The Sphere (28 page)

“Thank you,” I answer, overwhelmed.

“Wait! You aren’t the newly published girl that they say always goes around with Holmes? The one who replaced Watson. Many people talk about your unique beauty. And now that I see you...”

“No, it’s not me,” I call back to her, since I’m already a few yards away.

“Are you going to get married?” shouts the woman. “I’m just asking because I love weddings!”

I can hear the wife’s words perfectly well even though I’m pretty far away. I wonder what the hell is going on. Why is everyone trying to set me up with Sherlock? They say it so naturally, like our interest in each other is plain as day. Sphereans are crazy. That’s the only explanation.

As soon as I turn onto Market Street I come face to face with a tent. This must be the circus the merry wife meant. How can it have changed so much since I came to the Sphere? I remember ripped cloth, posts lying on the ground, everything in decay, but now both the circus and its surroundings are bubbling with life. The music from a little band mingles with laughter, drumrolls, and the loud squabbling of the crowd. Outside there are Sphereans in garish costumes moving busily to and fro; barrels, boxes, cages of extraordinary animals. Two-headed elephants, zebras with necks like giraffes, monkeys of every possible size. I go in just in time to see the fire tamer, a man with eyes that literally spark as he pulls flames out of the box in front of him. He slips his hands in elegantly and brings out a handful of fire, which he shapes like clay. When he finishes sculpting each of his creations he admires it for a few minutes, holding it out on the palm of his hand. Then he blows gently and the fire rises, weightless, without losing its shape. The beautiful figures rest there, hovering above the audience—angels of fire, doves, fairies, butterflies, lotus flowers. The Sphereans gaze upward, admiring the creations that light up the inside of the tent, their shadows dancing. The music stops and the silence is absolute. No one dares to breathe. The fire tamer opens his mouth and inhales forcefully, swallowing up all his shapes in the blink of an eye. The crowd bursts into applause and ovations as the tamer thanks everyone, bowing deeply. While everybody is clapping I take the opportunity to go over to Sherlock, moving carefully across the stands to keep from stepping on anyone.

Sherlock smiles when he sees me. He moves over a little to make room.

“You wanted to see me?” I ask as the band comes in, playing a noisy march. Sherlock looks at me without understanding a word. “I was looking for you!” I repeat, raising my voice, but a dwarf with a huge pair of cymbals drowns my words out with a thunderous crash. “I’m here now!” I shout at the top of my lungs.

Every head turns toward us. Just then the band had gone silent for a split second. Hundreds of eyes focus on me: the newly published one. Me and my bad luck—of course they all have eyes
now
. Sherlock pulls gently at my hand and I sit down. There’s hardly space for us both, our legs are pressed together, and he hasn’t let go of my hand. The music picks up again. Sherlock breathes calmly, breathes like... like someone made of flesh of blood. Like someone alive. He no longer seems like he’s made of wood. He doesn’t speak, he’s completely focused on what’s going on in the circus ring. I wonder why it was so urgent that he see me. He’s so odd! Sherlock is strange, but interesting. Who would have guessed! The one I liked least, the most inexpressive of them all, is now completely familiar to me. When I look at his profile I realize I know its lines perfectly. I close my eyes for a few seconds—yes, I could draw it from memory. I can mentally recreate his face: his nose, his hair... but what are his eyes like? An insatiable curiosity comes over me. I’ve got to make him look at me—I’m sure he has grown eyes, too.

The band stops playing. The dwarf with the giant cymbals puts them down on the ground and climbs onto a stool. Isn’t he one of the ones I met right when I arrived in the Sphere? I guess so. I smile warmly. His face is grotesque, just like his plump body, but there’s something sweet about it, too. Something friendly and likeable in his smile, in the way he moves his hands. His lively eyes seem to charm the crowd. I feel a little bad about the way I reacted that night. The dwarfs only wanted to welcome me; they didn’t know I would find their world so terrifying.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the dwarf cries, “now is the moment you’ve all been waiting for. My brothers shall delight us with their juggling, and then Vlat, fearless Vlat, will go into the griffin cage!”

The audience explodes into applause and the band begins its thunderous song again as the two brothers enter on their tricycles. All right, I guess the announcer wasn’t one of the dwarfs from the alley, but these two are. The announcer throws balls at the other two from the stool and they juggle them, still riding in circles around the ring.

