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Morgan and Beatrice come into the house looking crestfallen. It’s obvious they’ve found nothing.
“Nothing!” exclaims Beatrice sadly. “We went over the records of the supporting and extra roles line by line. We checked them against the inhabitants of the Second-Class District and no one was missing.”
“It’s been exhausting,” says Morgan, flopping down beside me on the sofa. “As expected, we weren’t exactly well-received in the Second-Class District. No one dared say anything to us, but they all gave us dirty looks when they saw us sitting there on a bench watching the passersby, with giant stacks of papers on our laps.”
“And, well, searching the houses was...” adds Beatrice.
“Just dreadful!” finishes Morgan. “Every time we knocked on a door it was the same story: the bell rings, we hear footsteps, then the sound of the cover sliding off the peephole, and then they run to the back of the house. We had to keep at it, yelling some excuse at them from outside, something to make it sound more appealing, or at least less threatening. Some of them opened the door...”
“Only to slam it in our faces as soon as they saw us,” Beatrice goes on.
“So that’s that, but we’re proud of how thoroughly we did our count, right, Beatrice?”
“That’s right.”
No one is missing; the investigation is stuck at almost the exact same point. We don’t have even the slightest idea to whom or to what the remains might belong.
“Dammit!” Sherlock exclaims from the back of the room.
I hadn’t paid much attention to him after our failed kiss. To be honest, I had kind of forgotten he was there. I can’t stop thinking about finding a way to restore balance to the Sphere.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“I’ve spent hours cutting up the remains, distilling them, burning them.”
“But why?” asks Beatrice, horrified.
“To study them, pretty Beatrice, to study them,” Sherlock replies angrily.
“How I miss the old Holmes!” whispers Morgan.
“We’ll just see, you simpleton,” Beatrice says haughtily. “And you hope to study them like that? Study what? What’s the point of ripping up all the pieces if they just go back to the way they were before after a little while? Anyone sensible would realize that there was no point doing that. But not Holmes, no. Mister Sherlock Holmes does it over and over again. Hard-headed, stubborn as a mule.”
“And Beatrice,” I murmur to Morgan, “I miss the Beatrice from before.”
Morgan smiles bitterly. She knows it’s only a matter of time before she starts losing her role, too.
“Just a second!” I say, suddenly realizing something important, “The remains go back to the way they were?”
“Of course,” says Beatrice.
“That doesn’t seem weird to you?” I ask Morgan. Her face is drawn, full of exhaustion and disappointment. She just shrugs. “It’s normal because we’re in the Sphere, I know,” I say. “But still, we should be wondering why they didn’t go back to their whole state after they were dismembered. If they were normal Sphereans they shouldn’t have been destroyed.”
Morgan jumps up from the couch. “It’s true!”
“Of course,” I continue, “we should have thought of that the moment we saw that someone or something had killed them.”
“It’s clear that they don’t belong to the Sphere,” says Morgan, “but then, where did they come from?”
“I think they could have come from my world, and we can only prove that with Charon’s help.”
Beatrice sags back the moment she hears the boatman’s name, blushing and lowering her gaze. Neither Morgan nor I say a word. We know how badly Sherlock berated her when he found out about all that.
“I think you should go back to looking for Heathcliff while we visit the boatman,” I suggest.
Beatrice accepts my proposal, her head hanging.
“What’s your plan?” Morgan asks quietly.
“To take some remains to Charon.”
“Shall we bring Holmes?”
I look at Sherlock. He’s still keeping himself busy dissecting and burning little pieces of the remains we found.
“Better not to,” I conclude.
Morgan and I fill up a sack with remains and head off for the river. We find Charon waiting on the same bank where I saw him the first time, leaning against his oar with his fingers interlaced as if he were meditating. When we approach he stretches his neck out slowly, like an ancient tortoise.
“It’s me again, Charon—Eurydice,” I say with a smile. The boatman seems to detect the smile in my voice, and his mouth curves up gently, too. “I’ve brought Morgan, a friend.”
“Morgan, yes,” Charon says slowly. “I remember her.” Morgan comes over to touch his hands. “I met you when you were just published,” the boatman jokes, and his body trembles with his gravelly laughter. “How can I help you?”
“We’ve brought something that we’d like to put in your boat for a moment.”
“I cannot take anything, and especially anyone, upriver, Eurydice. You know that.”
“I know. I just want to put what we’ve brought in your boat for a moment. Just a second, that’s all. Although... it’s probably best if you wait on the shore while we do the experiment.”
Charon’s entire face contracts into a single point.
“We’d never steal your boat! Please, no!” Morgan exclaims with great respect.
“So why do you want me to get out, then?”
“There’s a chance that what we put in might have the same effect that I did when I got in the boat, and I don’t want you to get soaked again.”
“Let me touch your hands,” says Charon.
I hold my hands out. The boatman takes them in his, and his fingers hold a silent conversation with mine.
“All right, I can trust you. But hurry—you know I’m not comfortable on land.”
We help the old man out of the boat and put the remains inside.
“And?” Charon asks.
“Nothing happened,” I answer sadly.
“What did you hope would happen?”
“That the boat would sink like it did when I was in it.”
“I see. And what was that going to prove?”
“That what we found—what we brought—comes from my world.”
“Would that have helped? Asks Charon.
I’m quiet for a while. “I guess not that much. Maybe all it would have done was give us the consolation of knowing what we found, right, Morgan?”
“Yes. Maybe at this point we would have been happy just knowing that.”
“May I return to my boat?”
Before we can reply Charon has already felt his way over and climbed back into the boat.
“I love the solitude of my boat.”
“Wait a second!” Morgan says. “Charon, you’re not alone in the boat.”
The old man reaches out his hands and finds the remains.
“What’s this?” he asks in horror.
“That’s what we wanted to find out,” I answer.
“It’s not from your world,” the boatman says, “but it’s not from this one, either. It weighs nothing at all!”
“Where do you think it might have come from?” asks Morgan. “Do you have any idea what it could be?”
The boatman traces the outline of the cardboard shapes. Several times he rubs his hand across them and brings his ear close to listen to the sandy sound.
“I’m sorry. I can’t help you. I could tell you a story, but it’s better not to speak of that which I do not know.”
We gather up the remains, say goodbye to Charon, and depart, disappointed. For some reason that singular man’s words keep coming back to my mind: “I could tell you a story.”