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Enough days have passed that I haven’t bothered to count them for a while. I try to keep my thoughts focused on the investigation work, every minute of every day. St Andrews still doesn’t seem like St Andrews. Sometimes I miss its smells, and I miss seeing people my age on the streets and knowing that they’re students, just like me. I miss the strange mix of modern and old that I had never even really noticed... until now. Old buildings full of people using the latest technology, modern cars parked out in front of hundreds of years of history. I miss Patrick Hamilton’s initials. In the Sphere there’s nothing on the ground that you’re supposed to walk around to avoid bad luck. Swimming in the icy ocean doesn’t make any sense here. Really, nothing here makes much sense when I compare it to the place that promised to give me the best years of my life. When I think of that, I miss St Andrews and everything from my world more than ever. But other times I call this place the Sphere and I forget that there was ever someplace else like it—but with color, with life, with another name.

Even though there are no mirrors here that I can see myself in, I know my body has changed. I’m thinner, much thinner than I used to be. My clothing is so baggy that I have to wonder what my mother would say if she could see me. “Take that thing off!” probably. But I would just argue that it isn’t dirty, because here clothing never gets dirty. That actually doesn’t seem so strange to me. It’s logical: why would you need to wash anything in eternity?

I never get hungry anymore. I eat only when my role requires it, just like the rest of the Sphereans. I’m never tired, either. In fact, I haven’t slept at all in quite some time. I go out by myself at dawn to watch the sun rise, a magical moment when a sort of serene happiness comes over me. I lose myself in the contemplation of the sky and my mind goes silent, a silence that feels like a gift. Those are the moments that have helped me make peace with my new situation, even though accepting it doesn’t keep me from remembering my old life. Dawn after dawn I lie down on the beach to watch the sky, waiting, trusting that if I just follow my role with an iron will, I’ll finally stop clinging to the stupid hope that I might go back.

And one solitary dawn after another, it’s started to feel like the sun is growing fond of me, and growing warmer, turning the Sphere, little by little, into a world of sepia tones. Now I can see that it’s a beautiful world—peculiar, but beautiful. Sometimes I’m even surprised by how comfortable I feel here. Crossing paths with the Sphereans every day has made me appreciate their faces and learn their names, to grow familiar with their roles and enjoy the repetition. I even have a kind of friendship with some of them, like this melodramatic, gallant old man called Don Quixote, who goes around with a little fat guy. Or Marco Polo, who spends his time traveling back and forth, never stopping to rest, always telling tales of his exotic adventures. I like some of these strange people so much that I could watch them repeat their routines over and over again, always eager to see it one more time, without ever getting bored. Even though it’s the same story I always seem to discover some new detail.

Working with the investigation team is nice, but a little strange, especially because of Sherlock. I still don’t understand what he wants from me. Morgan has hinted more than once at a romantic relationship between us, but I don’t understand why—it’s obvious that there isn’t one! Sherlock is after Beatrice. The little gestures he makes toward me sometimes don’t mean anything. The investigation itself is at a standstill. We meet every day but we don’t know how to move forward. We still haven’t found Doctor Jekyll, though there’s nothing to suggest that he’s disappeared, either. Morgan and I have gone to his house several times, but we always find the little sign on the door that says “Hyde mode on.” I might find it funny if the whole thing didn’t have such sinister implications. The sign that Doctor Jekyll uses is just like the ones you see sometimes in stores and pharmacies. It hangs on the window with a suction cup and a little chain, and you can just turn it over to choose “Yes, Jekyll’s in” or “Hyde mode on.”

What’s more, the thing we saw in the library—the crow on the bookshelf that turned into a man—has led Sherlock to suspect the Count, lord of the bats. I’ve heard so many incredible stories that I can’t wait to meet him. My heart speeds up at the slightest mention of the mysterious Count. Sometimes I think that if a Spherean like him truly existed, I could really get hooked on life here. Every single day I ask when we’re going to go meet with him, and I volunteer to investigate whether he has something to do with the crow in the library, but I’m only answered with silent stares. They seem to admire and fear the count in equal measure, so the thought that today might finally be the day when I meet him is enough to make me tremble. That’s what Sherlock said this morning while we were planning how to divide up today’s tasks. It all depends on what luck Sherlock and I have. This time we’re going together to Doctor Jekyll’s house, which, as you can imagine, Morgan didn’t like too much.

Beatrice and Morgan went out to start on their assigned tasks while Sherlock and I walked briskly to the doctor’s house. And here we are, face to face again with that little sign. Sherlock is quiet, but I can hear his breathing getting faster, his chest rising and falling more and more rapidly. He looks at me, his brow creased, and then takes off like a mad bull. I follow him down the street without saying a word. Surprised, frightened, intrigued. We go into an apothecary with a wood façade and notices painted on the windows. Sherlock leaps behind the counter, ignoring the druggist’s good morning. The tail of his coat billows out like a cape and his shoes flash through the air. The druggist stares at him in surprise, his mouth hanging open and his little round glasses fogged up.

“Where is Poole?” Sherlock’s voice is a clap of thunder that rattles the glass of the cabinets filled with porcelain bottles.

“Pardon me?”

“You heard me perfectly well, you ruffian,” Sherlock shouts, like a man possessed. I’ve never seen him this way. “Poole—where is he? Your choice: call for him to come out or I’ll go in looking for him, and I cannot be held responsible for what may happen then.”

