The Sphere (11 page)

“I’m afraid it’s not a joke at all.” William clears his throat before going on. “Although Mercutio’s state of permanent inebriation wasn’t particularly surprising, his tears were. His role doesn’t call for moping about in the streets.”

Moping about in the streets?
Role? They’ve got to be kidding. I get up, determined to walk out, but William invites me to sit down again—not so subtly this time. I look at Beatrice, expecting her to reprimand her friend for being rude, but instead she goes on talking like this is all totally normal.

“Mercutio is usually a happy man,” adds Beatrice, “he always has been.”

“A man... the only Mercutio I’m interested in is my brother. I have to find the twins. Beatrice, please tell me where I can find my family. What’s going on here? Why have they disappeared?”

“That’s what we want to find out,” says William. “Why they’ve disappeared.”

“We’re telling you what we know,” adds Beatrice. “The tavern keepers came to Holmes’s office to complain about Mercutio’s low spirits, and to ask for help because his attitude was driving away their customers.”

“Naturally. There’s nothing more disagreeable than a resident of the Sphere acting outside their role,” says William.

“What role?” I ask impatiently.

“Mercutio’s role,” all three of them answer in unison.

“Enough! Enough,” I shout. “That’s enough. Either you’re all nuts or you’re playing a joke on me. I don’t care which, but I’m not wasting any more time here.”

“I beg you, miss, do not think of this as a waste of time. Nothing could be further from the truth. Your help could be immensely valuable to us.”

I look around, completely bewildered, and then get up and walk out. William tries and fails to grab my arm. Beatrice begs. I feel awful when I hear her, but I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the certainty that the only thing I should do is run straight back to where my summer house ought to be. Who knows? Maybe even looking for Axel would be a good idea, even though I’m mad at him. Anything but wasting another precious minute here. Something tells me that if I spend any more time with these people I’ll end up joining them.

“Eurydice!” Beatrice begs me to stay for the millionth time.

“Miss Eurydice,” William coughs as he says my name.

I go out to the hall and head for the stairs. William’s footsteps hurry after me. He runs ahead and cuts me off. His expression is as serious and impenetrable as ever. There’s no way to guess at his intentions except from his tone of voice.

“Eurydice, you cannot leave!” he commands.

“Of course I can,” I answer, summoning up my courage. But to be honest, this man frightens me. I don’t like his change of tone at all—why is he ordering me around? Where did his fake manners go?

“You must help us,” he says, still with that commanding tone. 

“Why?” I ask, staring right into his deep, empty eyes.

“Because... because...”

I can tell my intent stare is making him nervous, so I force myself to keep it up, even though looking into those bottomless tunnels makes me shudder.

“You have to help us because it is your role. It falls to you—that’s all there is to it. It’s your obligation.”

“I’m not obligated to do anything!”

I shove his arm away and run down the steps. My heart is trying to leap right out of my chest from the terror I felt when I stared William down. He yells after me, listing all the terrible consequences I’ll suffer if I don’t obey my role. The stone stairwell makes his voice sound like it’s coming through a tube. When I reach the garden I stop suddenly, overcome by the spectacle of the gray trees and plants. The buildings on the other side of the old oak tree look like they’ve been sketched in pencil. I look up, turning to face the School of Divinity. Beatrice is watching me with her hands pressed to the window. She looks like a ghost, her leaden tears shining strangely in the sun. I don’t want to know anything about roles, or about people without eyes, or about black-and-white landscapes. I look at my own hands and begin to tremble at the sight of my grayish skin and white nails. I break into a run. As I run I close my eyes for an instant, wishing that when I open them everything will be like before, St Andrews will go back to being the place I know, the place it used to be. I want the sea to have color again. I want to hear the twins laughing as they make fun of me. I run toward the summer house, telling myself over and over that this is all ridiculous, that it’s got to be there. I haven’t even gotten halfway there when I have to stop. I’m out of breath. It feels like my heart is about to explode, and I’m so dizzy my vision is going dark. I’m not used to running—I’ve never really gone in for exercise. I cough and cough until tears spring to my eyes and my chest aches. I have to keep walking, though, I have to get to the river as soon as possible. Maybe if I ignore what I know... what I saw... what I thought I saw. That’s right—it must all be a trick of my imagination. I thought my house had disappeared, but it’ll be there this time. I’m sure. I just have to be stronger than my imagination, and everything will go back to normal.