I look at Sherlock out of the corner of my eye. Why doesn’t he look at me? I want to see his eyes. The truth is his profile is perfect, and I like his dark hair. He’s a pretty good-looking man. What’s inside of his heart? I have no idea—his private life is the greatest mystery of all. I think the Count was right, and Beatrice is nothing but a game to him. Is there a woman? I mean someone who really matters to him. Was there ever one? I look down. What’s happening to me? I guess all the things the Count and Morgan have said, and even the merry wife, are starting to get to me.

I turn my attention back to the show. In the ring some assistants have taken away the tricycles and the balls, and now the three dwarfs are slapping each other silly while the crowd laughs wildly. I glance sidelong at Sherlock again. He notices me looking at him and smiles for a discreet, brief moment—so sweetly that I feel like I’m falling gently into space. I float easily down, like a feather. There’s a loud creak as an enormous cage comes out. In it are the strangest animals I’ve ever seen. The front part of their bodies is an eagle, and the back a lion.

“They’re griffins,” says Sherlock, pushing my hair out of the way slightly so he can whisper in my ear.

So
that’s
a griffin... How did he read my mind like that? How did he know I didn’t know what the animals were? There’s no need to wonder. I understand the way Sherlock’s mind works. I did lean forward to get a better look at what was inside the cage, and I’m sure my surprise showed on my face. Then when I covered my mouth with both hands he must have known—I’ve never seen a griffin before in my life. One of the dwarfs is inside the cage now, running from one side to the other, trying—mostly unsuccessfully—to dodge the animals’ sharp beaks. Everyone goes on laughing.

“Shall we go?” Sherlock puts his hand on my shoulder. “This circus lasts for several days, and the best part was the fire tamer.”

Finally I see his eyes. Of course he has grown eyes! They’re calm, steady, the color of burnt caramel. Of course—they couldn’t be any other color. Just how I imagined them.

The stands are packed, and it’s difficult to make our way through the crowd. When we finally get out it’s a relief to breathe some fresh air. We stop outside the entrance. Sherlock doesn’t say anything at all, or even move. It feels like all the Sphereans outside the circus are watching us, and suddenly I have the distinct feeling that they all want to set me up with the best detective in the Sphere.

“All right,” I say to break the uncomfortable silence, “What did you want to see me so urgently about?”

“Oh, nothing in particular. I just wanted to spend some time with you. For us to get to know each other.”

Well, that’s just weird. I felt at ease in the circus, but...

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I say tersely.

“Why?”

“Our roles, the rumors...” Dissie, come on, get to the point. Don’t beat around the bush. “I’d prefer for our relationship to keep to the investigation,” I say finally.

“Fine,” says Sherlock, his voice growing sharp at the end of the word. “I love it. Investigation.”

Sarcasm. Great, I injured his pride. We start walking. As usual, I don’t know where we’re going. Sherlock is an expert at not communicating his intentions. Maybe this time I was the one who was mistaken about him. Maybe he really did just want to get to know me a little better. No, of course not—he wouldn’t have held my hand at the circus if that was all. I hate this kind of stuff! The thing to do is excel at my work, that’s it. To earn his respect by being professional.

“I made a mistake at the monastery. I followed a hunch, but I was wrong. I’m sorry...” We walk for a while, still in silence. “I don’t want to be annoying, and I know it doesn’t excuse my behavior, but I swear when we went in the cell before there was someone in there. I know because there was a strong smell of blood.” Sherlock looks over at me, disconcerted. “It was the blood of someone living,” I say quietly, tucking my hands into my jacket pockets.

In one pocket I find the petals that I tore off in my desperation that day, when I begged Sherlock to smell the flowers. I squeeze them hard, rubbing them together. Then I bring my hand up to my nose. It smells of nothing—absolutely nothing. Sherlock stops when we reach the castle. He sits down on the stone wall and takes out his pipe. I don’t know if he brought me here on purpose to remind me of where my kidnappers dumped me. This man doesn’t forgive mistakes. I sit on the wall and look out at the sea, the endless sea that’s finally the same color as the one in St Andrews. Looking at that immensity makes it seem impossible that there’s nothing beyond the Sphere. The wind blows my hair out behind me. I feel embarrassed and frustrated at the same time. Sherlock will never understand what I mean when I talk about the smell of blood. He’s being truthful; he really didn’t smell anything that night in the cell. But then why did I? The smoke from his pipe drifts in front of my eyes, screening my view of the ocean as the wind comes and goes... The smoke from Sherlock’s pipe doesn’t smell, either! I take the petals out of my pocket, tear them, and inhale deeply, closing my eyes to search for the scent of the flowers. Nothing! The Sphere is a world without scent—that’s why I didn’t notice any smell from the tea, either. The delight with which Beatrice sniffed the little box was nothing but a gesture she picked up, something the merchants taught her to do.