The fat druggist is panting from fear, gasping soundlessly like a fish flopping around on land. One waxy, trembling hand reaches out and slowly opens the velvet curtain of the back room. A man appears—presumably Poole, Doctor Jekyll’s butler.

“Where is the doctor?” shouts Holmes.

“At... at home, s-sir.”

Sherlock grabs him by the collar and lifts him off of the floor. Poole is even paler than the druggist; he’s sweating bullets, but he won’t talk. Finally he starts to cry, and confesses that both the doctor and Mr. Hyde disappeared several days ago.

“Since then I’ve been hiding in the apothecary,” he says, sniffling. “It was my fault.”

“What have you done? You scoundrel...!”

I look at Sherlock. Where is he getting this language?

“Doctor Jekyll used to put me in charge of getting certain substances, very strange ones, and I—as you know, as my role directs—I buy them at the apothecary. One day, sick of demands and sick of oddities, we just dyed some sugar in different colors. I took it to the doctor in exotic-looking bottles. The next day he was gone. I’ve searched for my master everywhere, I swear to you,” says the butler, whimpering like a child, “but there’s no trace of him. He has disappeared.”

“Fools, no one disappears in the Sphere.”

I nod confidently, going along with Sherlock’s tactics.

“That’s right, no one disappears,” I say.

“We think our little joke has had catastrophic consequences,” says the druggist in trembling voice. “Don’t do anything to us, Mr. Holmes. We never meant for this to happen.”

“If things were like normal, something like this would never even occur to me. But now the Sphere is all turned upside down... you know,” says Poole between sobs. “Anything could happen. I’ve heard talk about the shadow. Some people are saying this is the end.”

“The end. Period,” whispers the druggist, his jaw quivering like Jell-O.

Sherlock gives a forced laugh, which I try to imitate. Poole traces a quill and inkwell on his chest, just like I’ve seen Beatrice do when something scandalizes or frightens her.

“I swear to you, Mr. Holmes, it’s been some time since I’ve seen either of my masters. My joke... our joke,” says Poole, including the druggist, who fiddles nervously with the edge of his apron, “had disastrous consequences. But that wasn’t our intent!” He falls to his knees. “Don’t let us be shamed in front of the Sphereans. Let us live out our final days in peace. Soon we’ll all disappear. Kindly keep our secret...”

“All right, now you’ve really lost it,” roars Sherlock. “Tell me, what exactly do you think happened?”

“My, my, my master’s alchemy could have been changed by the coloring, and perhaps he simply disappeared. He and his double, you understand.”

Both the druggist and Poole are so pale that I can tell they are totally convinced.

“Write down the names of the dyes you used here, at once,” Sherlock hands a little notebook to the druggist, who scribbles three words with a shaky hand. “I hope you are aware of what this could mean for you both.”

Sherlock passes me the notebook and I nod, raising an eyebrow. I can’t decipher the chicken scratch on the paper. Now the two men are on their knees, holding their hands out to Sherlock without daring to touch him, like he’s some kind of saint come down from the heavens. They beg him not to let what they’ve said out of this room.

“Try to act normal. Only your infinite idiocy could have led you to hide here,” Sherlock says to Poole.

“It’s true, it’s true! I am stupid, sir, I’m sorry.”

“Resume your daily rounds between the doctor’s house and the apothecary at once. The Sphereans must not suspect any change.”

“And my master? ... My masters?”

“We’ll take care of that. You two just stop acting like the pair of asses you are.”

“What luck they’re such imbeciles!” exclaims Sherlock with relief after we leave the apothecary. “His master’s alchemy... Those two won’t be giving us any trouble. No one will find out about the disappearance of Jekyll and Hyde, but now we must reevaluate our theory. It’s clear that the misshapen ones have nothing to do with it. We’ll investigate the Count today.”

My heart leaps and somersaults—today, at long last, the big day! I’m going to meet the king of the dark ones, as Morgan calls him. My time in the Sphere has taught me to appreciate the dark beings. Their roles are really much more fascinating than the Sphereans of light. And today I’m going to meet the one who stands out from all the rest for both his power and his great wisdom. According to Morgan, he is the most influential of the beings of the night, and all the nocturnal ones bow down before him, whether or not they belong to his role group.

To my surprise, Sherlock doesn’t wait a single second to begin investigating the Count. We find Morgan and Beatrice and set off directly to the mysterious Spherean’s house. The anticipation makes the walk through what used to be the botanical garden in St Andrews seem even longer than usual. Obviously, there’s not much left of the garden as I knew it when I was alive. Instead of colorful flowers and neatly trimmed grass, we walk along beneath trees so tall they nearly block out the whole sky. Their trunks twist monstrously, reaching impossible heights and spreading out lush leaves. There is a thick fog that Beatrice says never leaves this place, day or night.

At last we reach an imposing mansion, where two stone columns crowned with a lion guard either side of a heavy gate with an intricately looped design. In the street the weather was pleasant, but near the gate I can feel a wintry chill coming from the garden. Sherlock pulls on a thick cord that activates a gear mechanism. Half a minute later we hear a bell ring in the distance. A tiny figure approaches with small hurried steps, swaying from side to side on incredibly short legs. His wrinkled hands have some difficulty opening the heavy bolt on the gate. The small creature lifts his face and I see two tiny black eyes shining brilliantly, like wet onyx. I jump back with my hand over my heart. It isn’t just the surprise of suddenly seeing his eyes, it’s more his way of looking at me—his gaze is unsettling. Supernatural.

