––––––––
Someone snaps their fingers sharply, pulling me away from my thoughts. I know they’ve been talking about me while I was lost in my own private world. They’ve been talking about me, and they’ve talked with me, too—and they probably even thought I was listening to them. I’m kind of an expert when it comes to nodding and looking interested when I’m really just wandering around inside myself. I shake my head. I’ve got to decide whether to keep listening to them or leave once and for all. William insists that I have a responsibility, something about how it’s my duty to share what I know.
“I don’t know anything! How many times do I have to tell you?”
“You know, of course you know,” says Morgan.
When did she start wanting me to stay? I must have missed the part where William convinced her to believe—or forced her to believe—that I’m somehow important.
“Look,” I say, “it seems to me that if some kids have disappeared, we should tell the police. Someone competent needs to take charge. A professional should be looking for the missing people, not us!”
Morgan and Beatrice whip their heads around to look at me like I just said the worst thing in the world. William gets up solemnly and walks over to the window.
“Are you crazy?” hisses Morgan, as if she’d like to slap me with her words.
William seems deeply offended. Morgan takes me by the arm and drags me out into the hall.
“No one has ever dared question William’s abilities like that. Never in his entire career as a detective has anyone doubted his competence to handle a case. And now you—the new girl!—you show up and dismiss him just like that, with that innocent face, as if you didn’t know who he was. Maybe I could believe you don’t know Romeo and Juliet, but to not know who William is...”
“He’s the best detective of all time,” hisses Beatrice.
“How was I supposed to know?” I reply in a low voice.
“Holmes!” says Morgan, leaning in so close that our noses touch. “Does his name mean nothing to you?”
I shrink back. I shrug, trying in vain to look like her anger doesn’t affect me. How should I know! It’s a last name just like any other. Come on, it’s not like everyone named Holmes has to be a detective.
“I’m sorry to have offended William Holmes. But you’ve got to understand that I don’t have any idea what you do. I just met you!” My companions seem taken aback. “Besides, how would I know your life stories? There’s a lot you haven’t told me yet.”
I look back into the living rom. William is still at the window with his back to us. The smoke from his pipe rises in coils and twists above his head. We go in quietly, waiting for him to turn around.
“Perhaps there is some logic to it,” William says slowly. Gradually he turns around to face us. “And perhaps it can be of use. I’m referring to the fact that Beatrice’s friend knows nothing about us. As my intuition told me from the moment I saw her, and as you noted, too, Morgan, the most likely thing is that she is not even one of us. This girl...”
“Eurydice. My name’s Eurydice... and no, I’m not one of you. Fortunately,” I mutter through clenched teeth.
Morgan’s empty sockets order me to be quiet. How can she look at me with that kind of intensity if she doesn’t even have any eyes?
“If Eurydice truly is an outsider,” continues Holmes, “which seems plausible, she may bring a new perspective to the matter. Perhaps she may even be able to see something we are missing.”
Morgan doesn’t agree. According to her my “shocking ignorance,” as she puts it—never mind that I’m sitting right here—is more than enough reason to keep me away from the case.
“Besides,” she says very softly to Holmes, “I can’t communicate with her. She has her channels closed off. I don’t trust her.”
“Telepathy,” Beatrice explains. “Morgan means that she cannot communicate with you telepathically.”
“Of course she can’t!” I answer, with indignation and pride and just a little curiosity.
Is telepathy real? I don’t believe in it, but I’m still proud that that awful witch can’t communicate with me. Holmes stands there, impassive, as if he’s weighing all the information.
“The decision is made,” he says. “From now on Eurydice is part of the team.”
What team? Am I part of their stories now?
Morgan snorts angrily. “We don’t even know how she got here, shouldn’t we find that out first? Who can tell me she isn’t part of the problem?”
“She’s part of the team, and that’s that,” William answers curtly. “What’s more, Morgan, you shall fill her in on all the details.”
Morgan has no choice but to follow the orders Holmes gives her. It’s clear that nobody here dares contradict his authority. So, because the big shot with the pipe says so, they tell me all about Romeo, Juliet, and their disappearance. They also explain that there’s a third person missing, an Anna Karenina—a tormented woman who apparently has a thing for committing suicide on the train tracks. It was only this morning that they realized she had disappeared.
“I’m terribly afraid that the next one was his majesty,” says William, “judging by the object you brought us.”
“The rock?” I ask. “Does it belong to a noble?”
