by Martha Faë
I shake my head and laugh gently. The Count smiles with a sweetness that makes his eyes shine.
“Careful, Miss Eurydice. You’re falling in love with the Sphere.”
“Would that be so terrible?”
“They say that falling in love with us is like catching an incurable disease. You go into an addictive spiral, but it’s completely voluntary. You stop eating, stop sleeping so you can learn more about our world...”
“How do you know that we eat and sleep?”
The Count moves his right hand elegantly, and I somehow understand that he’s heard of us.
“Do you know of my world?”
“Unfortunately not. I only sense it.”
My mouth goes dry. How could he possibly sense it?
“Thanks to you,” says the Count, answering my thoughts. “Your presence allows me to discern the shape of your life, your relationship to the people with whom you lived...”
“Could you help me go back?” I ask, full of hope and desperation.
“Impossible. I would first have to know how and why you came to the Sphere. I am afraid that only you will be able to find your own way out.”
“Help me—please, I’m begging you!”
Dracula closes his eyes and goes into a sort of trance. The seconds seem to last forever. A chilly wind begins to blow around the rose garden, dancing past my legs and whipping up the dry leaves at my feet. My hair shifts in the breeze and then falls again.
“I am sorry. I fear that the key is not within my reach. I can only sense that you are here until you learn what it is you have to come to learn. That is, if you do learn it. Your time here is not unlimited. I am sorry.”
“What should I learn? What are you talking about? What do you mean my time isn’t unlimited?”
The Count squeezes my hands affectionately.
“I am sorry, dear girl, I do not know what you are meant to learn. I suppose you must search inside yourself to find out. Perhaps you will find something that you had trouble with in your other world, and that might be your test here.”
I sit there, stunned. I know the Count is right about my time—I’ve felt that way myself ever since I came to the Sphere. That is, I’ve felt that way whenever I didn’t get carried away by the certainty that I was dead. There is something urging me to act quickly, I can feel it—but what is it I’m supposed to do? Dracula gets up and begins to trim the dry branches of his roses, completely absorbed in the task of caring for his rose garden. I look down into my half-full glass. The ripples of water play strangely with what little light comes through the fog. What is it that I was worst at in life? I was bad at so many things that it would be easier to ask what I was good at. I was a disaster in my life—I mean, in my other life. Now I know it is possible to go back. I feel a sharp pain in my chest; my heart truly aches. I start to think about the twins, my parents, Laura and Marion... and of course Axel.
I don’t know! How can I know! What was it I was worst at? I look at Dracula. It seems like the entire world outside of the roses has disappeared for him. He isn’t paying any attention to me, or even noticing the black birds that have begun to circle overhead. The only thing that matters to him is the roses. I envy him...
“I know!” I exclaim, more loudly than I’d meant to. I cover my mouth with one hand.
Dracula comes over to the table and gently sets down the shears and a little bouquet of white, gray, and pink roses.
“For Mina?” I ask, and he nods.
“Have you discovered, then, why you have come to our world?”
“Not exactly, but before, watching you, it occurred to me that I’ve never had the ability to lose myself completely in a task. Nothing has ever absorbed all my attention, all my care...” I think back to the innumerable times when I drew. “Except drawing. That did absorb me totally. Actually, I still draw. Sometimes I draw in the sand on the beach.”
The Count looks thoughtful.
“When drawing, you are the only one participating.”
“Yes,” I say sadly, with some embarrassment. “I never get involved that way with other people.”
“Then you have your answer. Maybe Beatrice is not wrong about you after all. Maybe you have been sent in some way. Why not look for a way to restore order to the Sphere?”
I doubt the sincerity of his words. Are they really coming from his wisdom? Couldn’t it just be a selfish plea for me to find Mina? Now that I know this isn’t my world, that it doesn’t have to be, I just want to get out as soon as possible.
“Nothing has to be, in reality,” the Count says, reading my mind. “To love is selfish? I don’t know. Evaluate it and judge for yourself. You could refrain from getting involved with us. You could live free of responsibility.”