“We wish to see your master,” says Sherlock.

The small man is hardly taller than my knees. He could be an elf, if his features weren’t so terrifying. His wrinkles have wrinkles, his skin is full of craters, and his teeth end in razor-sharp points. Coarse white hairs spring out of his huge ears. He stares at Sherlock, weighing his request for a few moments, then grimaces, lets out a grunt, and gestures with a hand with twisted fingernails for us to come in.

We follow the diminutive butler over a cushion of rotten leaves. When I look down I see that the strange carpet is rippling in places from the sheer number of insects living under it.

“I shall let my master know,” says the little man when we reach the door of the huge house. “Do not enter until I say so.”

Sherlock nods. He moves his right foot back slightly and steps on something that makes a loud crunch. A yellowish liquid seeps out from under the leaves.

This place is just as special as they told me it was—not just because its aura gives me goose-bumps, but because here, unlike the rest of the Sphere, there seems to be a little bit of color. This world drawn in sepia reveals a few more shades. After a long while, the butler returns with his inhospitable air. We follow him silently to the library, where the Count is waiting.

His tall figure is turned away from us. The velvet of his heavy cloak looks almost red to my eyes. His bald head glitters here and there in the candlelight. I’m quite surprised to see that he’s an older man—I had thought that all vampires stayed young eternally, and this is the most important vampire of them all. Besides, everything I had heard about him made me think he would be attractive.

“Esteemed Count,” says Sherlock with great respect, “forgive us for bothering you.”

The man turns around to face us. His skin is extremely pale, and his eyes are lost deep within infinite sockets, terrifying to look into—like black holes with no way out.

“He’s in a bad way!” hisses Morgan.

“What is she doing here?” says the Count bluntly.

“She won’t cause any trouble, I guarantee it. I’ll make sure of it myself,” Sherlock assures him.

“I want no white arts in my home.”

“He doesn’t like fairies,” Beatrice explains to me in a whisper.

But isn’t Morgan a witch? I’ve heard more than one Spherean call her that. A lot of them have even warned me to keep my distance from her.

“Are you unwell?” asks Beatrice, with her usual sweetness.

“Certainly it is not the ideal moment for me to assist you,” says the Count, drawing his whole sentence out in a single note, “I beg of you to come back another time.”

“Esteemed Count, if the matter that concerns us were not of vital importance, we would not have ventured to disturb your peace,” says Sherlock.

The Count gives an impatient sigh.

“Very well, what is this matter?”

“We were wondering,” Morgan says, “if you had perhaps noticed any strange behavior in the creatures that you rule. You know, wolves, bats... especially the latter.”

“They are perfectly under control, as ever. Do you have some complaint?”

“No, none at all,” Sherlock hurries to answer.

I see two eyes slowly rise and appear in Morgan’s empty sockets. Two balls of green glass study the count’s face inquisitively.

“So nothing is going on,” says the Count, clearly annoyed.

Morgan stares at him, serious, thoughtful. Suddenly the Count explodes in a furious roar: “How dare you! You, a fairy, and in my house!”

The Count’s sunken eyelids have swelled up and his bottomless eye sockets have vanished. Now there are only two tiny slits in his face. We all gather into a terrified little knot, trying to protect each other as best we can.

“Most illustrious Count...” Sherlock says with total calmness, “it was not our intention to disturb you.”

“So it was me, is that it? What is the crime you accuse me of in your mind, foul fairy? My anger is suspicious. My condition is suspicious. You would search my house for the missing people. How dare you come into my home to accuse me? And you... fairy”—he spits the word out like a curse—“you despicable creature. Why have you left the forest? How could you allow yourself to even attempt to use telepathy on me?”

The Count’s mouth has grown to an enormous size. It opens like a cavern, and with each word a torrent of air gushes forth, forcing our eyes shut. I can feel Morgan trembling like a leaf at my side. I don’t understand how Sherlock can remain so calm, so deeply relaxed.

“No one has accused you of anything...” he says. “If you would agree to speak to me alone, I would like to clear up the situation.”

We’re afraid for Sherlock. Alone with the Count, anything could happen to him. But they agree to it.

“The women must leave my sight immediately.”

We go out of the library, leaving Sherlock alone to face the danger. The butler signals for us to walk to an adjoining room, where he serves us a cold drink in narrow glasses of very fine crystal. We drink the liquid without speaking, all our attention focused on whatever is happening in the library. Now and then we hear the sharp syllables of a word pronounced with sudden force. Then we hear a roar like a wild animal, followed by a loud bang. My hand squeezes shut reflexively and the glass gives. Three shards stick into my palm, and the rest of the glass falls to the floor, along with a tiny drop of blood. But before the blood can even touch the rug, the Count appears in the parlor like a bolt of lightning and reaches out his hand to intercept it. As soon as the drop of blood comes to rest on the pale, wrinkled skin of his palm, the count licks it, slowly, as if it were some kind of magnificent delicacy. The Count pulls me close to him and holds me tight. My companions watch, petrified. Beatrice takes her rosary from her dress pocket. Morgan’s eyes, charged with fear, communicate with me; they seem to ask forgiveness for what is happening. The silence is heavy and rich. I can hear the Count’s breath in my ear. I feel his mouth moving slowly along the length of my neck, inch by inch. Next to the soft touch of his lips I can feel an icy edge that nearly opens up the cells of my skin. His rough hand takes hold of my face and he sniffs desperately at me, like a starving wolf. Then he shoves me away. Sherlock puts down the candelabra he had picked up, ready to attack.