When I get to the stone bridge I feel like screaming. Maybe if I could just scream loudly enough the sky would rip right open and reveal my real life, hidden behind it. Instead I walk slowly over to the spikes of wheat growing where the houses next to mine should be. I walk until I’m surrounded by stalks. They scratch my legs even through my pants. Why can’t I scream? I want to, but I can’t. I begin pulling the spikes of wheat out furiously, bitterly, like they’re somehow to blame. I don’t even feel them tear the skin of my hands. I can see that the broken stalks are stained with some dark liquid, but I don’t realize it’s my own blood. I rip up the damned spikes like they stole my life, like they trapped me in this bad dream. I yank them out and break them off and when I look around I can’t tell any difference. The stalks spring back up, faster than I can pull them out. If I could just wake up. It wouldn’t be the first time that I’d slept so soundly I couldn’t open my eyes. I’m sure it happens to everyone, that deep sleep when you have to make a superhuman effort just to wake up. I rub my face and it grows wet from the blood on my hands, but when I look out from between my fingers everything is still in black and white.

I hear someone breathing behind me. A hand touches my shoulder. My heart leaps—it must be my mother, finally here to wake me up. I turn my head slowly...

It’s Morgan. Right next to me.

“When did you show up?” I ask, crestfallen. “What are you doing here?”

“You have to come back. William has given me very clear orders. Come back on your own two feet, or I’m to bring you by force.”

I start walking along beside Morgan with a meekness that surprises me. I search around inside for some rebelliousness, but it’s clear that I used it all up when I walked out of Beatrice’s house a little while ago. We walk the whole way in silence—not like I would expect anything else from Morgan. I glance over at her furtively now and then. I was convinced she was a young girl when I saw her the first time, but now she seems like a woman to me, rather than a girl. A young woman—definitely not old, but not a girl, either. And as much as I hate to admit it—as much as she rubs me the wrong way—an attractive woman. We go through the gate to the St Mary’s gardens. Morgan stops in front of Beatrice’s door.

“You’re a mess,” she says brusquely. “Give me your hands.” I hesitate. “Give them to me!”

I hold out my injured hands to Morgan like a little girl, and she wraps her own hands around them. I can feel my tattered skin, the pulsing heat of the wounds. It only takes a couple of seconds for the pain to ease. Morgan looks up toward the sky as she holds my hands. A sudden wind comes up and whips our hair around wildly. She mutters some kind of spell, words that I can’t make sense of. Then she lets go of my hands and passes her palms over my face. All at once I feel refreshed.

“There! Now you’re presentable.”

I follow her upstairs, careful not to stumble on the high stone steps. My hands are intact. Still gray, but completely smooth, with no sign of the cuts from the sharp spikes of wheat. I hate to say it, but I’m impressed.

When we get to the landing I can hear Beatrice and William:

“She’s only just arrived.”

“Just been published,” corrects Beatrice.

“My lovely lady, you’ve heard Morgan’s opinion.”

“And you know perfectly well what I think of her.”

“I know that Morgan isn’t to your liking, my dear lady, but we both know that her role gives her mental acuity, not to mention her special senses. Frankly, I have my doubts about the new girl—about her edition...”

“Very well,” replies Beatrice, “I can see we are not getting anywhere with this. But be that as it may, we ought to treat her with respect.”

“Wow, thanks!” I exclaim more loudly than I’d meant to.

Beatrice gives a start when she hears me.

“I am sorry, my dear, if you overheard our conversation. We... I...”

“I just want to get this all over with as soon as possible,” I say, looking at them solemnly.

At this point I suspect they won’t leave me alone until they’re convinced I haven’t been sent especially to help them.

“Agreed,” says William. “Let’s get to the heart of it. We’ll pick up the account of events where we left off before.”

