because technically, she could not remember that. So she told him the one she did. "Thirteen." Cris cleared his throat. "Fifteen," she corrected. "When I was ten."

Al winced. "Now, I understand you want to do this alone, but I'm not comfortable letting you operate it on your own, especially for the first time after almost two decades."

Cris cleared his throat again, and Isla gritted her teeth. "Fine. You can come with us," she told Al.

The man grinned and nodded. "Then allow me to assist you?"

Isla looked at the stack of blank cards beside the typewriter and nodded. She turned to Cris. "You might as well learn how this is done."

"I already read five books on how this is done—"

"I don't care how many books you've read, Cris," she growled under her breath. "Observe."

Her secretary sighed. Al snickered, reaching for the black pen that was sitting right beside the typewriter.

"Hand," Al said, his gaze deliberately mysterious and menacing. Cris met Al's gaze with equal measure and lifted his hand. Isla, on the other hand, could feel the cold sweat forming on her temple. She had seen her mother do what Al was doing now. She had watched it hundreds of times in the past while sitting on a stool, her short legs dangling in mid-air as she swung them.

The corner of Al's lips curled, his gaze hard on Cris as he took the teen's hand, and with quick precision, pricked the tip of his index finger.

Cris blinked at the slight pain as Al reached for a card from the table. It was the size of a gaming card, but it was very different in many ways. Al positioned the card face down, showing the printed gold encryptions of a spell especially made for its purpose. In the middle was a blank space.

"C-R-I-S," she spelled for Al, who nodded and wrote Cris' name with the pen.

Isla noticed that the tip of Cris' finger was still glowing blue. She watched him lift it to his lips before pressing the wound with his thumb to stop the bleeding. Her attention returned on the card. The glowing blue strokes slowly crawled and traced the encryptions.

"How long do you want it?"

"Two years," Isla replied.

Al nodded and wrote the roman numerals II.

They waited until the entire encryption turned blue. Once it did, Al flipped the card over, revealing the blank space. Next, he settled himself in front of the typewriter. As if he had done it hundreds of times, Al flipped the paper lock up without looking, inserted the card behind the cylinder, rotated the knob, placing the blank front of the card perfectly in front of the type guide before he flipped the lock back into place.

Isla let out a quiet, shaky breath. She could almost see her mother with her round glasses behind the typewriter, doing the same fluid motion as Al. Cris walked over and stood behind the Keeper.

"You're hovering," Al said to Cris.

"I'm observing."

"You're hovering. Your shadow is touching the typewriter. I can't see."

Cris' jaw twitched, but he stepped back.

"Thank you," Al said, shaking his shoulders and sliding the carriage return lever to the right. Then he stood, much to Cris' incredulity. And then the typewriter began to type on its own, making Cris jump in alarm while Al chuckled. The typewriter moved, hopping to the next line below the first series of numbers.

Isla grew impatient. She wiped the sweat off her temple, wanting to get this over with. How did she get over this six months ago?

Finally, the bell of the typewriter rang. Al flipped the lock and pulled the card out, which now held a series of numbers. Then he turned to Isla, brows cocked high.

She nodded.

"Where's the Booth?" Cris asked.

Al and Isla faced the red door. "Follow me," Al replied, walking over to it with Cris' memory card in his hand.

Her secretary threw her a look of concern, one he rarely gave anyone. At the precipice of facing the Booth, Isla regretted not taking Lola with her today. But she scolded herself. No, this was her struggle. Lola would only be a distraction.

Al opened the red door and stepped inside.

Squaring her shoulders, Isla followed.

Then her heart hammered faster against her chest when she saw it.

Standing in the middle of the room, old and seemingly beaten with time, was a red phone booth.