“But whatever are you?” exclaims the vampire in horror. Beatrice embraces me. “Where did you get her?”

“She came by herself,” Sherlock answers calmly. “And we’re convinced that she was never published. She came in some other way; we don’t know how. Do you understand now what I was trying to say to you in the library? Something very strange is going on in the Sphere...”

“No doubt,” the Count comes over again to look at me. “The membrane has opened, and if she was able to enter, perhaps someone else has done so, too.”

“The shadow...” whispers Beatrice.

“But who made the opening? How could the seal on the Sphere have been broken?”

Beatrice goes pale when she hears the Count’s questions.

“I do not deny,” Sherlock continues, “as I already confessed to you in the library, that we at first suspected you. The clues we have led us in the direction of someone with wings, and we thought it might be one of your subjects.”

“Bats?” asks the Count.

“Something much larger,” says Morgan.

“And why must it have been me, exactly?”

“As I said, I fear that we have lost some of the gentlest beings in the Sphere.” Sherlock’s conciliatory tone seems to soften the atmosphere a little. “Don’t take me the wrong way, but you and the sweet-natured...”

A tear traces a groove down Count Dracula’s dry skin. His emaciated features seem a thousand years older. His pale skin, stretched like the leather of a drum, is suddenly filled with deep wrinkles, and collapses like heavy cloth. With one hand he feels around for the armchair behind him and then falls back into it, letting himself weep freely. My companions and I look at one another. We have no idea what to do with the mournful figure of the Count, shrunken and sinking into the cushions, so distressed that he’s nearly disappeared inside his own garments. The terrifying creature of moments ago has become tiny and defenseless. The noise of his sobbing makes the windows rattle in their frames.

“The kidnappers go after the sweetest creatures, it is so. And they are winged,” he admits, finally gathering the strength to speak. “But they are not mine. I can assure you of that.”

I look over at Morgan, transparent in her thoughts. I know she doubts the Count’s truthfulness. With Sherlock, though... it’s impossible to tell what’s going on in his mind. I don’t know what to think. The Count’s suffering seems real to me, though it is also true that nearly all of the missing people are gentle and sweet. Little by little the Count calms down, but he remains silent as the minutes pass.

“Pardon us,” says Sherlock, suddenly ready to leave. “We’re very sorry to have disturbed your peace. Surely our world shall recover its balance on its own. Our dear Beatrice has an unshakeable faith in the perfection governed by the Creator, so we shall trust in Him to reestablish order. We will not trouble you again.”

The Count nods his head in a vague gesture of farewell. Sherlock trusting in the Creator? What’s happening to him? He can’t leave without getting more information; I saw how he acted with the druggist and Poole. He can’t be satisfied with what little the Count has said.

“Wait!” blurts the Count. “The idea that the beings you’re searching for have wings is just one possibility.” Sherlock turns back to the parlor and the rest of us follow. “They are fast, their noise is similar to flapping wings, but I would not say that they are necessarily winged beings... even though I did not see them. They came during the daytime and carried Mina off... I couldn’t do anything to stop it,” the Count’s pain is sincere, I’m sure of it. The shaken look on his face leaves no room for doubt. “I heard her screams from inside my coffin but I could do nothing to help her... Since then I have lived in torment, trying in vain to hear her thoughts. I can still feel her; I know that she is suffering, but I cannot communicate with her. I don’t know what kind of place they have trapped her in... There is something there preventing communication. Whoever took her had it all planned out. They wanted her, and they knew our nature. They fastened the top of my coffin to rob me of precious time. When I heard my love crying out I tried to get out, and when I saw that I was trapped, I destroyed the wood, which kept me from coming at once to rescue my poor Mina... My sweet Mina. Her cries grew distant so quickly that even at full speed I could not see who had taken her. The only thing they left me was her empty coffin.”

I need no explanations. I understand at once that Mina is a young woman who has been transformed by the Count to live as a vampire. His love for her... well, there’s nothing to explain. It’s greater than life itself. The Count will cooperate in whatever way necessary to find her—that was the card that Sherlock played. He knew the Count wouldn’t sit there twiddling his thumbs after his love had disappeared.

“Can we examine the coffin?” I dare to speak for the first time.

“All right,” says Sherlock with a nod. “If you’ll allow us,” he says to the Count.

Dracula takes us to a large vaulted room in which we find two caskets, one black and one white—Mina’s. The lid is open. On the cushion of white satin and lace lies a dried rose that the Count has placed there. Sherlock bends over the coffin to examine it thoroughly.

“Just as I feared. They’ve left no trace,” he says.

I look at Sherlock’s long hands clasped behind his back. The fingers of his right hand fiddle with his pipe as he cranes his neck to inspect the coffin. I come closer. Under the little pillow I see the corner of a handkerchief similar to the one we found in Ambrosio’s cell. The lace is practically identical, and there are traces of blood on it, too. I’m about to mention my big find when Morgan declares smugly:

“There’s nothing, Eurydice. Don’t bother looking.”

Sherlock and Morgan discuss something with the Count. I don’t pay attention; all of my attention is trained on the handkerchief. I pick it up discreetly and slip it into my pocket.

