The Sphere

by Martha Faë

  “Heathcliff. Gone. Heathcliff. Gone.” Beatrice babbles as if she’s lost her grip on reality. “When?”

  “We don’t know for certain. It seems like it was shortly after our visit to the orphanage. Nelly saw him go into the barn and she just left him alone; she knows when he’s in that mood it’s best not to get too close. But when night came and she saw that he hadn’t come out, she took him some food. That was when she realized he had vanished.”

  “And you—how did you find out?”

  “Nelly told us,” says Morgan. “She thinks Heathcliff went to look for Cathy, and she’s afraid that if he finds her he might do her harm. It’s better that way—obviously we didn’t disabuse her of that notion.”

  “Creator help us!” cries Beatrice, her face contorted.

  “If it makes you feel any better,” Morgan goes on, “there is some possibility that he hasn’t disappeared. Maybe Nelly isn’t wrong, and he has just gone to look for Cathy.”

  Beatrice looks at us with pleading eyes, as if the outcome depended on us. She’s slumped on the ground, her arms lying limp at her sides.

  “Very well, we’ve given her the news,” says Sherlock briskly. “Now let’s get on with the investigation. There’s no time to lose. Whether or not Heathcliff was carried off by the same winged creatures as the others, time is still pressing.”

  “Sherlock is right,” says Morgan. “We haven’t got much time. If Heathcliff is searching for Cathy we have to find him before he discovers where they’ve hidden her. Given his personality, he’d only get himself into trouble... I can’t believe we’re worrying about him—that I’m worrying about him!”

  Morgan shakes her head. When she pushes her abundant hair back from her face I can once again see the expression of the powerful fairy that I know so well.

  “So what are we going to do? Do you have a plan?” I ask.

  “Beatrice will keep watch near Wuthering Heights, in case Heathcliff returns,” answers Sherlock. “We three are going to take care of a matter that can wait no longer.”

  Beatrice looks blankly at us.

  “Run to Wuthering Heights,” Morgan tells her, “and don’t worry. We’ll find Heathcliff.

  I go along with the other two without asking where we’re headed. There’s no need to ask—before long I can tell we’re going to Blackfriars monastery. We find Ambrosio’s cell empty. Back in the chilly cloister I huddle inside my jacket as Morgan inspects every crack in the building with her fierce eyes.

  “What time is it?” Sherlock asks.

  Morgan looks up to the sky to see the position of the sun. She knows exactly what information Sherlock wants: the timeline of the role.

  “At this time of day Ambrosio should be in the crypt, or about to go down there. If we hurry maybe we can speak with him alone.”

  “Antonia?” asks Sherlock.

  “Yes. This is the part of his role where Antonia comes into play.”

  I’m sorry I haven’t had time to study Ambrosio’s role. I find it frustrating not to know all the events my companions are talking about. I’d like to be as familiar as they are with the monk’s exploits.

  “Just her?” asks Sherlock thoughtfully.

  “For the moment, yes,” replies Morgan. “Around now Antonia comes back to her senses after the effects of the liquor, and then...”

  “Yes, I know what happens then. Unfortunately.” Sherlock seems disgusted at the mere thought of a scene that I know nothing about.

  “But after that Don Ramiro comes,” explains Morgan.

  “Let’s hurry, then. It would be a waste of time if we had to wait for all that to happen to be able to meet with Ambrosio privately.”

  We run through the gallery to the stairs that lead down to the crypt. There we stop running and go down cautiously, so no one can hear us. It takes a little while for my eyes to adjust to the change of light, but soon I can see a girl who I assume is Antonia, lying there as if dead. Fortunately I already know about the effects of the potion Ambrosio gives her every day—she’ll wake up as soon as the monk comes in. When we hear the slap of his sandals we hide behind the pillars. In the cloister it was drafty enough to make my bones shiver, but down here the dampness makes it hard to breathe. Ambrosio comes in slowly, constantly looking behind him to make sure no one is following him. He comes over to Antonia and puts his hand beneath her nose to make sure she’s started breathing again. There’s still a little while to wait. He rubs his hands together and turns toward our hiding place. He seems cross and nervous, with a deep crease between his eyebrows. Sherlock raises his hand. His fingers count off three... two... one. At the signal we jump out from behind the pillars and throw ourselves onto Ambrosio.

