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Kissing Sherlock was kind of weird. It made me feel even more melancholy than I already did, but that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is that I’m not sure what the kiss meant to him. I walk toward Sherlock’s house, forcing my feet to keep moving. It’s taken me a whole day to gather up the courage, but I am going to talk to him.
I see a woman striding fiercely toward me. Her figure is familiar, but I can’t quite place her. Her hair blowing loose in the wind doesn’t match up with the person she looks like... No, it can’t be...
“Beatrice!” I exclaim, once she reaches me.
I’m too shocked to speak. Her hair is loose, without its usual veil, and the wind is tossing it elegantly from side to side. Her clothing is unrecognizable.
“You’ve got makeup on!” I say, once I can finally speak again.
“That’s right,” she says, pleased. “You like it?” She does a little pirouette so I can see her outfit.
“Where are you going in that tight dress? Shouldn’t you be keeping watch at Wuthering Heights?”
“Yes, but I got tired of waiting. Nothing changes if you don’t change yourself. I decided to borrow some things from Morgan, to change my image. When Heathcliff comes back—and I’m sure he will be back—I’ll be waiting. He’ll forget all about Cathy, just wait and see.”
It’s bizarre to see Beatrice dressed this way, with this brazen attitude. Now I understand why the Sphereans are so scandalized by the thought of people acting outside their roles. It’s just... disconcerting. Disappointing.
“You’re not headed over to the detective’s house, are you?” she asks me, wiggling her hips. “Don’t waste your time. Go find a real man.”
“Beatrice!”
“I know what I’m talking about. William’s no good for anything. Besides, he’s only interested in you because you have more information than anyone else. No Sphereans know what you do. Without you he’ll never be able to solve the case.”
“You’re jealous...”
“Me? Please! I’m about to start the best part of my role. The most alive and vibrant part.”
“But—but—the Great Script, Beatrice. Your Creator. Where is the Creator in all this?”
“You’ve been warned. A real man.”
Beatrice strokes my cheek and sashays off. I have to tell Sherlock. We’ve got to do something right away to keep her from losing her role, or panic really will spread throughout the Sphere. We have to stop her before someone sees her like this.
I run the rest of the way to the police station and screech to a halt right outside. A heated argument is coming from Sherlock’s house. One of the voices is Morgan, but who’s the other one? I go inside and pause for a moment in the hall. It’s coming from the living room.
“Holmes, say—say—say something!”
Morgan is flustered, stuttering with rage. I can hear the wandering pizzicato coming from Sherlock’s violin. He must be sitting in his old armchair with his eyes shut.
“I’d also like to hear your opinion,” says the other person—from his voice it sounds like a young man.
“You can’t just come and go whenever you feel like it,” yells Morgan. “If you thought at the time that it was more important to go off and get married than to work with Holmes, then... Well, that’s how it is. Deal with the consequences of your actions. Don’t expect to come back and still have your job as if you’d never left. I’ve worked a lot, and I’m not just going to walk away.”
“If it’s about the work, I’ve worked with Sherlock for longer than you have. Surely all the cases we solved together carry more weight than whatever you might be about to solve.”
“If you didn’t want to lose your job, you shouldn’t have left.”
“I left to get married—how many times do I have to tell you? And I haven’t come back on a whim; it’s because I’ve been made a widower for the second time. You should have a little compassion.”
“Compassion? But this always happens to you! It’s your role: accept it and stop whining like a little baby. You should be used to it by now. You get married, you get widowed, you get married, you get widowed, and you do it all over again. What’s new about that? Great Script—does that mean anything to you?”
“I think that Sherlock is the one who should decide if I can come back or not,” says the young man, quite calmly. “Sherlock, doesn’t it seem to you that all our years together should carry some weight?”
“Holmes! Say something,” Morgan demands, infuriated. “Watson or me. There’s not room here for both of us.”
So it’s Watson, Sherlock’s assistant—he’s come back! I can still hear Sherlock picking his way through his music. He hasn’t said a single word.
“Neither Watson nor you,” he says, finally.