“I must ask you to forgive me, but it has gotten a little late, and I have some urgent matters I must attend to,” says Beatrice, interrupting as gently as she possibly can.

It must be the time she usually goes to the hospital to comfort the sick. Sherlock turns to her, stiff and worried. Now I can see quite clearly what he’s thinking.

“My dear lady, allow me to accompany you.”

“Don’t worry about me. It’s important for you to finish speaking with the Count. I wouldn’t want to cause you to leave any loose ends.”

Some insufferable pleading follows, from Beatrice and Sherlock both. She begs him to let her go by herself; he tries to convince her not to. Sherlock outdoes himself with cloying phrases; he simply can’t imagine his lovely lady walking alone through the streets of the Sphere, even though it’s broad daylight and there are plenty of Sphereans out and about. I wonder where his interest in the investigation went. I even suspect that it might be another strategy for getting more information out of the Count, but I can see from Morgan’s face that it isn’t. She can read Sherlock’s mind, and she gestures wildly at me, incredulous. He really is willing to cut the discussion with the Count short just to go with Beatrice.

“My lovely lady, at least allow me to go with you to the boundaries of this property.”

The boundaries of this property? Sherlock reaches amazing new heights of pretentiousness every time he talks to Beatrice. Really? What’s going to happen to her—the bugs in the garden will eat her alive?

“My butler shall accompany her,” says Dracula.

“That’s more than enough,” murmurs Morgan.

“At any rate, we must inspect the gardens,” says Sherlock with a show of professionalism. “So we shall accompany you to the gate and complete our examination.”

The Count seems amused by the sugary scene. Or is he amused by me? For a moment I got the sense that I was the one causing his hint of a smile. I guess my thoughts must have shown themselves too clearly on my face. We walk toward the library amid compliments and fussing, pleases and thank-yous.

“Search the gardens, that was just what I was going to suggest, Holmes,” says Morgan.

So clever! Wanting to show off, like always. She’s worse than usual today. The superior way she told me not to bother looking in the coffin... And now what is all that laughter about? Is Morgan flirting with Sherlock, or does it just seem like it? She’s taken his arm! Correction: she’s squeezing the fabric of his sleeve. I hope they don’t find anything in the garden. Here’s hoping some angry insect attacks her...

“For the good of the missing people, we should hope that they find some clue, don’t you think, miss? And my insects, although they may not seem it, are quite good-natured. They would never attack anyone, least of all a fairy.”

The Count’s voice is slow and deliberate, but I jump, startled. Everyone has gone out. We’re alone.

“By the way, did you know that only Watson, his assistant, calls Holmes Sherlock? He must feel very close to you to let you call him that.”

I feel my cheeks start to burn. What’s happening to me?

“Does it disappoint you that you’re not the only one who uses that name?”

Well, yes. My inner voice tells me that even though I hadn’t thought about it, I did think that Sherlock was a name that only I used.

“Watson uses that name, too,” adds the Count casually.

He takes out a wooden box and sits down on the chair where he was crying before. He opens the box and takes out a soft cloth, with which he begins to polish his collection of letter openers, small gleaming daggers encrusted with jewels. Can he know what I’m thinking? The Count nods, still polishing. No, it’s not possible. No one can read someone else’s mind. It has to be a coincidence... Dracula shakes his head.

“Ah, jealousy!” the Count sighs. “Heavy burden. Unbearable. Unnecessary, too, in your case, since you’re not obligated to conform to a role.”

“Excuse me?” I exclaim. “I do too have a role... like everyone else.”

The Count tilts his head to one side. Who is the Count? Or rather, what is he? How can he read my mind and know that I don’t have a role?

“You are young enough yet that jealousy hasn’t put down roots. Allow me to advise you to rip it out before it’s too late.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I try to make my mind go blank. Now I understand Sherlock’s meditative state during the first part of the visit. The Count reads minds. How does Sherlock keep from thinking about anything?

“It’s a question of training,” the Count lifts his face and smiles at my surprise. “But let’s return to our discussion. Jealousy is the worst of weeds, believe me. It first appears as an innocent little sprout, but once it grows strong it will devour everything good around you. It’s like a climbing plant that tries to cling to the person who stirs up the feeling in us, to try and keep that person always by our side. But jealousy tangles itself around the feet of the person who feels it, and it is the jealous person who will end up strangled.”

“I’m not jealous of anyone.”

I don’t know if I’m just confused because of what the Count is saying, or if his words have made me angry. Jealous—me? Of whom?

“Forgive me. Sometimes this old man is mistaken. In that case it will not help if I tell you that although this feeling is useless enough on its own, it is even more so in this concrete case. Holmes, or Sherlock, as you call him, loves nothing but his profession. He will never love anyone else.”

“But—Beatrice?...” The question bursts out of me.

“Is it Beatrice who worries you?”

“It’s really Sherlock who worries me. I think Beatrice is the woman who suits him least in the world. But whatever, it’s his life. He knows best. I’m not jealous of anyone.”

“Interesting...” the Count looks up from his letter openers and smiles.

“I think someone less superstitious would be better for Sherlock, a more intellectually active woman... someone more like him.”

“Morgan would be ideal. And it seems she is up to the task. More than one has fallen for the charms of the fairy-witch here in the Sphere.”

The Count’s smile stretches out across his entire face. The skin that was wrinkled with pain when he spoke of Mina’s disappearance has recovered its elasticity. Now his face is young, smooth as wax—almost attractive.

