The Sphere (18 page)

“You two go look for the cart. That’s all you need to concern yourself with, Morgan.”

Morgan looks at me with resentment, as if William’s decisions were somehow my fault. She hesitates briefly and then goes out the garden door in a huff. I’m still thinking about how we have to get back to the monastery, but I have to admit that Morgan’s words bothered me. Why am I staying here with Holmes?

“William, are we going back to the monastery now?”

“Why do we need to go back?”

“The smell! I’ve told you a million times!”

William begins walking around the living room. He goes over to the fireplace and looks at the flames, stirring the coals with a rake. Maybe no one in this world notices smells. I take a deep breath. The fire should be giving off some kind of scent, but I definitely can’t smell a thing. On the other hand, Beatrice did seem ecstatic about the aroma of the tea in the little wooden box, but I couldn’t smell it at all. Maybe it’s only Holmes who lacks a sense of smell. It could be—after all, he doesn’t seem to have particularly sharp senses. Just a special sense for unraveling mysteries, obviously. I have to admit, even though I haven’t seen him solve a case yet, that he has something no one else does. He’s unflappable; he stays silent and thoughtful, not letting a single detail escape him. But why didn’t he realize there was somebody in the trunk?

“Take this,” he says suddenly, handing me a magnifying glass. “I’ve been thinking about your instinct for investigation.” My heart leaps—finally, we’re going back to the monastery! “Probably we won’t find anything, but I’d like to see how you do it. Observe carefully and report anything out of the ordinary that you find, anything that catches your eye. I shall examine the top floor.”

“But—here?”

“Of course! Where else?”

I hear William’s footsteps on the old staircase and then walking across the upper floor. The only thing for me to do is go back to the monastery on my own, but I have to find the right moment. If I went now and ran into the monk... I have to be careful. Maybe Beatrice can tell me what times they have mass, that would be best, I could come back when everyone is in the chapel. Although...

I lean on the piano with the magnifying glass in one hand. There’s a little scrap of black fabric caught in between two of the keys. I grab it just as William comes back downstairs, looking discouraged.

“Nothing. Beatrice tidied away every last clue. I suppose you haven’t found anything here, either.”

“Well, I’ve got this,” I say, showing him the piece of cloth.

A smile spreads across the detective’s thin wooden face. He takes a pair of tweezers out from one of his pockets and picks up the scrap of cloth with them, lifting it up to look at it in the light.

“What do you think, Holmes?” I ask, more to entertain myself than because I really think the shred of cloth has any value.

“I knew you had a nose for this... By the way, do call me Sherlock. Yes, you may call me Sherlock.”

Sherlock Holmes? What is going on here? That’s why Morgan said he was the best detective... Focus, Dissie. These are just people who are as weird as your parents. They like taking their names from books. That’s all. Anyway, it seems like I’ve done something right.

“You really think it’s important?” I ask, surprised.

“Certainly.”

For a moment I’m free of the anguish I’ve felt ever since our visit to the cell. I’ve discovered something important, and William—or Sherlock, that’s what he wants me to call him—is sure that this scrap of fabric will tell us something. I want to savor this moment, to clarify my ideas, to distance myself from the awkward feeling that this wooden man is attracted to me. When he’s like this, so interested in my contributions to the investigation, it really seems like he’s only interested in my mind, but then later... This is ridiculous! I shouldn’t let Morgan’s suggestions affect me. We hear the wheels of the cart and I go over to the garden door. Sherlock hides my discovery away in his pocket.

“What are you so happy about?” Morgan asks, scrutinizing him suspiciously.

Sherlock doesn’t answer, so Morgan’s empty eye sockets turn and bore into me instead.

“Dear William, we’ve brought the cart.”

“Ah, yes...” he answers, finally emerging from his reverie. “Come on then, let’s all go upstairs. It will be difficult to bring Mister Gray down. Even though he’s not a stout man, you all saw how hard it was to get him out of the attic.”

We go up to Dorian’s room and between the four of us carry him downstairs and out to the garden, where Morgan and Beatrice have left the cart.

“Shall we go, Holmes?” Morgan’s question sounds more like an order.