Suddenly, despite how absurd all of this is, and despite William and Morgan not treating me the way I would like, I find that I’m enjoying being part of the team. I admit that at first I was only trying to suck up to them, just enough so they’d give up on me and let me go. But now, even though the need to find my family is still burning inside of me, I can’t help being interested. I’m a sort of detective, which would never have happened even in my wildest dreams. Deep down, I don’t really care whether I’m dreaming or not—no one has ever taken me seriously before.
“It belongs to his majesty the Little Prince,” Beatrice says in a thin voice. “That rock is his home, planet B-612.”
“An asteroid, really,” Morgan corrects her.
How can she be such an awful know-it-all? Can’t she see how bad Beatrice is feeling?
“The flower leaves no room for doubt,” adds William. “It is the Little Prince’s asteroid.”
“Yes. I fear it is planet B-612,” says Beatrice. She walks over to the object and touches it gently.
“As-te-roid,” Morgan says, sarcastically sounding out each syllable. I can’t let her get away with it.
“Look, sister—just leave her alone!”
“Sister?” all three of them ask at once.
“What’s it to you if she calls it a planet?” I add, not really caring how surprised they are at my choice of words.
“But it’s not a planet. It’s clear from its irregularities. It’s quasi-spherical.” Morgan picks the thing up and turns it around for us, as if she were teaching a class. “See? This celestial objects lacks the gravitational pull necessary to accrete matter and become round. It’s not like planets, which... Why am I explaining this to you? It’s useless.”
“Of course it’s useless!” I exclaim, not bothering to hide the note of triumph in my voice. It’s great to feel like I’m on solid ground for once—I know all about astronomy. “You don’t have to explain the obvious. Clearly it’s not a planet. All I meant was that if Beatrice wants to call it a planet, she has the right to call it whatever she wants.”
Morgan looks a little confused.
“I see how someone might confuse it with a small planet like Pluto, for instance,” she continues. “Someone who didn’t know much about it...”
“Well, no, you couldn’t confuse it with a small planet,” I interrupt. My blood is tingling because I can finally shut up this conceited know-it-all. “There are many characteristics that differentiate a planet from an asteroid. The International Astronomical Union has defined them clearly.” Morgan screws up her mouth. “And, for your information, Pluto is not a small planet. The term is ‘dwarf.’ Pluto is a dwarf planet.”
“I just said ‘small’ as a general term, it’s not like I thought that was Pluto’s classification.”
“Well, Beatrice said ‘planet’ without meaning it as a classification, either.”
Unfortunately just then William clears his throat loudly, cutting our argument short.
“Now, ladies, if we could focus on the investigation we might actually reach some conclusion. Might I remind you that there are missing people who are depending on our work?”
We sit down around the table. The moment has come to put together all the information we have available. They’re expecting so much from me, and I’m sorry that I can’t come up with a brilliant conclusion... or any conclusion at all. Not brilliant, not stupid. Not a single thing comes to mind, which I have to admit really bothers me. It’s William and Morgan who conclude that the loudly beating wings I heard at the beach don’t have to be connected with the disappearance of The Little Prince, at least not necessarily.
“We don’t know if wings were heard during the other three disappearances or not. We must look only for characteristics that all of the cases have in common,” says Holmes. “There must be something; I’m convinced of it. If we were just talking about a single, isolated incident.... But there have been four disappearances already, in a very short period of time. The connection will give us the key to what’s going on.”
“Suicide?” suggests Morgan, but then she shoots down her own idea right away.
Romeo, Juliet, and Anna Karenina all have suicide as part of their roles, but the Little Prince doesn’t. Finally I’m starting to get what this fabled ‘role’ is all about: it’s the routine that each one of these strange people is supposed to act out over and over, forever. I’m starting to feel tired. Time ticks by and nobody can find a single characteristic that all the missing people share.
“Are they in love?” I ask hesitantly.
William nods, is quiet for a moment, then shakes his head.
“The first three, yes, but not his majesty.”
From the tilt of William’s head I can tell that he’s scrutinizing me—if it’s even possible to do that without eyes. Finally he turns to the other two women. “Morgan,” he says, “tell Eurydice all the details about the research you’re carrying out at the hospital.”
“But...” Morgan stammers. At least she’s no longer objecting outright.
“Inform her of everything.”
