The Sphere (36 page)

“And the blood?” asks Morgan.

“I told you. It’s Juliet’s.”

“You’re lying!” screams Morgan, losing patience. The fire that had filled her eyes goes out. “I won’t stop the snake. I’m warning you—that venom will knock you out for days.”

“I’m not afraid of any of you. My master is much more powerful than everyone in the Sphere put together. He proved to me that he is even more powerful than the one to whom I entrust my soul every night as part of my role. He promised me, he promised me that I wouldn’t be ripped to death. I’m sick of being devoured by birds of prey over and over again. Do you think I care about your snake, you cursed witch? I’ve borne worse things. And I have the great promise. My master’s power is such that he can rewrite our roles. Everyone thinks it’s impossible, but it’s nothing at all for him. He has rewritten my story.” 

Ambrosio’s wild expression makes my skin crawl.

“My lord has great plans for me. He’ll do to you just what he did to the missing Sphereans...”

“Enough!”

Morgan’s furious shriek comes from deep down inside her. Her eyes catch fire again, the flames so fierce now that they lick at her forehead. Her thick hair comes to life, moving like seaweed swirling in the water. An icy gust of wind silences us all. I look at the stairs that lead down to the crypt. A sort of fog is creeping toward us. It sweeps in quickly, covering our feet, and then we hear the thunder of flapping wings. I want to look over at Sherlock, to read on his face what we ought to do, but I’m paralyzed. I know that any second now the creatures we’ve been searching for will appear. It ought to make me happy—finally seeing them. The sound of the beating wings is so strong that it shocks Morgan, Sherlock, and me back into motion. We all drop down and clap our hands to our ears. I look at the monk out of the corner of my eye. I know he would hunker down too, if he could, but Morgan’s snakes won’t let him. The glass in the crypt’s only window explodes into a thousand shards. Two vultures of monstrous size push their way through, devour the snakes, and take hold of Ambrosio by the shoulders. The monk’s terrified screams twist my insides around until I feel like throwing up. I double over beneath the arches as the carrion birds disappear with Ambrosio.

“What’s going on?” I lean against a column to recover. I close my eyes, but I can’t stop seeing the terror in the monk’s face, can’t stop hearing his piercing screams.

“The rate of Ambrosio’s role is speeding up,” answers Morgan. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her voice shake.

We go out in silence. Even Sherlock seems upset by what we just witnessed, above all by Ambrosio’s screams, which we can’t help listening for long after the vultures have departed through the ruined window.

“There are terrible roles in the Sphere,” Morgan remarks quietly.

“What do you mean?” I ask. Just imagining the answer horrifies me.

“I mean Ambrosio’s end. His role calls for him to be eaten alive. I’d never seen it before, and to be honest, I’d never even imagined it. All of the Sphereans know it’s like that, and we accept it as natural, but now that I’ve seen it...”

“Surely you’re not feeling pity for Ambrosio?” Sherlock peers at Morgan. I know he’s afraid that she’s becoming another victim of the breakdown of the Great Script.

“You’re right. Everyone carries their own destiny with them.” Morgan’s face lights up. She’s excited about something. “I’m going to find out whether those vultures belong to Ambrosio’s role or not. Maybe those are the winged creatures we’ve been searching for all this time.”

Just like that she floats over our heads and rises up to the clouds. I look back down and begin walking alongside Sherlock, who is—as usual—deep in thought. My heart speeds up. Why? I love Axel. I’m sure of it. I love him and I miss him. It doesn’t make sense that my heart would start pounding just because I’m alone with Sherlock. I guess deep down the Count’s words have affected me much more than I thought possible. I have to act differently from the way I did in my life, that was what he said. Sherlock would be ideal for me. He didn’t say that word for word, but he suggested it.

Sherlock’s slow footsteps are in stark contrast with the speed of the thoughts rushing through his head.

“Do you think he was delirious?” I ask suddenly, breaking the silence.

“Ambrosio?”

I nod and smile. Yes, I did mean Ambrosio. I realize that I really do love the way Sherlock can follow my thoughts.

“No, he wasn’t. Something tells me he was in full control of his faculties. Ambrosio knew what he was saying. What I find unsettling is the question of who he could be calling master if not the Creator. He is a religious man, in spite of everything. In his way he is just as religious as Beatrice. For him there should be no one but the Creator.”