I steel myself for Morgan’s angry stare. I don’t even want to think about what she’ll say when she sees that Sherlock and I are going to be left alone together again. I guess he’ll send the other two to the hospital, and we’ll go back to the cell, or analyze the piece of cloth. I don’t know what the next step will be, but Morgan won’t be happy...

“Yes, let’s go,” Sherlock answers.

I stand stock-still.

“My dear Beatrice, you may go back home to rest. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your invaluable services. If not for you I would have felt truly mortified knowing that Dorian Gray was—”

“Come on!” Morgan bursts out. “We haven’t got all night.”

“Let us go home,” Beatrice says, taking me by the arm.

I stand there with my mouth hanging open. We go out the front door while Sherlock and Morgan leave through the garden. Where to begin? I’ve already explained how important it is to go back to the monk’s cell, but these people... I can’t see any option except to go back to the monastery on my own. Clearly Sherlock can’t be trusted. I’ll pretend to be tired at Beatrice’s house, and then when she goes to sleep I’ll go back to the monk’s cell.

Beatrice stops mid-step, paralyzed.

“What’s going on?”

“Morgan,” she answers, as if in a trance.

A few moments pass before she begins speaking again.

“Dear Creator, forgive me, but why did you have to give her that ability? We cannot go home yet. William wants to review the events of today one more time before the evening rest, so we must go to his house in a little while.”

“How... how do you know?” I can’t keep the surprise out of my voice.

“Morgan just told me telepathically. It makes my hair stand on end. The Creator knows what he is doing, but it’s just chilling that she—she, out of all the Sphereans—can wander through our minds as if she were in her own home. Well, if you would care to we could take a walk over to the Old Course. That way they have enough time to finish up at the hospital.”

I nod silently and begin walking along next to her, my eyes glued to the gray cobblestones. A wave of melancholy mixes with my desperation to get back to the monastery. Now that night has fallen, I see everything the way I did when I first arrived in this crazy world. I know it’s only been a day—at least I
think
that’s how much time has passed. I feel peculiar, like I can’t really tell how long I’ve been lost in the Sphere. The street lights give off the same sickly light they did the night I came. In front of the Old Course the hotel where my aunt and uncle ought to be is still in ruins, and at the bandstand the gypsies are repeating their party. I search for a logical explanation for what’s happening to me. I rack my brains, trying to push the images of my parents, the twins, Axel right out of my head. I don’t want to hear my friends’ voices telling me about how great our lives are going to be from now on, how everything changes when you go to college... freedom, love, growing up, the destinies we’re about to write for ourselves. I’d just like my mind to be totally quiet so I can think clearly. So I can put the pieces of this puzzle in some kind of order.

We double back the way we came, taking a series of dark and abandoned passages to get to North Street. We stop in front of the police station, though the
Police
sign is nowhere to be seen, and of course the police cars are conspicuously absent.

“I think William must be here by now,” says Beatrice, her voice like the chiming of little bells.

So Sherlock lives at the police station—or rather, what was the police station in my world. That doesn’t surprise me. It seems appropriate. When we walk inside we find the worst mess I’ve ever seen in my life. I would never have imagined that a man like him would live in such chaos. I didn’t have any particular idea of what his house would be like, but I definitely was not expecting complete disorder.

“It’s unfortunate that William won’t let me clean up a little. He doesn’t let anyone touch his things.”

This house is in urgent need of cleaning, but after seeing what Beatrice did to Dorian Gray’s house, I’m not surprised that Sherlock won’t let his
lovely lady
interfere.

“According to him, there’s some order in this chaos,” Beatrice remarks.

“Hard to believe.”

A violin and its bow are resting on a threadbare armchair. There are old newspapers all over the floor, and even more of them stacked in piles on the tables and the window ledge. Everything is much more modern than in Beatrice’s house. I can’t say exactly what sort of time difference there is, but I bet there are about four centuries between the things in each house. Suddenly Morgan comes in through the living room window.

“There we are,” she says, landing and patting her dress back down. “At least one thing done right.”

“You fly!” I point, astonished. “And Sherlock?”

