––––––––
We leave Gannochy House and head toward South Street, where we had planned to split up. When we turn onto narrow Castle Street the thundering of powerful wings leaves us frozen right where we stand. In the space of a second my blood goes cold and then seems to boil over. A sort of electric shock passes through my entire body. That noise—I’m sure it’s the same as what I heard on the beach. Which is terrifying, but also means we have a chance to unravel the mystery. What if it really is me? What would happen if I could actually help these “people”? I wait for instructions from William, but they don’t come. Morgan pulls me hard by the hand. We run down the street just in time to see narrow, elongated shadows falling on the cobblestones, and then they’re gone.
“They came out of Dorian’s house!” Morgan shouts, resting her hands on her knees to catch her breath. “Look.”
She points to a low house with a ceramic mouse and cat on the tiled roof. The door is wide open.
“Dorian!” Beatrice calls, approaching the doorway. Her voice is cracked with fear.
“Mister Gray, are you there?” asks William as he goes inside.
“Let’s go!” Morgan says, and takes my hand again.
My heart is pounding so hard it hurts. This is the first time in my life that I’ve been in a truly serious situation.
I can’t believe my eyes. The inside of the house is nothing like its exterior. On the outside it looks small and cozy, but inside its proportions are impossibly large. I’m tempted to go back out to the street just to look at the tiny façade of the building again. There simply cannot be this much space inside. There’s a sort of instant enlarging effect and I watch, amazed, as we move forward and the space seems to get even bigger. Rugs and tapestries come one after another; the little crystals on the chandeliers tremble and twinkle in the draft from the front door. Silently William points out the pieces of a huge Chinese vase, the different grays of the intricate design standing out against white porcelain. They’re so beautiful that my hand moves closer, pulled by some invisible force. One of the fragments has been broken just beneath the head of a sinuous dragon, cutting its throat. My fingers stop in mid-air. The dragon’s snout with its long protruding tongue makes me shudder, and my stomach turns. It feels like I’m looking at the remains of a dead animal, not just a piece of porcelain.
Everything is in disarray; there are books thrown all over the place. Someone has slashed all the paintings on the walls, and I feel the same way about the hanging strips of canvas as I did about the vase: it’s as if the paintings had been alive. I shake my head, trying to chase away the unsettling feeling that some of the canvases are in their death throes. I glance over at Beatrice and regret it right away—the look on her face is no help at all. You would think she was standing before the body of someone who had been very special to her. The elegant curtains are ripped, too, and on top of a huge grand piano we find a bottle of wine tipped over on its side. Whoever rampaged through the house did it just seconds ago: we can still see the last drop of wine falling onto the dark stain on the polar bear rug.
“The fire is lit,” says William calmly, holding his pipe in his right hand without taking it all the way out of his mouth. He seems completely unperturbed.
“That means the intruders we saw escaping just kidnapped Dorian Gray,” adds Morgan, her hair disheveled from running. William shakes his head, simply but emphatically. “But... the house has been turned upside down, the door was open, and we saw the shadows as they ran away... If the fire is lit it means Dorian was here,” Morgan insists.
I agree with her. The proof is irrefutable. William just keeps on examining the room as if he hadn’t even heard Morgan’s words, and the stony look she had when I first met her reappears on her face. I don’t blame her.
“Indeed,” says William a few seconds later. There’s no way to know if he’s referring to Morgan’s observation, or just talking to himself. “We should split up to search for Mister Gray; he has to be here somewhere.”
“But then...” I can’t quite put my doubts into words. Why did he say ‘indeed’?
Maybe it isn’t that William has an impenetrable expression. Maybe I just never read him right until now. He doesn’t have any expression because there’s nothing inside of him—no sensitivity, no reasoning, nothing! Why would he seem to agree with Morgan and then a moment later say exactly the opposite? It’s obvious that the intruders have taken this Mister Gray guy. We have to hurry up and rescue him, not search for him in his ransacked house. Morgan clenches her teeth so hard her jaw trembles. I’m surprised at her self-control; knowing what she’s like I would’ve bet on her exploding, but she doesn’t say a word. She and Beatrice nod and look around, searching just like Holmes ordered them to.
We spend a few minutes on the pointless search; there’s no trace of Dorian Gray. Maybe the other two women are just going to give in to this pushy, arrogant man, but I don’t plan on following suit. I open my mouth but before I can lay into him William says:
“The fact that the house has been ransacked means only that someone has come in to search for something. My dear lady,” he whispers, “you and I will search here and in the garden. Morgan and Eurydice, you look upstairs.”
At your service! And we obey—now I see how things work around here. But that’s going to change, just wait and see! Inside I’m grumbling, but I follow Morgan up to the top floor. The Persian rug that covers the staircase of this unexpectedly huge house doesn’t quite muffle the creak of wood beneath our slow, careful steps. I inspect the ornate décor: there’s hardly an inch of space not covered with some kind of decorative object. Despite the excess, the objects themselves have an undeniable beauty. They’re beautiful—or rather, it’s more like they contain beauty. There’s something about all these objects that seems twisted, as if they were actually living. I feel like I’m looking at something alive—not someone, something—just like with the shards of the vase.
Upstairs we find a long hallway with three doors on each side. We open them all, one by one, and go into the rooms, carefully searching every corner. My sixth sense is telling me we won’t find anyone, but the anticipation we feel in front of every door makes me feel alive. The final doors we open almost routinely, at least I do, and I guess Morgan does the same. We don’t speak; she’s in a terrible mood. We do our work conscientiously, opening every dresser and looking under every bed. We don’t say a word during the search, but I know that we both notice the sense of depravity that lies like an invisible cloak over everything in the house.
“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.