It seems like I’ve earned William’s respect. I don’t know how or why, and honestly I’m more surprised than anyone. But maybe it’s not so important to get back home right away. A little more time without seeing my family won’t do me any harm. I can’t pretend that I’m not happy to be part of something this exciting, even if it’s also extremely weird. It turns out Holmes is a famous detective! Missing people, a team of investigators, secrets... suddenly I’m right in the middle of one of my childhood dreams.
“The best thing is to go to the hospital so Eurydice can see for herself.”
Morgan nods grudgingly, without speaking, or even looking at me.
“You must not speak to anyone of the hospital,” Beatrice implores, as she picks up her veil and gets ready to go out. “It is in a secret wing of Gannochy House.”
“Gannochy?” I feel my heart leap. “Isn’t that a post-grad residence hall?” That’s where Axel lives!
The other three give each other a look, even without eyes. Once again something I said has left them speechless. Well, I have been a misfit my whole life—why should it be any different with them?
“Gannochy House has always been a hospital,” says William, “those whose roles call for hospital scenes use it. But there is a wing that we use secretly as a permanent hospital.”
“Permanent... isn’t it awful?” asks Beatrice. “Those who have actually had to be hospitalized at some point know of its existence, naturally, but they have promised to never speak of it to anyone, in order to preserve the peace in The Sphere. It is simply chilling for someone to have to be hospitalized for an illness that isn’t part of a role.” Beatrice begins walking, her head low.
I don’t answer. I don’t know what to say. It’s not like hospitals are the most pleasant places on earth, but in the end, they’re part of life. I don’t find them especially horrifying.
“What kind of illness do the patients in the permanent hospital have?” I ask as we walk to Gannochy House. I know perfectly well that my question is more of an effort to calm my thundering heart than any real interest in the subject. Suddenly I can think of nothing but Axel. About our argument, and what a stubborn jerk he is. His selfishness, how I left the party knowing he was watching me. It makes me furious that he didn’t stop me. He should have. If I really mattered to him he would have stopped me from leaving with Carl. On the other hand... at least now I know I don’t matter to him. Not as much as he said I did.
“It’s more like exhaustion than an illness,” says Morgan. “The patients at the permanent hospital are suffering from a weakness that can, in some cases, be extreme. Holmes came to me in the first place because my healing ability is foolproof. Of course, that only works on roles that are interconnected with mine. So, as much as I hate to admit it, there’s nothing I can do in this case,” Morgan says, more humbly than I ever would have believed possible. And the fact is that she did heal me. In a matter of seconds the wounds on my hands were gone. I’m about to point that out when she goes on with her explanation. “So, since healing was not an option, we began to study the traits that the hospitalized people had in common. At first, obviously, we suspected that the disappearances could be related to borderline cases of the infirmity. Our first hypothesis was that the missing Sphereans had not vanished; they were just lying somewhere, almost invisible, unable to move due to a lack of replication. However, none of the missing persons had ever been hospitalized, and they all enjoy—or enjoyed—excellent health. Just think—Romeo and Juliet, their health has always been quite robust. I would even go so far as to say that they’re some of The Sphere’s healthiest inhabitants. They have an enviable rate of replication.”
“Quite so,” adds Holmes.
I really am interested in what they’re telling me, but as we get closer to Gannochy House my heart beats more and more wildly. I’m trying to come up with some excuse to leave; I’m not sure I want to see Axel. But as soon as I contemplate seeing him a thought begins hammering away at my head: I haven’t seen a single person I know since the accident. In fact, St Andrews isn’t even St Andrews, at least not quite. It’s hardly likely that Axel will be where he should be. Anxiety rushes through my body, and I wish with all my heart for this to be the moment you hear about, the famous defining moment when everything changes. What if I open the door to Gannochy House and everything goes back to normal? It’s ridiculous, but I want it to be true. I don’t even care about getting any answers. I’ll give up trying to understand why things have lost their color, why I’ve had to spend all this time among such strange people. I can’t bring myself to look up from the cobblestones. I’m afraid that if I do I’ll see that the dorm has changed, too, or even worse, that it’s not there at all. What if instead of a residence hall there really is a hospital? My hands begin to shake.
“Here we are,” says Morgan.
I look up. I swear I can hear the noise of my vertebrae moving, one by one, as I lift my head. Gannochy House is the same as ever. The windows are the same; the door hasn’t changed. This is the defining moment. I’m about to go home. I swear to myself that if Axel is inside I’ll forget all about the party. I’ll wipe the slate clean. If I have to pay a price to return to reality, I am more than happy to. I walk ahead of the others and stretch my trembling hand out to the door. For some superstitious reason I know that if one of them opens the door instead of me, I won’t be able to get back to reality.
