Authors: Martha Faë
“Well, I think you were right,” I say to Morgan once we reach the last room. “They kidnapped Mister Gray. This search is a waste of time.”
“No, Holmes is never mistaken. There must be something here. If we can’t find it we’ll have to search all the rooms again...”
That’s it—this submissiveness has got to stop. As sure as my name is Eurydice, these women will learn to...
“Wait!” I try to shout, but the word sticks in my throat. Instead I look up at the ceiling and point with a trembling finger.
There is a bright chain hanging right beside the velvet curtains. It’s so thin that we missed it before. Morgan goes over, determined, and gives it a yank. Up among the grayish clouds and cherubs that decorate the wooden ceiling a rectangle eases down and opens. A ladder appears and unfolds smoothly. Morgan and I catch our breath at the same time, give each other a look, and take off running. We barrel up the steps as fast as we can, elbowing each other out of the way, stomping on each other’s feet, desperate to be the first one there. At the top we find ourselves standing in a dark and dusty attic, full of old junk. On one wall is the clear outline of an object that must have been hanging there for a long time: rectangular, large, definitely a painting. The whiteness of the empty space on the wall is hypnotizing; it glows in the darkness and draws our eyes to its shape. Morgan shakes her head hard to break the spell, and I do the same. Just then we both notice a large bundle lying on the floor beneath the empty space. My breath starts to come faster. I can see a hand sticking out from under a sheet. Morgan rushes over and pulls the sheet back.
“He’s here, he’s here!” she shouts at the top of her lungs, a broken whistling sound coming from her wooden mouth.
The old ladder creaks as Beatrice and Holmes hurry up it. I can’t stop staring at our discovery. From the way the others react I know this is Dorian Gray. It’s a wooden figure like the others, but with an amazing head of hair and perfect features—not just beautiful, absolutely perfect. If it weren’t for my companions congratulating one another on the fact that Mister Gray is only unconscious, I’d swear that
he—that
is the animate object whose strange and chilling presence filled the house. His beauty is so perfect that it seems perverse.
Bringing Dorian down from the attic with the narrow folding ladder ends up being pretty complicated. There’s too little space and too many hands; everyone wants to carry him; we all fight just to be able to touch him. Even Beatrice—so sweet, gentle, submissive—pretty much shoves us out of the way to make room for herself next to Mister Gray’s body. We lay him in his bed. The others try unsuccessfully to revive him.
“We should take him to the hospital,” says Beatrice. William and Morgan nod.
We stand there quietly for a while, absorbed in looking at Dorian Gray’s face. It feels like a force is pulling at my eyes, as if he wanted to yank them out and carry them around like one more pretty ornament. William clears his throat and a minor uproar breaks out. Everyone starts talking over one another and it’s a lot of work for me to understand what anyone is saying. Apparently the thing the intruders took is the picture that left that spellbinding white patch on the wall.
“Clearly they forced Gray to take them to the painting, and then assaulted him in order to steal it,” declares William.
“That makes the case trickier, at least in my opinion,” I say. “Up until now nothing was taken. Now we’re not just looking for a kidnapper, we’re looking for a thief, too. Finding him on the move will be even harder.”
Holmes pins his empty sockets on me.
“It isn’t just any object,” Morgan explains, “we could say that in a way it is alive... it’s as if they had kidnapped him. As far as I’m concerned, we’re still looking for a kidnapper.”
I feel really awkward. William keeps staring at me.
“It was Eurydice who found Mister Gray, I suppose...”
“Well, it was both of us,” answers Morgan, and then hesitates. “Though, yes, really she was the one who saw the chain. Dissie saw the chain hidden in all the velvet...”
It’s hard for her to speak. I know it must really be a blow to her ego to give me credit, and I appreciate that she’s doing it anyway. William listens to Morgan without taking his eyes off me. I need to distract him and I need to do it
now
.
“Why take the painting and not Mister Gray?” I ask.
“The picture of Dorian Gray is an extremely valuable piece,” Morgan answers, “very useful to some.”
“But who could want it? It’s a monstrosity. An aberration of nature!” Beatrice’s voice grows weak from the horrific images passing through her mind.
“Perhaps, my lovely lady, but not to everyone. Not to those who can make use of it.”