“I have a theory...”

“I thought as much,” says Sherlock with a smile.

He stops walking and turns to look at me, his gaze lingering. An intense melancholy rushes through me. I miss Axel, I miss him more than I ever thought possible. I miss his eyes, the way his eyes made me feel like I was safe, like I was home. I move toward Sherlock, drawn by the power of what I’m feeling, unable to think clearly. I lift my hand to stroke his dark hair. He stares at me. It’s no longer Sherlock’s eyes that I see before me, but Axel’s eyes. The pain is intolerable. I lean in and kiss Sherlock the way I’d like to kiss Axel. With the absurd hope that somehow this kiss will lay down the bridge that finally leads me back home.

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K
issing Sherlock was kind of weird. It made me feel even more melancholy than I already did, but that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is that I’m not sure what the kiss meant to him. I walk toward Sherlock’s house, forcing my feet to keep moving. It’s taken me a whole day to gather up the courage, but I am going to talk to him.

I see a woman striding fiercely toward me. Her figure is familiar, but I can’t quite place her. Her hair blowing loose in the wind doesn’t match up with the person she looks like... No, it can’t be...

“Beatrice!” I exclaim, once she reaches me.

I’m too shocked to speak. Her hair is loose, without its usual veil, and the wind is tossing it elegantly from side to side. Her clothing is unrecognizable.

“You’ve got makeup on!” I say, once I can finally speak again.

“That’s right,” she says, pleased. “You like it?” She does a little pirouette so I can see her outfit.

“Where are you going in that tight dress? Shouldn’t you be keeping watch at Wuthering Heights?”

“Yes, but I got tired of waiting. Nothing changes if you don’t change yourself. I decided to borrow some things from Morgan, to change my image. When Heathcliff comes back—and I’m sure he will be back—I’ll be waiting. He’ll forget all about Cathy, just wait and see.”

It’s bizarre to see Beatrice dressed this way, with this brazen attitude. Now I understand why the Sphereans are so scandalized by the thought of people acting outside their roles. It’s just... disconcerting. Disappointing.

“You’re not headed over to the detective’s house, are you?” she asks me, wiggling her hips. “Don’t waste your time. Go find a real man.”

“Beatrice!”

“I know what I’m talking about. William’s no good for anything. Besides, he’s only interested in you because you have more information than anyone else. No Sphereans know what you do. Without you he’ll never be able to solve the case.”

“You’re jealous...”

“Me? Please! I’m about to start the best part of my role. The most alive and vibrant part.”

“But—but—the Great Script, Beatrice. Your Creator. Where is the Creator in all this?”

“You’ve been warned. A real man.”

Beatrice strokes my cheek and sashays off. I have to tell Sherlock. We’ve got to do something right away to keep her from losing her role, or panic really will spread throughout the Sphere. We have to stop her before someone sees her like this.

I run the rest of the way to the police station and screech to a halt right outside. A heated argument is coming from Sherlock’s house. One of the voices is Morgan, but who’s the other one? I go inside and pause for a moment in the hall. It’s coming from the living room.

“Holmes, say—say—say something!”

Morgan is flustered, stuttering with rage. I can hear the wandering pizzicato coming from Sherlock’s violin. He must be sitting in his old armchair with his eyes shut.

“I’d also like to hear your opinion,” says the other person—from his voice it sounds like a young man.

“You can’t just come and go whenever you feel like it,” yells Morgan. “If you thought at the time that it was more important to go off and get married than to work with Holmes, then... Well, that’s how it is. Deal with the consequences of your actions. Don’t expect to come back and still have your job as if you’d never left. I’ve worked a lot, and I’m not just going to walk away.”

“If it’s about the work, I’ve worked with Sherlock for longer than you have. Surely all the cases we solved together carry more weight than whatever you might be about to solve.”

“If you didn’t want to lose your job, you shouldn’t have left.”

“I left to get married—how many times do I have to tell you? And I haven’t come back on a whim; it’s because I’ve been made a widower for the second time. You should have a little compassion.”

“Compassion? But this always happens to you! It’s your role: accept it and stop whining like a little baby. You should be used to it by now. You get married, you get widowed, you get married, you get widowed, and you do it all over again. What’s new about that? Great Script—does that mean anything to you?”