“Over here,” William says softly, almost hissing.
The other three keep walking and I stand there for a few moments, dazed, my hand still hovering near the main door. Then I’m flooded with sadness, an inevitable, inescapable sadness, like what you feel at the death of someone... something you love. My companions are a short distance away. Beatrice beckons to me and I walk toward her, dragging my feet. I’ve never felt so discouraged. I try to cheer myself up, like a little girl who can be convinced that nothing is wrong. I tell myself that they’re just going to show me something in the garden, that’s all, and soon we’ll come back, I’ll open the door, it’ll be me who opens it, and then... Just beneath the pillars supporting the building is an unobtrusive back door, hidden behind a thicket. My heart sinks. Morgan pushes the door open without any ceremony, without any respect for my pain.
Inside it is silent as the grave, and the darkness is so thick I feel like I could reach out and touch it. Little by little my eyes get used to the dark, and I can make out a few shapes, but the light is so weak that there’s no way to tell if the dorm is the same as ever or if it has changed. I rifle through my memory for images of the one time I came here with Axel, but it’s useless, I don’t recognize anything.
We hurry through darkened corridors and up a series of staircases. When we reach the top floor, William finally opens one of the doors that dot the endless walls. Now there is enough light to see things clearly. We’re in a large room filled with beds: this really is a hospital, unfortunately. A ray of sun comes weakly through a window beneath which sits a nurse, an enormous, old book resting in her lap. The lines of her white cap and immaculate uniform stand out crisply against the gray shapes. Her gloved hands turn the pages slowly but smoothly, as if it’s crucial for her movements to be completely uninterrupted. Every time she turns a page a huge cloud of dust rises. The dust motes dance elegantly in the air, rising and falling back to the book in a sparkling wave.
“Artificial respiration,” whispers Beatrice.
Every time a cloud rises from the book the patients breathe deeply, then collapse back onto their pillows. I look at their faces. In some of them the wood is cracked; I see an arm split down its entire length. Under some beds are little heaps of wood chips. Some patients are so blurred that you would think they were about to disappear. I’ve never seen anything like it. No coughing, no blood, no bandages, not a single IV bag. Just bed after bed of blurred figures, faces full of the terror or the infinite sorrow they feel at the thought of leaving this eerie world.
A few patients have sunk completely into their mattresses, their outlines so dim that you can only guess at them from the dents left by their bodies. I stop and look at one of these fading people and feel a chill. The deep, black sockets of the empty eyes are like two wells against the white pillow.
“What happened to them?”
I’m overwhelmed by both horror and fascination.
“Unfortunately no one can say for certain. We have only theories,” William answers.
Beatrice moves away from our group to sit down with one of the patients. She takes his hand and begins talking to him about the Creator.
“My understanding is that it’s a problem with lack of replication,” Morgan says, pushing her hair out of her face.
Beatrice rejoins us, her cheeks wet.
“It is a tragedy, an incomprehensible tragedy,” she says, taking an embroidered handkerchief out of her sleeve. “I would never dare to judge the Creator’s decisions, but...”
“Not the Creator again!” says Morgan, bored. She lets out a huff and walks away to consult the notes at the foot of each bed.
“Poor Morgan. She’s an unbeliever,” Beatrice whispers as she takes my arm. “May the Creator forgive me, but at times I think she is an imitator.”
I look at her, my eyes wide.
“That’s right, an imitator. You know, those people who believe themselves equal to the Creator, and try to imitate his virtues and powers. Many inhabitants of the Sphere claim that Morgan practices the dark arts. In fact—and please don’t mention this to her—they call her a witch as often as they do a fairy. What do you think of that?”
I shrug. Neither one exists, so it hardly matters what anyone calls her.
“Be that as it may,” Beatrice continues, “neither Morgan nor William shows the least respect for the Creator. I have great esteem for Mister Holmes, but he lacks faith, that is why he is so unhappy. But now I am wandering off the subject. As I was saying, I would never doubt the Creator’s good judgment, but I have to confess that I struggle to understand why this is happening to our companions in the Sphere. Some may not be what we could call good citizens, but the others... Oh, dear Dissie, some of the very best are here! Like him, for example,” she indicates a man languishing on one of the beds. “This is the good Aeneas. Never has there been such a noble, strong heart, or such a brave spirit. Very few have dared to take on a role like his, one that requires an almost interminable voyage, full of setbacks and tragedies. Few could withstand it. But Aeneas weathers the difficulties over and over again, repeating his Aeneid just as the Creator has assigned. Without bemoaning it—never have I heard him complain of his role. But one day he began to grow weaker, and then he reached the point where he could no longer move. And here you see him, lessened, shrunken in this bed. You would almost say that they’ve forgotten him.”