“The misshapen...” says Morgan, calm and certain.
Holmes agrees with a barely perceptible nod.
The first thing is to get Dorian Gray to hospital without arousing suspicion. If the citizens of the Sphere discovered the permanent hospital they would panic, and if we were spotted by whoever “kidnapped” the painting, our lives would be at risk, at least in theory. After all, we don’t know what happened to the missing people.
“Not knowing our enemy is a great risk,” says William. “Every precaution must be taken in this situation. The move to the hospital can only happen under cover of darkness, and night is still a few hours off.”
“Do you mean we should wait here until dusk?” asks Beatrice worriedly.
“No... Not exactly.” William is thoughtful for a few seconds. “At least not all of us. There’s no time to lose. We must investigate the misshapen ones of the Sphere cautiously. Eurydice’s observation seems quite right to me; it may be that they are behind all of it.”
“But it was Morgan who mentioned the misshapen!” I point out. William doesn’t seem to be paying attention.
“The investigation of the misshapen must not distract us from the search for the missing people. We have to find the place where they are holding Romeo, Juliet, Anna Karenina, and the Little Prince.”
“I agree completely, Holmes,” says Morgan. “We have to divide up the tasks. You and I can look for potential hiding places, while the girls...”
“No,” William says so bluntly that we all stare at him, stunned. He looks at me, fidgets with his pipe, and softens his tone: “Dissie will come with me to look for the missing people. She can’t investigate the misshapen; she doesn’t even know who they are.”
“But... But Beatrice knows. She could go to their houses to sniff around a little, no one would suspect her. I think Beatrice should investigate the misshapen and Eurydice should stay here with Mister Gray.”
“It’s too dangerous for Beatrice to investigate the misshapen,” William answers. “It has to be you.”
“But why?” Morgan has lost her air of conviction; her tone and gestures are becoming childish.
“Because.”
“Fine, because. What’s going on is that if Beatrice investigates the misshapen she’ll see her beloved Heathcliff. That’s what it is...” mutters Morgan, crossing her arms angrily.
We can all hear her perfectly well. Beatrice drops her head, embarrassed, and William seems cross. I don’t dare ask who Heathcliff is—clearly this is not the time.
“Eurydice will come with me. You find all the misshapen, Morgan,” William orders, “it will suffice to know that they are where they should be, and that they have not been making any suspicious movements. There must be about three hours until dusk; then we’ll meet at my house to organize the transfer of Mister Gray.”
“And I?” asks Beatrice timidly.
“You, my beautiful lady, shall stay here with Mister Gray.”
“Mister Ho... I mean, William. I beg your pardon but I just don’t know... staying here... by myself?”
“Don’t worry...”
“
Don’t worry, my lovely lady
,” Morgan echoes with a mocking gesture, which William purposefully ignores.
“Dear Beatrice, trust in me. The safest place for you right now is here.”
“But what if whoever took the painting comes back?”
“They will not come back, not today, at least not in the middle of the day. They know they’ve been found out. Don’t worry. We’ll be back soon.”
Morgan bites her lower lip and furrows her brow. Why does William’s attention to Beatrice bother her so much? I touch her shoulder to show that I’m on her side, but she shakes me off with a snort. Is she angry with me, too? I can see that she wanted to go with William no matter what, but I can’t tell whether it’s just for the glory of the chase, or if there’s something else there. Could William and Morgan be...? No, that’s ridiculous. He’s clearly head over heels for Beatrice. She—well, I don’t know about her. It seems like she lets herself be loved. The truth is that the whole scene is a little sappy. The way he takes her by the hand you’d think she was dying. Oh, please!
“I will be all right, dear William,” says Beatrice, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to Mister Gray’s still body.
She takes out a small rosary from her dress pocket. The glass beads end in a quill like the one I saw on the altar in the church.
“Very well. We will be back as soon as possible.”
William glances at me, and as I follow him to the door I swear I can feel Morgan staring daggers at me. I can feel them sinking right into my back.
––––––––
W
illiam walks with long, quick strides, certain of his destination, and I hurry along beside him to keep up. I wonder where we’re going. I thought the plan was to search for places where the kidnapped people might be hidden, but I can tell from William’s pace and his composure that he isn’t searching at all—he knows exactly where he’s headed. We walk in silence. I don’t dare ask a question or say a single word for fear of interrupting some important thought process. I confess that I was surprised when he knew Mister Gray had to be in the house. He’s mysterious, and I don’t like his manners much, but I have to admit I find his mental workings intriguing.