“I think that Sherlock is the one who should decide if I can come back or not,” says the young man, quite calmly. “Sherlock, doesn’t it seem to you that all our years together should carry some weight?”

“Holmes! Say something,” Morgan demands, infuriated. “Watson or me. There’s not room here for both of us.”

So it’s Watson, Sherlock’s assistant—he’s come back! I can still hear Sherlock picking his way through his music. He hasn’t said a single word.

“Neither Watson nor you,” he says, finally.

In the heavy silence that follows I can picture Morgan’s face perfectly, and Watson’s shock, even though I’ve never seen him and have no idea what he looks like.

“Pardon me, Sherlock. I don’t think I heard you right.”

“I believe I spoke quite clearly. Neither Morgan nor you.”

“So who will stay with you? Your two lovely ladies?” Morgan says with a snort.

“Sherlock, I beg you to reconsider. It would be really important to me to be able to come back. I miss investigating terribly. And you, Morgan, since you mentioned roles—my role is to work with Sherlock. We belong to the same group. You ought to be learning magic with Merlin.”

“I’ve already learned everything I had to learn! And don’t distract me; I want an answer from Holmes. Who’s going to stay with you, hmm? Tell me! Do I have to remind you of how useless Beatrice is?”

“Not at all,” Sherlock answers tersely.

“So?” Morgan groans.

“I shall keep only Eurydice.”

Sherlock’s words hit me like a fist to the stomach. There’s the answer I came here looking for. I think it’s perfectly clear what the kiss meant to Sherlock.

“As for me, dear Sherlock, I am willing to wait. Unlike Morgan, I know that rushing you is not a good idea. Take your time. Think about it. When the time is right, call me. I’ll be happy to come back.”

“What is it you don’t understand, you dimwit? He’s throwing us both out. It’s not a question of time,” says Morgan. “Or is it, Holmes?”

“No,” Sherlock answers simply.

“It’s not fair!” snaps Morgan. “It’s not fair!” A slight mournful noise escapes her throat.

“Morgan,” says Watson. “A little control, please. Don’t lose your role.”

“Lose my role! Tell it to your dearest boss—he’s abandoned his entirely. See, he’s gotten himself involved with an outsider—she hasn’t even been published.”

I’m about to burst in, but I manage to control myself.

“My heart is no concern of yours,” Sherlock answers drily.

“Forgive me,” says Watson, “but indeed it is. If you lose your role, what will become of the Sphere? What will become of all of us?”

“Eurydice has a sixth sense,” explains Sherlock, “something I’ve never seen before. She throws herself fully into the investigation. She does things with a passion that no Spherean can match.”

“You can’t be falling in love!” says Morgan. “I’m warning you, Holmes, the only thing Eurydice cares about is finding a way back to her world. She’s an outsider—get that through your head! She’s going to go back and you’ll be left with nothing. She’s just using you.”

The plucking of the violin stops abruptly.

“Out!” orders Sherlock, “Both of you out!” 

“But, Sherlock...” begs Watson.

“As long as Eurydice takes me to whomever is behind these disappearances I don’t care whether she leaves or not. We’ll see who’s using whom.”

“So you only want your information,” says Morgan with relief.

Sherlock answers with a grunt. Clearly that’s all he cares about.

“She’s the only one to have been kidnapped and then to have come back. She has that instinct that we Sphereans lack. The theory of permanent death...”

“And a particular magnetism, right?” adds Morgan.

“She is the only one Dracula invites into his mansion time and time again, yes,” says Sherlock. He sounds annoyed.

“If I’d known that you were going to take me off the case I never would have told you about Eurydice’s visits to the Count,” Morgan says bitterly.

Now I can’t hold myself back any longer—I burst into the living room in a rage. The three Sphereans stare at me, wide-eyed. Watson, a well-dressed young man, looks me up and down. Sherlock looks solemn; his face has returned to that unreadable expression it had when I first met him. Why? I feel deeply hurt, and incredibly stupid. I really believed they thought of me as part of the team. I thought they valued me just as much as if I had been published.

“You’ve been spying on me? Morgan—how could you!” My blood is boiling. “At times like this I really am capable of anything,” I warn, tightening my fists.