  The monk struggles to get free. He bites Morgan’s hand and yanks my hair and stomps on Sherlock with all his strength, but we hold on. With a few more shoves he manages to get himself free, a slippery snake, and he takes a few steps toward the exit. Sherlock grabs a chalice from the altar and hurls it at him, striking him on the head. The force of the blow sends the monk staggering, and he falls flat on his face.

  I watch Sherlock. He seems like a completely different man from the one who couldn’t defend himself against Heathcliff. I’m still admiring the way he threw the chalice when I see him charge at Ambrosio and hoist him up by his vestments. To be fair, the monk is nothing but a sack of bones, but even so I enjoy how easily Sherlock tosses him into the air before setting him down on a ledge.

  “Antonia, watch Antonia,” he tells me.

  I run over to the girl, my eyes still glued to Sherlock. Her breathing is picking up again, and I alert Morgan:

  “She’s about to wake up.”

  Morgan covers the girl’s eyes with one hand and utters a spell that will prolong the false death.

  Ambrosio looks at us with his eyes wide, not speaking. He has sallow skin, sunken eyes, and a twisted, bony nose.

  “I have a right to be here,” he mutters. “It’s part of my role, like it or not.”

  “You know quite well that isn’t why we’ve come,” answers Sherlock. “Although it is a relief to prevent your atrocities from happening, even once.” Ambrosio turns his face away scornfully. “We want to speak to you, that’s all. But the fact that you try to escape every time you see me is awfully suspicious... I no longer know what to think.”

  “I have nothing to hide,” says the monk contemptuously.

  “Fine. In that case you should have nothing to fear,” Sherlock continues. “We wanted to ask you if there was anything missing from your cell.”

  Morgan can’t help smiling. She looks over at me and winks. Ambrosio looks up and holds Sherlock’s gaze, impassive. His jaw is set, his expression bitter and insolent. Sherlock exchanges a glance with me and my stomach flutters strangely. I know he’s trying to tell me he finds the monk’s confidence odd. The nonverbal communication Sherlock and I share is really starting to frighten me.

  “This is strange,” Morgan whispers to me. “This guy is perverse and mean-spirited, but he’s meant to be more evasive than strong. I don’t like the way he’s facing up to us at all. A lot of Sphereans are starting to have their own independent reactions, separate from their roles.”

  “Breakdown of the Great Script,” I say, holding back a sigh. I look at Sherlock again and again, unable to stop myself. “I know.”

  “Ambrosio isn’t missing anything. What do you think?” says the detective dramatically.

  I tilt my head to one side; I can’t come up with any clever comments right now.

  “Oh, good,” says Morgan, going along with the game. “It’s good that you’re not missing your little myrtle branch”—the monk’s eyes bore into her—“or this,” she says, taking out the bloody handkerchief and holding it in front of Ambrosio’s face.

  The monk spins around, trying to get up, but Sherlock knocks him back down. He holds him tightly and brings his foot down with a resounding stomp. Ambrosio’s toes, uncovered in his sandals, crunch underneath the sole of
the inspector’s shoe. The monk’s face twists in pain.

  “You’re welcome,” says Sherlock, in his politest voice. “It is truly a pleasure to return to you what you gave me earlier.”

  I can’t keep from laughing.

  “All right,” says Morgan. “Then we have nothing to discuss here.” She puts the handkerchief in her pocket. Ambrosio collapses onto the great stones of the crypt floor. Tears of rage run down his cheeks.

  “That handkerchief is mine.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” answers Morgan. “It’s a woman’s handkerchief. A rich woman’s. Nothing to do with a monk and his vows of poverty.”

  “It’s mine!” Ambrosio leaps up with a shout. He rushes at Morgan, enraged, his gaze icy and his fists clenched.

  “Careful what you do,” says Sherlock calmly, and pushes him away from Morgan. “You wouldn’t want to break out of your role.”

  “Give me the handkerchief!”

  “We’ll give it to you if you cooperate,” I say.

  “What do you want?” the monk asks angrily.

  “Information about some inhabitants of the Sphere,” says Morgan.

  Ambrosio begins to shake. He takes several steps backwards. “I don’t know anything about the missing people.”

  All of his muscles are tensed, ready to make a break for it.

  “Who said anything about missing people?” I ask, staring at him.

  “Tie him up,” orders Sherlock.