When he puts it that way I feel like that is how I’ve chosen to live so far. I haven’t tied myself to anything—nothing bad, but nothing good, either.
“Think about it, miss,” the Count says as he stands up. I realize that I’ve taken up enough of his time, and I stand up, too. “Think about it, and do not bring pain to those who love you most.”
The butler appears immediately, without being called. He looks up at his master with a devotion I hadn’t noticed before. I realize they understand one another so well that they can communicate mentally. The little man accompanies me to the door and the gate closes behind me, leaving me full of doubts, ideas that come and go, hope, and frustration, too. I know that the easiest thing would be to fail. That’s the path I’m used to taking.
5
I run back to Beatrice’s house. As I was walking something occurred to me, and now I’ve got to find Sherlock as soon as possible. Please let him still be there.
But the house is empty. By the height of the sun it looks like it’s about noon—Beatrice should be at mass, and she’ll know where to find Sherlock.
I hurry over to St Salvator’s Quad. The sun is shining much more brightly than is normal for either the Sphere or St Andrews, and the flowers lining the path are wilting in the unexpected heat. Suddenly, treacherously, I miss the fading smell of earth that I would have noticed in my own world. I look up: the clock is back on the tower again... I shake my head. I haven’t got time to worry about things like that right now.
“Dissie!” I hear Morgan’s voice.
She and Sherlock are sitting on the stone bench outside of the church.
“I was looking for you.” I let my eyes linger on Sherlock’s deliberate gaze, and then some sudden force bursts the bubble of calm—Morgan’s green eyes, like spears. “I mean, I was looking for you all.”
“We’re waiting for Beatrice,” says Sherlock.
I peek inside the church. There’s the huge quill on the altar, and for the first time I notice that there’s an inkwell just beneath it. The carvings are magnificent likenesses of a real quill and inkwell. I wonder which Spherean, and when, could have decided that this was their god. I locate Beatrice’s veiled head among the other parishioners. The bells of St Salvator ring out loudly, and the Sphereans trickle out into the Quad. Some of them look askance at me. Beatrice, as usual, stays behind to speak with the priest.
“Do they think something’s wrong with me?” I ask, feeling uncomfortable.
“With all three of us,” answers Morgan. “The gossip has spread far and wide. Nearly everyone realizes something strange is going on, though I’ve made sure no one really knows what it is.” Sherlock looks at her pointedly. “I’ve made inquiries,” she says, as en excuse. “All kinds of rumors, ludicrous things, but no one knows anything about the disappearances or about the hospital. I’m completely certain.” Sherlock keeps staring at her. “Fine,” Morgan admits, “I did use telepathy, but only a little. It was crucial to get them confused, Holmes. Don’t try to deny that this time it really was important.”
“You promised.”
“I know, no magic, but...” Morgan’s expression shifts from accused to accusing. “Do you really want the shadow to become myth? The shadow, the sh
adow... most Sphereans are idiots.” Sherlock looks sternly at Morgan. “Well, you know what I mean. They hear something enough times and then they start to work it into their roles, and that’s all it takes. Soon enough they really do believe they’ve seen the shadow themselves.”
“Agreed. Make sure that they remain confused. And keep monitoring their thoughts.”
Morgan smiles, satisfied.
The clock marks the passing time with painful thuds. Each minute that ticks by sounds like a drum echoing in my head.
“Can we talk?” I ask uneasily. “I think it’s important.”
There are still some parishioners lingering in the Quad, watching us and whispering.
“They’re so obvious!” hisses Morgan angrily. “Busybodies. May I?”
Sherlock lets out a sigh and nods. Morgan points her piercing eyes in the direction of the group on the Quad, and in just a few seconds they’ve all left.
“What did you do?” I ask, intrigued.
“Just suggested that they are all in a great hurry,” she answers with a sly smile. “They don’t remember what it is they have to do, but they know they’d better hurry off and do it.”
Beatrice comes out of the church with her light, ethereal steps. Sherlock looks at me, then gets up and intercepts Beatrice at the door.