“What do you think of Morgan for Sherlock?”

Morgan! That presumptuous know-it-all. Is that why she’s always trying to show off? I thought she just wanted to help with the case! I feel tiny; I know I’m nobody next to her. I feel my bad temper bubble up as the familiar feeling comes back, that feeling I know so well from my previous life: being nobody. I can’t compete with Morgan’s charms.

“That is what we call jealousy,” says the Count. “You can learn to live with it, that’s one option. Although my advice is not to fall for it... It’s curious. Ironic, even.”

I look at him, perplexed.

“You punishing yourself, seeing Morgan as a rival. The reverse would be more natural. She has always been so powerful, and now an outsider arrives and dethrones her—just like that. You have the charm of being different, don’t you see?” The Count looks right at me. His empty eye sockets are two whirlpools pulling me in, I can’t stop myself. I look around for something solid to hold on to, but then the Count blinks, and the tugging feeling goes away. “Heed my words. Do not hold out hope for love with someone as rational as Holmes. As I have told you already, he will never love any woman. His only lover is mystery itself. Yes, I know how it seems with Beatrice, but in the end that is nothing more than a game to exercise his agile mind. Beatrice consecrates her life to her Creator; she will never love Holmes... Nor does he hope for her to. Do you think that if one day she decided to reciprocate, he would be pleased?” The Count laughs gently. “I cannot imagine Holmes in a domestic role.”

“But Beatrice...”

“No, I cannot envision Beatrice in a role like that, either. Her role is solitary, never coupled.”

“But she does everything she can for Heathcliff. It’s almost like she’s in love with him... I think she is in love with him, even though I can’t see how she could care for someone so rude, so...”

“So unlike herself? Why does a moth flutter toward the flame of a candle, even as it feels the scorching heat that warns of death?”

“It can’t help it?”

“Just so,” answers the Count. “They cannot help it. The moth flies happily to its destruction. That is the beauty of attraction. Between opposites it is inevitable. Beatrice is so ethereal that it is normal for her to be attracted by Heathcliff’s darkness.”

“I understand...” I say thoughtfully. “But I think it could be different. Really I think it should be different.” I’m thinking about myself and about Axel. “That way there wouldn’t be suffering. You could be smart, and look for someone like you.”

“Try it,” answers the Count.

He gets up from the armchair and puts away the box of letter openers. He takes out a bottle and pours a small cup, which he offers to me. The color of the liquid is pleasant and familiar, though I can’t identify it.

“Ginger,” says the Count. “Do pardon me for a moment. I have something to attend to, but I will return shortly.”

I nod and try a taste of the liqueur once I’m alone. Ginger, yes. After one sip my senses grow clouded and I can’t keep my eyes open. The flavor of spices runs through my veins, gently lulling me. Now I remember. Now I know where I’ve tasted this before. I see lights spinning in the dark night; I feel snowflakes falling softly on my face; the heat in my throat as it flows down to warm my frozen body.

Mulled wine with spices. The Ferris wheel. The carols of a little group singing in one of the stalls mingled with the murmur of the crowd and the raucous music of the rides. I was born in Edinburgh, but I had always refused to go to the Christmas market. Well, I had refused once I was old enough to have an opinion. I went with my parents when I was so little that I don’t have any conscious memory of it. I had a photograph of myself in my mother’s arms, with the Ferris wheel and the castle in the background. In it you could barely see my eyes, hidden between my scarf and hat—my smiling eyes. My mother used to say that my eyelashes were smiling in that photo. For years, before the twins were born, I’d ask my mother night after night to tell me about the time my eyelashes smiled. She told the story of that night with such detail—the sounds, the smells, what I did—that my little heart rejoiced. It was a story that made me feel happy, and connected to my mother. I felt lucky to share such a special little piece of life with her. Later on the twins arrived, and the photograph was forgotten, along with everything else from that period. It was as if that entire era had disappeared. The twins were too restless, needing constant attention; they were too magnetic, too alive. They left nothing unbroken around them. The little scrap of paper with my smiling eyelashes was relegated to the drawer of my night table, and my parents never missed it.

Who could’ve imagined that I would go back to the Christmas market voluntarily! All my memories from the second night are firsthand. No one had to tell them to me as we looked at a photo. It was the first time I saw Axel since we’d met at the pub. When my cellphone rang I was with Marion. I had no idea who the unknown number could be.

“The boy from the pub!” I whispered to Marion, covering the phone with my hand.

She squeezed my arm tight and began to shake me, her other hand clapped to her mouth.

“But he didn’t even get your number!!”

I shrugged and waved at her to be quiet, but Marion couldn’t contain herself:

“No way! Unbelievable! No way!”

“To the Christmas market?...” I said, making a face at her.

Marion urged me to say yes, nodding her head so hard she almost gave herself whiplash.

“Sure,” I said, without much enthusiasm.

Marion began contorting her face silently, opening her mouth wide like a fish with its face squashed against the side of the tank, then pursing it tight. She pointed frantically at my phone.

“What?!” I asked angrily, once I’d hung up.

“Dammit, Dissie, his friend—you were supposed to ask about his friend. Didn’t he say anything? Didn’t he ask about me?”

I didn’t answer. My mind had gone blank. Axel had suggested going to the market—what else could I do? It wasn’t the best place in the world, and I didn’t even know why I had accepted, it was just automatic. Maybe it was Marion’s fault; she had distracted me so much I couldn’t think.