  Morgan conjures up two white-hot rings and lowers them over the monk, immobilizing him.

  “You’ll pay for what you’re doing!”

  “Yes? And who will make us pay? You? Or perhaps someone for whom you’re working,” Sherlock says, unconcerned.

  “I don’t work for anyone but our Lord the Creator, and you know it.”

  “You mentioned the missing people. What do you know?” asks Morgan.

  Ambrosio drops his head, refusing to speak.

  “What do you know?” I persevere, plucking up my courage and coming closer.

  The monk turns toward me and I jump back. Morgan tightens the rings.

  “Nothing... I know nothing.”

  Morgan tightens his bonds even more. Now they rest only a few millimeters away from the monk’s skin. Ambrosio is trembling so violently that it looks like he’s convulsing.

  “I don’t know anything!”

  “So how do you know someone has disappeared? We didn’t say it,” Morgan presses him.

  “Everybody knows it.” Hatred is pouring out of the monk’s eyes. “Everyone in the Sphere knows all about it.”

  Sherlock takes the handkerchief and shows it to him again. Ambrosio begins to cry, his sobs echoing off the walls of the crypt.

  “It was in your cell,” says Sherlock. Ambrosio nods. “Tell us. Where did you get it?”

  “It was some days ago. A newly published girl came to mass. She gave it to me.”

  “Who? What was her name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Morgan lifts her hands in a threat.

  “I swear to you, I don’t know. I beg of you, don’t do anything to me, I don’t know! I couldn’t see her face.” Ambrosio hesitates for a moment. “I know she was recently published. I’m sure about that. I know all the women of the Sphere and I’d never seen her before.” Sherlock scrutinizes him. “I assure you, Mister Holmes. She arrived just before that one,” he says, nodding in my direction.

  Morgan hauls us both away to speak in private.

  “How could we have missed something so obvious!” She pounds on her forehead in frustration. “It’s been ages since anyone new came to the Sphere. Either before or after you came,” she says, looking at me. “It’s not normal for there not to be new editions.” Morgan is infuriated with herself. “Why hasn’t Charon said anything to us? It’s been so long since he transported anyone in his boat; he must have realized it wasn’t normal. Why didn’t he bring it up with you?”

  Sherlock looks closely at Morgan. Overlooking something so obvious has left his pride deeply wounded, too.

  Morgan goes on:

  “The theory of replication and the other parallel theories explain that the creation space never stops. In the whole history of the Sphere new inhabitants have never stopped coming. It’s true that the rate may vary, but there has never been a time when creation stopped for good.”

  “True,” answers Sherlock, looking nervously from the monk and back to us. “We’ll speak with Charon as soon as we’ve finished with Ambrosio. We’ll find out why he hasn’t said anything...”

  “Can you think of any explanation why publishing might have stopped?” I ask.

  “I’m sure that creation hasn’t stopped. Something is blocking the way in... Something or someone.”

  Ambrosio is shaking, ceaselessly mumbling a sort of refrain:

  “My lord, my master, the one creator. Protect me. My lord, my master, the one creator. You know you have no servant more loyal than I. Lord, my lord. Remember your promise...”

  “There we have our answer,” says Sherlock, returning to his usual impassivity. He goes back over to Ambrosio.

  “Well, then?” he says, in a voice so thunderous and authoritative it shakes the walls. “Are you going to tell us where you got the handkerchief?”

  “I told you already. It was from a woman who dropped it during mass.”

  “She dropped it? She didn’t give it to you?” I say.

  The monk looks at me with utter contempt.

  “My lord, save me. My lord, protect me,” he goes back to whispering his refrain as fast as he can, trying to ignore us. Morgan turns the rings into snakes and they begin to slither around Ambrosio’s body. “Master, you promised—save me!” he shouts, horrified.

  “What master?” asks Sherlock. “Whom are you calling?”

  “He will save me, he will—the Sphere is his!” Ambrosio is out of his mind. One of the snakes prepares to sink its fangs into the monk’s neck. “Get it off, you damned witch!” he shouts at Morgan.

  “You know perfectly well I’m not a witch.” Morgan pins her bright green eyes on the monk and two flames flare up in her pupils. I take a few steps back. Terror fills Ambrosio’s eyes.

  “Whose handkerchief is this?” Sherlock asks again.

  “It’s Juliet’s! It’s Juliet’s handkerchief!”

  “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.