Morgan goes on reviewing the patient notes and writing things down in a little book. William follows closely behind, observing all her movements. When they finish they gesture for us to come with them. If I weren’t seeing it with my own eyes I would refuse to believe something like this could happen. But it’s true: these people, or beings, or whatever they are, are dying. And I feel like I’ve got to help.
They take me to an office where William and Morgan set out to explain the theory of replication, no matter how blasphemous Beatrice may think it is.
“We all contain a nucleus from which identical copies of ourselves can be made,” Morgan says, leaning her elbows on the table where we’re sitting. She clasps her hands and rests her head on them.
“I know,” I say, “I know about cloning.”
“Cloning?” asks Morgan with a furrowed brow, clearly interested.
Her scientific curiosity is enough to bring her down from her cloud of haughtiness. She seems, if not exactly pleasant, a bit closer to it. She wants to know all about the new word I just used and how the process is done, and I’m happy to elaborate. I explain how cloning works as best I can.
“Replication is slightly different,” says Morgan once I’ve finished my explanation. Her tone has changed completely; her scorn and sarcasm are gone. “It doesn’t have the weaknesses of cloning; the copies do not age or die prematurely. They are identical to the original. The fascinating thing about this process, which occurs in a space that we unfortunately don’t know anything about, is that—contrary to what you might think—each copy made strengthens the original. That is, it doesn’t take away a single iota of life, but rather the reverse.” William nods and Beatrice keeps shaking her head. “The more copies exist, the stronger the original gets. Although I have been studying this theory with Merlin for some time, there are some important details that I haven’t yet unraveled. For instance, why are some replicated and others not? What are the criteria? I think it is a question of spatial demand. Beyond the Sphere there is a space...”
“Beyond the Sphere there is nothing,” interrupts Beatrice abruptly.
“Darling Beatrice, please.” William lays his hand on top of Beatrice’s.
“As I was saying,” Morgan resumes her explanation without acknowledging the interruption, “according to the wise scholars who have come up with this theory, beyond the Sphere there is another place, which is divided into creative space and use space. Merlin and his companions believe that in this great space energy is in constant motion; it is divided and multiplied. In one of these divisions the spark that gives rise to everything you can see is created, and in the other that creation is put to use—do you understand?” I nod. “Some sort of activity in the use space triggers a greater demand for replication for certain blocks.”
“Blocks?” I want to understand it all, to get every single detail.
“Yes, sorry, I didn’t explain that. Blocks are the sets of citizens that share interconnected roles. I, for instance, am in the same block with Arthur, that moron Guinevere, and of course Merlin, whom I’m sure you know.”
“Merlin? No, I don’t know the name.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter, you’ll meet him soon. Everyone loves him, both here and outside of the Sphere. There must be something that causes us to be constantly replicated. I’d like to think it’s because of me”—Morgan lets out a nervous giggle—“but I won’t kid myself. I know that if one of us is moving replication energy in the use space it’s Merlin, and not just because he’s one of the best wizards out there. He’s always been very charismatic.”
“According to this theory,” William adds, “and in light of Morgan’s apparent good health, the block to which she belongs is continually being replicated. It’s clear that it is successful in the use space.”
“Thanks to Merlin,” Morgan says, with surprising modesty.
“Thanks to whatever it may be,” William says, “the fact of the matter is that there are millions of your copies in the use space.”
Morgan smiles and makes a dismissive gesture with her hand. Beatrice hasn’t interrupted again, but she hasn’t stopped shaking her head disapprovingly, either.
“Replication happens to the whole block,” Morgan continues, “and that affects the health of everyone that makes up the block—do you see?”
I nod. I am genuinely interested, and I can’t deny that I enjoy being trusted with information that only a few people know.
“And there you have it,” says William. “But all this is no more than a theory. The reality, at least as of now, is that we don’t know why the citizens of the Sphere that you’ve seen in the hospital beds are so ill.”
“So you don’t believe in the theory?” I ask, confused.
“Great, sweeping studies like this do not interest me terribly. The theory doesn’t seem completely wrongheaded to me, but I am only interested in it insofar as it can be of practical use. Which it has not yet been.”