“Geez, we could have gone together, the four of us. We would’ve had an awesome time. You know how much I like the market...”

Marion’s voice was a distant echo mingling with my thoughts. I couldn’t remember Axel’s face clearly, only the feeling of singing with him as we made our way across the cobblestones of downtown Edinburgh, trying not to trip. It was a vague image, but a nice one. Marion’s words had lost their shape; they sounded like the distorted sound of a helicopter in the distance.

“Are you listening to me?” she asked sulkily.

“Oh... Yeah... No, Axel didn’t ask after you. He didn’t say anything about his friend. Sorry.”

I don’t know why I did it, but I said yes, and there I was at the Christmas market again. Behind us old Edinburgh castle on its tall rocky hill looked down on the crowd, full of joy, and on me—full of distaste. I didn’t understand what I was doing there. I had always considered myself smart enough not to fall for the easy excitement of a holiday imposed by the calendar. I blew on my hands and rubbed them together to warm them up a little. Axel smiled much too broadly. He walked briskly around, stopping in the stalls with wooden toys and chatting with the vendors. As they talked their breath rose in white spirals, twining in the icy air, dancing past my scowling face.

“Don’t these things bring back good memories for you?” Axel asked as he picked up a snow globe. I didn’t answer. “I know, they’re tacky, but for me they bring back good memories. My grandma had a lot of them at home. I must have spent hours watching the little snowflakes swirling inside the glass!”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t even know why I was there. We ought to have gone somewhere else, anywhere else, I should have insisted. On the other hand, now that we were someplace with better lighting than the pub, it seemed impossible to me that a boy like that had asked me out. He could see it, too. Before long he’d notice the difference between the girl he thought he met at the pub, through the haze of a couple of beers, and the reality. He would see it, and then our trip to the market would be over. Actually he must already have been thinking it, since he wouldn’t stop looking at me. I was about to walk out. I couldn’t stand him looking at me so much.

“What a serious face! What’s going on under that shell?”

I answered with an involuntary snort. I always went too far; my usual defense was my bad temper.

“Can I tell you what I think?” asked Axel. I was surprised when my head nodded yes. “I don’t think your aloofness is hiding an empty interior, like with other girls. I think there’s a whole lot going on inside that little head.”

“How would you know!”

“I have a pretty good eye.”

Months later Axel confessed that he had begun to fall in love with me that day. He told me that he liked how I was attractive in spite of myself, in spite of all my efforts not to be. He liked my long jet-black hair, my inscrutably colored eyes, and the fact that I was as tall as he was. But above all he liked the way my stern expression combined with all the little things that told him I felt at ease with him.

We walked around the little wooden stalls while we talked—or rather, while Axel talked. My gaze paused for a few seconds on a stand of handmade notebooks across from where we were. It was only a second, but Axel noticed, and took me by the hand to lead me over to the stall. There were notebooks with leather covers, with velvet covers, with lined paper, and with completely blank paper.

“Your skin’s white as chalk,” he said. I could feel his eyes on me as I touched the notebooks, my hands trembling with cold. I gave him a friendly shove without even looking up. “I can’t figure out if you write or draw. That black ink stain on your right index finger could be from either one.”

I didn’t answer. I picked up a few notebooks to look at them, asked the price, and put them back. For a moment I felt happy. I looked at the stain on my finger. My hands were red and swollen with cold.

“You aren’t gonna buy one?” asked Axel. I shook my head. “Come on, I’ve got an idea.”

We walked to the other side of the market where the food was. The smell of fried food and cotton candy clung to our clothes.

“Take these,” Axel said, pulling his gloves off. “Put them on.”

“No thanks.”

“Are you sure? Your hands are freezing.”

“I’m fine.”

I stuck my hands into my coat pockets and mentally told myself off for my stupid, obvious smile. What was wrong with me? Axel was good-looking, sure. The kind of handsome that my friends liked. Well, and me too, a little. But it was all going to come to an end soon, as soon as he realized I was nothing but a schoolgirl.

“If you’re not going to wear my gloves, at least hold them for a second, okay?”

Axel walked away. He took a few steps and then turned back toward me. I jumped: he had caught me looking him up and down. He smiled, amused, and gestured for me to put on the gloves. Shit! Shit! I repeated in my head, my cheeks burning. Busted! Eurydice, focus. It’s just going to be tonight and nothing else. Concentrate. Look, he’s a lot older than you. And besides... besides... he’s... kind-of-posh.

“Kind-of-posh?” Laura asked the next day, her eyes wide with confusion. She and Marion burst into my room like a tornado, anxious to hear how the date had gone.

“It wasn’t a date. Okay, it sort of was. But he’s kind of posh.”

“What are you talking about?” Laura exclaimed.

“He didn’t seem like that at the pub,” put in Marion.

“He isn’t posh, just... kind of. Wasn’t that clear?... He goes to school at St Andrews.”

“Whaaaat!” cried Laura shrilly. “You’re going there, too. Unbelievable!”

“My parents want me to go there,” I clarified. “I still haven’t decided.”

“But you turned in the pre-application...”

“Whatever. We’ll see where I end up.”

“It’s destiny. Destiny.”

There was no way to stop Laura and Marion from chalking the encounter between Axel and me up to destiny.

“What does he study?” asked Marion, full of curiosity.

“How would I know!” I replied crossly. Being the center of attention was making me nervous.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Laura’s question wasn’t a question so much as a reprimand.