In the heavy silence that follows I can picture Morgan’s face perfectly, and Watson’s shock, even though I’ve never seen him and have no idea what he looks like.
“Pardon me, Sherlock. I don’t think I heard you right.”
“I believe I spoke quite clearly. Neither Morgan nor you.”
“So who will stay with you? Your two lovely ladies?” Morgan says with a snort.
“Sherlock, I beg you to reconsider. It would be really important to me to be able to come back. I miss investigating terribly. And you, Morgan, since you mentioned roles—my role is to work with Sherlock. We belong to the same group. You ought to be learning magic with Merlin.”
“I’ve already learned everything I had to learn! And don’t distract me; I want an answer from Holmes. Who’s going to stay with you, hmm? Tell me! Do I have to remind you of how useless Beatrice is?”
“Not at all,” Sherlock answers tersely.
“So?” Morgan groans.
“I shall keep only Eurydice.”
Sherlock’s words hit me like a fist to the stomach. There’s the answer I came here looking for. I think it’s perfectly clear what the kiss meant to Sherlock.
“As for me, dear Sherlock, I am willing to wait. Unlike Morgan, I know that rushing you is not a good idea. Take your time. Think about it. When the time is right, call me. I’ll be happy to come back.”
“What is it you don’t understand, you dimwit? He’s throwing us both out. It’s not a question of time,” says Morgan. “Or is it, Holmes?”
“No,” Sherlock answers simply.
“It’s not fair!” snaps Morgan. “It’s not fair!” A slight mournful noise escapes her throat.
“Morgan,” says Watson. “A little control, please. Don’t lose your role.”
“Lose my role! Tell it to your dearest boss—he’s abandoned his entirely. See, he’s gotten himself involved with an outsider—she hasn’t even been published.”
I’m about to burst in, but I manage to control myself.
“My heart is no concern of yours,” Sherlock answers drily.
“Forgive me,” says Watson, “but indeed it is. If you lose your role, what will become of the Sphere? What will become of all of us?”
“Eurydice has a sixth sense,” explains Sherlock, “something I’ve never seen before. She throws herself fully into the investigation. She does things with a passion that no Spherean can match.”
“You can’t be falling in love!” says Morgan. “I’m warning you, Holmes, the only thing Eurydice cares about is finding a way back to her world. She’s an outsider—get that through your head! She’s going to go back and you’ll be left with nothing. She’s just using you.”
The plucking of the violin stops abruptly.
“Out!” orders Sherlock, “Both of you out!”
“But, Sherlock...” begs Watson.
“As long as Eurydice takes me to whomever is behind these disappearances I don’t care whether she leaves or not. We’ll see who’s using whom.”
“So you only want your information,” says Morgan with relief.
Sherlock answers with a grunt. Clearly that’s all he cares about.
“She’s the only one to have been kidnapped and then to have come back. She has that instinct that we Sphereans lack. The theory of permanent death...”
“And a particular magnetism, right?” adds Morgan.
“She is the only one Dracula invites into his mansion time and time again, yes,” says Sherlock. He sounds annoyed.
“If I’d known that you were going to take me off the case I never would have told you about Eurydice’s visits to the Count,” Morgan says bitterly.
Now I can’t hold myself back any longer—I burst into the living room in a rage. The three Sphereans stare at me, wide-eyed. Watson, a well-dressed young man, looks me up and down. Sherlock looks solemn; his face has returned to that unreadable expression it had when I first met him. Why? I feel deeply hurt, and incredibly stupid. I really believed they thought of me as part of the team. I thought they valued me just as much as if I had been published.
“You’ve been spying on me? Morgan—how could you!” My blood is boiling. “At times like this I really am capable of anything,” I warn, tightening my fists.
Morgan comes closer. I meet her gaze in spite of her unsettling eyes. She raises her hand. It seems impossible for her to do what I think she’s about to do, but I prepare myself—I’m willing to fight back if she hits me. But to my surprise she only rests her hand gently on my forehead for a few seconds, and everything around me goes blurry, and I collapse, unconscious.