“Let’s go in,” he says. “It’s better to talk in here.”
“Here?” Beatrice’s eyes widen with surprise.
“In the church? I don’t know...” I object. It doesn’t really seem like an appropriate place to me. Then I take one look at Sherlock and I know we won’t be leaving the church until I’ve told them what I came to say. “All right,” I say with a sigh. “It’s about the handkerchief that we found in Ambrosio’s cell.”
“We were just talking about that when we saw you in the Quad,” says Morgan. Beatrice looks around nervously and traces the quill and inkwell over and over on her chest. “Would you stop that once and for all?” Beatrice sits obediently down in a pew and Morgan turns back to me. “Holmes and I determined that Ambrosio’s role doesn’t include any sort of handkerchief. Plenty of other things—the little branch you stole from him, things used for magic... well, they’ll call any old trick magic around here.” She rolls her eyes. “Items for the dark arts. The points is, Ambrosio needs a lot of things for his role, but not a handkerchief.”
“Right,” I say impatiently.
Something creaks. We look up at the choir loft. Morgan walks two fingers across her palm: footsteps. Sherlock shakes his head to say no, it’s nothing, but I feel quite certain someone is watching us. We’re standing with our backs to the huge windows near the altar. I point to indicate that someone is watching us from outside. Morgan closes her eyes and concentrates.
“I can’t find anything,” she whispers. “There’s no one out there.”
Sherlock looks at me for confirmation. I’m sure they’re watching us. My silence and my serious expression are enough to make Sherlock take Beatrice by the arm and lead us all out.
“Dear Beatrice,” he says in a loud voice as soon as we’re outside, “I haven’t eaten oranges in such a long time. They say they’re magnificent this time of year.”
“Oranges? How exotic, Holmes! You’re in luck. I think this morning I saw one of the ships from far-off lands bringing oranges in at the harbor,” says Morgan with theatricality.
We walk toward Market Street. I’ve never seen this street so lively. It’s full of stands selling just about everything imaginable: enormous loaves of bread, all kinds of cheese, battered barrels full of a yellowish liquid sold as beer. We see clothing from all different periods, copper pots and pans, stalls selling futuristic objects, flasks of fake blood, pistols that go off with a thunderous bang but don’t shoot any bullets, and swords that retract when they’re stuck into something. It seems like a shop that sells stage props. I stare in amazement at a stall with colored birds sitting on little floating twigs.
“How are they so calm? And why don’t they fly away?”
“It’s a very simple enchantment,” Morgan answers. “Any magician just starting out could do it. You create a tiny invisible chain that goes from the little branch to the bird’s foot. The spell to make the branches float is a bit trickier, but nothing that can’t be mastered with a bit of practice. Look,” she says, taking my hand and bringing it near the little sticks. “Do you feel it?”
“Yes,” I say, “There’s a slight current, isn’t there?”
“Exactly!” Morgan smiles. She’s always so pleased whenever anyone takes an interest in the intricate workings of the world of magic. “Now move your finger underneath it,” she says with an impish smile.
Just to see what will happen, I do it. I can feel my finger cut across a column of rising air. The twig falls to the counter of the stall and the bird begins flapping its wings wildly. The merchant insults us in a language I don’t understand.
“Aramaic,” says Morgan, laughing. She speaks to the merchant in his language to apologize. “But look, nothing’s wrong! See?” Morgan lifts her hand to restore the spell. In less than a second the twig is floating again, and the bird shuts its eyes and goes to sleep, completely at ease.
“It fell asleep!”
“The column of air rocks so gently that it lulls them to sleep. Let’s go!”
She takes me by the arm and we catch up to Beatrice and Sherlock, who are carrying a little basket of oranges. Now they’ve stopped to look at an herb stand.
“Chamaemelum nobile, my lovely lady?” Sherlock is back to his usual sense of ceremony with Beatrice. I don’t understand any of it. Has he succumbed to her charms again? He takes out a small gold coin from his vest pocket and gives it to the flower-seller, first making it dance across the palm of his hand. Then he chooses a bouquet of little white flowers tied up with a string and offers it to Beatrice, kissing her hand. She smiles, blushes, and lowers her gaze.