Well no, I had no idea what the boy I’d gone to the Christmas market with the night before studied. I hadn’t asked. Was that a sin? Business, Economics, what different did it make? I was totally certain that after that night at the market I wasn’t going to see him again, no matter how much those two girls pestered me. I wasn’t going to see him again because he wasn’t going to call.

Axel came back with two steaming cups. He had to pull the sleeves of his sweater down over his hands to keep from burning them.

“Now I really do recommend putting on the gloves.”

I put on the gloves and he passed me a cup full of dark, sweet-smelling liquid. I scrutinized the contents doubtfully.

“Spiced wine,” he said, “haven’t you tried it before?”

“Of course I’ve tried it,” I answered haughtily.

Dirty lie. I hardly ever drank, that’s how I ended up drunk on just one pint the day I met him.

“I thought you must have. I can see you’re very worldly.”

Axel nudged me with his elbow and I smiled again, more broadly than I wanted to.

“I’m not that young!” I protested, feeling small.

“I didn’t say you were. In fact, I haven’t asked your age. Didn’t you notice? I assume you’re legal... Because you are, right?”

I shook my head, trying not to do it too hard so I wouldn’t get dizzy. I’d done it again—drunk too much too fast. But the warmth of the wine felt so nice as it went down my throat!

“Your eyes are shining. Am I going to get in trouble for getting a minor drunk?”

“I’m not a minor!”

“So how old are you?”

Axel was whispering, but I could hear him perfectly. He was so close I could feel the heat coming off his body.

“I’m eighteen... but not twenty-one.”

“So you can get yourself into trouble, but you can’t drink.”

I nodded very slowly.

“I knew that already,” he said, coming a little closer. “That’s why they wouldn’t sell you a beer in the pub.”

I closed my eyes. Axel was so close that I couldn’t focus on his face anymore.

“Why does someone so sweet pretend to be so tough?”

Snowflakes were falling on our faces, but I didn’t feel them. I only felt the ginger dancing between our mouths, still pressed tightly together even though the minutes went swirling by, even though the castle was still watching, even though there were tons of people all around us. I didn’t even know when the kiss had started. Axel hid his hand under my thick hair to protect it from the cold. The touch of his icy fingers against my neck made me shiver, but nothing in the world could have made me want him to take his hand away. I felt like I was inside a bubble of silence, in one of those artificial snow globes he liked so much. No more castle, no more people, no more stalls. The noise of the rides had vanished. The universe had narrowed to a single point where only Axel and I existed.

“From now on you’re gonna love the Christmas market, huh?” said Laura, doubling up with laughter after I told them about that part.

“Nothing happened! It was just a kiss.”

“Of course,” said Marion. “And so you bought that notebook for yourself, is that right?”

It was a small notebook with a velvet cover and blank pages. Axel had tucked it inside the pocket of my coat when he hugged me in front of my house to say goodbye.

“Blank pages for writing or drawing,” was the inscription on the first page. I couldn’t believe someone had taken the trouble to buy me something and I hadn’t even noticed. When had he written the inscription?

When my friends left my ego was so inflated it wouldn’t fit inside my body. Not only was Axel in college, he must have been about to finish his degree, I was sure, even though I hadn’t asked. How old was he? 24? 25? Laura was flipping out like never before, and Marion—well, she was still a little upset because I hadn’t said anything to Axel about us bringing his friend and Marion along, too. The laughter and complicity of my friends made me believe anything was possible, that actually it had already happened—someone like Axel had noticed me.

I stroked the cover of the notebook, opened it to the middle, and drew a cat, asleep. A happy cat.

“But I thought she’d stopped doing it!” I hear Morgan’s voice in my dreams.

“Eurydice!” It’s Sherlock. “Come now, it’s time to go back home.”

I open my eyes, still drowsy. It takes me a few seconds to remember where I am: the parlor in Dracula’s mansion. Morgan and Sherlock have finished inspecting the garden. The Count gives me an enigmatic smile when we say our farewells.

“Come back any time, Miss Eurydice. You are always welcome,” he says, kissing my hand.

Sherlock and Morgan seem surprised by the Count’s sudden courtesy, but I don’t care how surprised they are. I ignore their barrage of questions. I don’t want to wake up, not at all. Once we’re in the street my feet move forward automatically. Eventually the others give up and stop asking questions. The dream brought on by the drink the Count gave me was so real, one of those dreams you don’t ever want to let go. I wish I could sleepwalk. I can still feel Axel’s touch, his cold fingers on the nape of my neck. I touch my neck with my own hand and it’s like Axel is there, like we could lace our fingers together. Sherlock and Morgan walk along in front of me and for once I really don’t care what they’re talking about.

Am I really jealous of Sherlock? I think that’s ridiculous.

I wish I could go back to the dream and see Axel one more time. Could I be idealizing him because I’ll never see him again? I look down and notice that the pocket of my jacket looks sort of bulky. I lower my hand discreetly to where I used to carry the notebook, back when I was alive. My heart leaps. It’s there! I can feel the soft velvet of the cover. I didn’t even remember taking it to the party. It’s been with me this whole time, during the accident, always. I feel less alone, strangely, like the notebook is an anchor with an invisible thread that can keep me connected to life. I stroke the cover affectionately, as if I were touching someone I loved.

Rage rises up inside me. I am not dead. I will find a way back.