“I’m sorry you all had to come look for me here,” I say.

“It’s in the past. Don’t keep dwelling on it.”

“No, really. And the thing with the blood. I won’t keep going on about it...” Sherlock looks at me closely, with his usual calm, with his new eyes. “You know the Sphere like no one else. I won’t go off on my own again... There’s something I should show you.”

“Oh, really?” Suddenly Sherlock is extremely interested.

“It might just be something silly.”

“I doubt it,” Sherlock smiles around his pipe.

“The day we visited the Count I took something I found in Mina’s casket. I kept it at Beatrice’s house.”

“That’s my girl!” Sherlock hugs me, elated.

Dissie. Eu-ry-di-ce. Don’t think. Don’t react. He was just using a turn of phrase, that’s all.

––––––––

“W
elcome back, lovebirds...”

I ignore Morgan and go straight to Beatrice’s bedroom. I reach under the pillow...

“It’s not here! Beatrice!” I yell desperately.

“What’s going on?” she asks with her usual sweetness, coming into the bedroom with Sherlock and Morgan close behind.

“Where is the thing I left under the pillow?”

“Oh, do you mean this?” She takes a white lace handkerchief out of a small box.

“What have you done? Why?” Sherlock takes me by the forearm to hold me back. “You washed it. Why? You did the same thing with Mister Gray’s house! Now there’s no clue, now we have nothing!”

“I didn’t wash the handkerchief,” Beatrice answers.

“So where’s the blood? I took this handkerchief from Mina’s casket. It had a scarlet stain, just like the handkerchief we found in Ambrosio’s cell. It was blood. I’m sure of it. I could smell it!... Whatever, it doesn’t matter. You all will never understand.” Suddenly I realize that I never tried to smell the handkerchief I found in Dracula’s mansion. I just guessed it was blood from the color.

Morgan and Sherlock look at one another.

“Darling girl,” says Beatrice, “it is not right for you to take things that don’t belong to you. First the little myrtle branch, now the handkerchief... truly, I don’t believe it is the right path. The Creator tells us...”

“Don’t start moralizing, Beatrice! Not right now.”

I feel so disheartened by the disappearance of the stain that I don’t even have the energy to get angry with Beatrice. She’s just like that—everything must be done on the
straight path
. I’ve heard her say it so many times!

Sherlock takes the handkerchief over to the window to inspect it.

“Indeed, it is quite similar to the one from Ambrosio’s cell. And if it is Mina’s, which is quite likely, it is understandable that it might not have blood on it right now. There are still three or four hours until dusk, and many more until dawn. You know how vampires feed, don’t you?”

“Of course!” I answer indignantly. “I’m not that ignorant.”

“Surely Mina wipes her mouth with this handkerchief when she returns to her coffin after eating,” explains Sherlock.

“She
used to wipe
it,” corrects Beatrice. “... The poor thing!”

“If this is the handkerchief that she used to wipe the blood off before dawn, the stain should stay in the fabric from that time until mid-afternoon, approximately, when it will become clean again so that Mina can perform the action again, according to her role.”

I had forgotten that everything here is governed by roles, and that every role has its own rhythms. Even the objects have a routine that repeats over and over again.

“So the stain on the handkerchief that we found at the monastery disappears, too?”

“Excellent point, my dear Dissie! Brilliant. Something you two certainly failed to notice,” Sherlock says, looking at Beatrice and Morgan. Morgan shoots me a hateful glance. “I don’t know how I didn’t think of it before. It could be a very valuable piece of information for determining to whom the handkerchief that Ambrosio had belongs. We must study the hourly patterns of the stain, and check them against the schedules of those Sphereans whose roles include handkerchiefs.”