“At least he bought chamomile. We’ll need some good, strong chamomile tea to help us recover from this nausea. It’s unbearable when they’re all lovey-dovey.”
“So that was chamomile they bought?”
“Yes, chamaemelum nobile, my beautiful lady,” says Morgan in a pompous tone, bowing clownishly. I grin and take her arm, and we walk along, imitating Sherlock and Beatrice.
The walk through the market stalls is so pleasant that I almost forget how urgently I wanted to speak to Sherlock. We’ve reached the Old Course, the golf course where I spent my first night in the Sphere. The hotel that was in ruins now glitters in its full splendor. Now I can hear the music from the orchestra that the gypsies were trying to drown out that first night. I lift my hand to shade my eyes. I can feel the damp sea air caressing my face. The sky is like a blue painting, lit up by some bright foreign sun. I can’t believe that I ever found this place frightening, or devoid of life.
The hotel terrace is an explosion of glamour. Women dressed in white carry cream-colored parasols of delicate lace and wear little hats and gloves. Small boys wearing puffy short pants and tall stockings chase after a ball, or roll a hoop along with a stick. Sherlock doesn’t stop; he marches us across the springy green at a good clip.
“We’ve reached the beach,” says Beatrice, “I think we ought to turn back.”
“Let’s go a little farther, my lovely lady. It’s a splendid day.”
Whenever we meet another Spherean Sherlock gives a small bow in greeting. If I didn’t have this heavy feeling of urgency in my chest, this world might seem ideal.
“But up ahead is nothing but sand—our clothes will get dirty!” Beatrice whines like a little girl.
“I shall clean your shoes myself,” replies Sherlock, with his usual pretentiousness. “It will be an honor.”
The sandy beach at West Sands stretches out farther than the eye can see, and only the first few yards of it are occupied by other Sphereans. Soon we’re completely alone on a flat stretch of beach—perfect for speaking without being overheard. It’s almost impossible
to see the hotel from here. Now I understand Sherlock’s intentions. We went to the market to get anyone who might have been following us off our trail! Not only were we safe in the crowd, we spent so much time at the market stalls that I’m sure we tired out anyone who may have been following us, at least for now.
“Very well, back to the subject at hand,” says Sherlock, releasing Beatrice’s arm and looking at me.
“I wanted to know where the handkerchief was,” I say bluntly. “I think we should make sure that the blood is appearing and disappearing.”
“Do you mean the times when it appears and disappears?”
Sherlock considers me carefully. Morgan’s friendly demeanor from the market vanishes.
“Maybe the stain doesn’t have any pattern. It could be permanent,” I say.
“Brilliant!” exclaims Sherlock. “You are just brilliant. A possibility that would never have occurred to the rest of us.”
Morgan spreads her arms out in a dramatic gesture and mouths a silent and indignant ‘WHAT?’
“Dear Dissie,” Sherlock puts an arm around my shoulders. “What makes you think this stain is different?”
“I don’t know. It’s just a hunch.”
The sudden gesture of affection is a little overwhelming. I look at the other two. Beatrice seems totally out of it, but Morgan isn’t missing a thing.
“All right. We’ll take turns watching the handkerchief.”
“For a hunch? You’re going to settle for a hunch? And from an outsider, on top of everything!” Morgan is fuming.
“Lovely Dissie,” Holmes goes on, “You arrange the observations. We’ll take turns watching it in whatever way you think best.”
Morgan’s mouth hangs open in disbelief. After a few seconds the wind blows some sand into her mouth and she spits with disgust. The sky has begun to cloud over.
“Come, let’s go home,” orders Sherlock. “There is much to be done.”
“Lovely Dissie?” Morgan hisses in Beatrice’s ear as we walk along, the wind at our backs. “What about you? What happened to his lovely lady? Are you just going to let it happen, without doing anything? Wake up!”