“
Sherlock
will be here shortly.” I can’t miss the sarcasm with which Morgan pronounces Holmes’s name. “The poor thing is awfully limited, you must have noticed it. The only way he can transport himself is with that slow walk. Well, he’s not the only one—” She looks at Beatrice, who has just come out of the kitchen with tea.

“This man is a disaster. A disaster! All of the cups are chipped, and look—none of them match.”

Sherlock comes into the living room as we sit down to tea.

“All right,” he says, as if we were just continuing a chat that had never been interrupted. “How did the investigation of the misshapen go?”

“Didn’t you talk about that already?” I ask, startled.

“Without you there? Never!” Morgan responds acidly. I shift uncomfortably in the armchair. “Right,” Morgan says, taking a sip of tea, “now we’re all here and we have your invaluable perspective”—she looks so pointedly at me that I want to disappear—“so I can tell you what happened.” I look over at Beatrice. She’s gazing down into her cup of tea; knives could be flying right over her head and she wouldn’t notice. “I wasn’t able to see all the misshapen because I ran into that evil beast.”

“Don’t speak that way of Heathcliff!” exclaims Beatrice, indignant, jerking her head back up.

“And how did you know I was referring to your great love?”

“Mister Holmes...” Beatrice whines to Sherlock as if he were in charge of this nursery school we’re apparently in.

“Could we focus?” Sherlock cuts off the argument brewing between the two women.

“Any day now I’ll cast a spell and free Wuthering Heights from his wretched presence...” Morgan mutters without looking at Beatrice.

“William!” Beatrice whimpers like a child.

“All right, let’s cut to the chase,” Morgan says, serious again. “I went to check that all the misshapen were performing their roles as normal.”

“Heathcliff is one of the misshapen?” I ask.

“He is their
high king
,” Morgan answers, and begins to laugh.

“Creator, forgive her,” murmurs Beatrice.

“Well, he’s not one of the misshapen in the strictest sense,” Morgan corrects herself with a snort, “but it’s as if he were.”

“What has Heathcliff done now?” asks Holmes.

“Nothing new. I found him in character, raising hell. The foulest winds of the Sphere come out of that monster’s big mouth. He barked at me like a rabid dog the moment he saw me. You know, like he does.

I started my check of the misshapen with the doctor. The sign on the house was in
Hyde
mode—invisible. Sometimes he’s the doctor, and then you can speak with him, but other times he’s in Hyde mode,” Morgan glances over at me, explaining for my benefit. “When I saw he wasn’t there, and bearing in mind that Frankenstein lives clear on the other side of the Sphere and there wasn’t much time left until dark, I thought it would be a good idea to check on Louis. He lives quite near the doctor, so it was a good use of my time.”

The name Frankenstein catches my attention... it sounds like a monster from a movie.

“Well-reasoned,” remarks Sherlock.

“That was my plan. Check on Louis, and then go back to the doctor’s house.”

“Louis is a vampire, eternally youthful,” says Beatrice. Morgan tosses her head, growing impatient. “I suppose it is true that all vampires are eternally youthful. So that wasn’t a very good description,” admits Beatrice. “But he is younger and more beautiful than others.”

“Although Louis is apparently not one of the misshapen,” continues Morgan, “I thought that he might be able to make use of Dorian’s painting. You know, it never hurts to have something around to help conserve your beauty. It’s true that as a vampire Louis hardly needs it, but still, we shouldn’t rule anything out.” Sherlock and Beatrice nod. “And I found everything quite in order,” Morgan continues, taking another sip of tea. “They were interviewing him, like always, nothing outside of his role. I stayed awhile to listen. He talked about the things he regretted, about his centuries as a vampire. Like I said, nothing out of the ordinary. When I went back to the doctor’s house I had the misfortune to run into Heathcliff, who was sitting on the ground, leaning against the door. When he saw me he flew into a rage. He started to throw stones at me to keep me from landing. When I finally managed to come down he called me a witch—you see just how creative the brute is.”

I look over at Beatrice. One tiny tear is rolling down her cheek.

“He told me I ought to be off stirring a cauldron and minding my own witchy business instead of poking my nose in where I wasn’t wanted. He tried to chase me away from the doctor’s house.”