I do like theories; I always have. Proven theories, of course. Finding patterns, rhythms of activity—I’m really into that. I like trying to figure out what can be predicted out of all the apparent chaos. It really gets my mind going. I look at Beatrice, her head still down, and feel sorry that we’re so different in this one way.
“Morgan, have you looked for shared traits in the blocks that have more replication?” I can’t hide my enthusiasm.
“I have tried, but haven’t found a pattern yet.”
“You mentioned your friend Merlin’s charisma before—do you think that could have something to do with it? Are there more copies of the most likeable groups?”
“I don’t know why I said that, really. I’ve combed through the personalities of the most replicated, and there are all sorts. Some are kind; others are wicked... I don’t know. I have to confess that I haven’t been able to find anything that they all have in common. I also thought it might have to do with their roles, you know, that maybe there was some particular behavior that resulted in more demand in the use space than others. But I haven’t been able to find any common thread there, either.”
“What, exactly, is a role?” I ask.
“We call a daily routine a role. The things one does repeatedly.”
“So here you all repeat the same actions over and over again?”
“Of course!” Morgan and Beatrice reply simultaneously.
“Why?”
“Because that is how the Creator wishes it,” says Beatrice.
“Because it is in each of our natures,” Morgan corrects her, “in the code from which we are formed... What did you say it was called in your world?”
“I guess you mean DNA.”
“That’s it, DNA!” Morgan snaps her fingers with a smile and then gives herself a little knock on the head to commit the word to memory.
“Let’s see,” I say. “Even though you haven’t found a common factor in the character or the role of the most replicated yet, it seems clear that there’s some kind of natural selection, right?... Some have found a way to adapt better to their environment, so they’re more successful. I mean, if I’m understanding you right, more copies are made of those who know how to behave best in the use space.”
“No,” Morgan answers, sounding disappointed, “sadly it’s not that simple. We have observed that someone might be in excellent health for a very long time, which indicates good replication in the use space, but then they stop replicating and lose strength. Just like that. On the other hand, there are others who might go for a while without being replicated, like you’ve seen in the hospital, and then just when you think all is lost, that they’re going to disappear, they regain strength. Something happens in the space and they’re reborn. As if they’d been republished!”
“This all sounds like heresy to me,” Beatrice says sorrowfully, still leaning on the table. “Everything that happens is by the Creator’s design.”
I can see that she’s gathering up her courage to say something else. She sits quietly for a few seconds, her fists on the table and her head down.
“Truly, I believe that all your theories are doing nothing more than provoking the Creator’s wrath. Things in the Sphere could get even worse because of it. Who knows? Maybe what has already happened is a punishment. We’re all paying for those of you who cast doubt on the Creator’s work. Merlin, you, and all your so-called scholars have offended him.”
Beatrice’s speech is so serious and dramatic that Morgan and I have a hard time holding in our laughter. We give each other a look, take a deep breath, and just barely manage to stay calm.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to go home.”
Beatrice’s tone is bitter, and her face so sorrowful that I feel bad for having been so clearly interested in the theory of replication.
“I think that we should all go,” says William. “We all have a great many matters to attend to.”
“You can stay with me,” Beatrice tells me. She’s just as kind as ever, and that makes me feel even worse for having shown so little respect for her beliefs. Why do I feel like I’ve been cruel? It wasn’t that bad, but I still can’t help feeling guilty.
“After all, you don’t have your own home in the Sphere, right? And I feel responsible for your presence here... If you’ll allow me to feel responsible for it,” she says, looking at Morgan.
My face goes red. Morgan has invited me to the library to show me her notes on replication. I think I’ve found some common ground with Morgan—the passion for science outweighs any personal dislike. I feel Beatrice’s hard, polished hand on my arm, light and warm. I know I should go home with her right now, but I can feel my blood pumping at the thought of learning more about the mysterious spaces of creation and use.
“Beatrice... I... You see...”
I can’t find the words. I have to be careful. I have to tell her tactfully, to be as sensitive with her as she has been with me.
“I’m going with Morgan to the library... You don’t care, do you?”
A round of applause for the queen of tact. Beatrice stands there, frozen. After that total failure all I can do is look at her with my best puppy-dog eyes. It’s a lousy trick, I know, but it seems to have worked.
“Of course I don’t mind, go,” Beatrice answers with a bitter smile. I can see the disappointment in her empty eye sockets, but no matter how much she disapproves, she simply can’t bend us to her will.