We walk through a St Andrews that I hardly recognize, but somehow the differences aren’t that shocking to me anymore. I’m not sure if it’s just because I’ve been here for a little while, or because for the first time in my life I feel halfway accepted—even valued. It really does seem like they value me, in their own way. We’ve been going all day but I don’t feel a bit tired. If it weren’t totally out of the question, I would even say I feel happy.
“How did you know Mister Gray hadn’t been kidnapped?” I ask without even realizing that my mouth had begun moving.
“It was really quite simple.”
We keep walking. I wait for an explanation that just doesn’t come. William’s steps grow slower—is he giving me time so I can come to the same conclusion that he did? He doesn’t say a word, just swings his arms and occasionally reaches up to his unlit pipe, fidgeting with it, moving it from his mouth to his hand. The silence is killing me! I feel stupider and stupider. I’m sure the answer is so incredibly obvious that... Dammit! I’m racking my brains but I can’t come up with the explanation. I notice that William has turned to face me and something even more humiliating happens: a sudden and uncontrollable heat starts burning in my cheeks. Why won’t he stop looking at me? I’ve never felt so uncomfortable. I’m sure clever little Morgan would have the answer in no time. Beatrice wouldn’t, though. She wouldn’t have the slightest idea, living up on her little cloud cupped in the hands of the Creator. Clearly that doesn’t matter to William, though. He would probably even find it charming that his
lovely lady
doesn’t know or want to know how he concluded that Mister Gray was still in the house. For some reason I feel my stomach drop.
“Fine,” I wail, and the sound of my voice embarrasses me even more. “I have no idea how you knew Dorian Gray was still in the house. I give up, I’m stupid, okay?”
“Nothing could be further from the truth,” William replies with astonishing calmness. “You are the exact opposite of stupid. In fact, your observation about the need to be on the lookout for thieves as well as kidnappers quite surprised me. I believe, if you’ll allow me to say so, that you have a special knack for investigation.”
“I hope I can live up to it,” I say, without recognizing my own words. I’m not the kind of girl who usually goes for compliments. I’m feeling really strange.
“You can and you will, don’t you doubt it.”
Even though William’s comments are unsettling, I can’t help but feel grateful for them. I hope he really means it. I look over at him. He doesn’t seem like the kind of person to say things lightly. I feel secure enough to ask where we’re going, but before I can say anything I stop dead in my tracks, astonished by what I see before me.
“Madras!” I exclaim.
We’re standing in front of a monastery sitting right on the spot where Madras College was before my accident. I remember that there were some ruins in front of the school; my father said something about them when we passed by the day we came to St Andrews. Naturally I didn’t pay much attention. Come on Dissie, think, try to remember—these were the ruins of... what? William tugs at me, at the hem of my jacket. He pulls me across the street but I go on staring at the building, perplexed. My duck feet splash across the cobblestones. I can’t look away, can’t stop searching my memory. What my father said doesn’t matter—who cares about history! Anyway, it’s not in ruins now: it’s a gothic building in perfect condition. My mouth hangs open as I stare. It looks like they just finished building it; everything is brand-new. My eyes move over the curved lines of the beautiful building. The windows have pointed arches, and from the stained glass I would guess that inside is a chapel. How could a building like this appear out of nowhere?
I hardly notice when we stop walking. Only when I hear the chime of a little bell do I realize that William has gone into a store and left me on the sidewalk, awe-struck and still as a statue. Now he’s coming back out with a paper cone full of nuts. I tear my eyes away from the building and look at my companion, who smiles for the first time since I met him. He rests his hand on my back to steer me across the street, and for some reason my spine straightens up like an electric current just shot through each of my vertebrae, all the way up to my head. I’m standing straight as an arrow. We cross the street to the monastery and stop next to the chapel in a garden with leafy trees and benches. William sits down and tugs at my hand so that I sit down next to him. Then he holds out the cone of nuts. The thought hits me like a hammer: it isn’t my intelligence he appreciates. I feel hurt, far more hurt than I really ought to.