“As far as I’m concerned, you can skip the whole account of events. Just tell me what you want from me.”

Morgan gives me one of her blank looks. It feels like I’m staring right down the barrel of a gun. I sit down with a snort. Time to see if I can put up with this guy’s pompousness. I just have to listen for a while—it’s like at home, when they’re lecturing me about something I did. You just own up to it, keep nodding, and sooner or later, when they feel satisfied, they let you go. The three of them look at me and I look back with my arms crossed. I’m tired of it all. Of this situation, of my lack of willpower—most of all that. My lack of character is pathetic!

“Very well, before you left, Miss Eurydice—”

“Just Dissie is fine, please,” I interrupt. Since I have to sit through this little speech, it could at least be a bit less stuffy.

“All right,” says William. I can tell from his tone that he’s happy I asked him to use my nickname. “Before you left, Dissie, we were talking about Mercutio. How he was the one to alert us to Romeo’s disappearance. Apparently he was so despondent because he hadn’t seen his constant companion Romeo for much longer than any role would be able to tolerate. So he began drinking to excess, getting weepy at the tavern, complaining that Romeo had left. Left! Inexplicable.”

“And why is it so inexplicable that somebody might leave?” I say, bored.

“Well, because no one disappears in the Sphere,” explains William. “Someone might leave if their role calls for it, but they always come back... Quite simply,
up until now
, everyone has come back. Since Watson was away on leave to visit his family, I discussed the matter with Morgan, since she was already assisting me with the epidemic.”

“What—now the epidemic, too?” Morgan protests.

William nods gravely.

“If we are going to include her in the investigation, we must include her in all the matters we are investigating.”

“Unbelievable!” Morgan snorts, with a shake of her head.

“The epidemic is a secret,” Beatrice lifts a finger to her lips, reminding me not to say anything about some epidemic that, frankly, I couldn’t care less about. “Later on we shall tell you about it. What little we know, anyway. The plague laying waste to our companions is a great mystery.”

“
We
know?” grumbles Morgan—clearly it bothers her that Beatrice used the plural.

“I sought out Morgan because of the part of her role that allows her to heal,” William continues, and it takes me a second to see the connection between his words and Beatrice’s.

“Shall we finish up with Romeo first?” Morgan asks, without giving Beatrice or William time to answer. “It seemed logical to us to look for him first in the cemetery, since he has a penchant for doing his suicide scene with Juliet over and over again.”

I can’t hide my confusion: what scene, what are they talking about? And this habit of using names from books really weirds me out!

“If you want to find someone, go to the place where they usually commit suicide,” say Morgan and William at the same time.

“
Usually
commit suicide?” I exclaim, irritated. “What do you mean
usually
?”

“You’re right, yes. Good point,” says William. “No one
usually
commits suicide somewhere. The roles clearly indicate where they always ought to commit suicide. Very good point, yes—I like this girl. Always, one
always
commits suicide...”

“Yes, so clever! What a clever girl,” Morgan chimes in sarcastically. “Romeo and Juliet always commit suicide in the cemetery, so that was the most logical place to look for Romeo.”

My brow furrows, and I know if I looked in a mirror I would find a big crease right between my eyebrows. I’m beginning to think that listening to this pack of lies might not have been such a hot idea. I should just walk out again. I look at Beatrice—from her expression, and the seriousness of the others, it seems like they’re not kidding. Have I ended up in a world of crazy people? That must be it—after the accident I wound up trapped in some kind of parallel universe where everyone is nuts. Yeah, right, Dissie. Give your imagination a rest.

“So those guys commit suicide,” I say, trying to act like I’m interested. “How?”

“The poison, the dagger, you know, the usual for them,” says Beatrice.

Morgan shakes her head, like she simply can’t believe I don’t know how her friends
always
commit suicide.

“Look, lady.” The words just burst out from someplace deep inside me. “I’ve got no reason to know about stuff that isn’t my problem.”

“It’s not about whether it’s your problem,
everybody
knows it. Unless, of course, you aren’t... Seriously, don’t make me say any more. They”—she indicates William and Beatrice—“made me promise I would show you some respect.”