Page 5 of Atlas of Unknowable Things

I nodded and then stared back out at the expansive grounds. It was a breathtaking view, but I was struck by the noticeable lack of activity. I wondered how different it might feel during the school year.

“Well, you must be eager to get to your work,” Dorian said, snapping me out of my reverie.

“The archives are located in the nave of the old monastery. The entire building has been converted into a library, with the scriptorium belowground. I expect you’ll be spending most of your time down there.

There is also a small herbal library attached to the apothecary garden, which I’m sure you’ll want to make use of. ”

“There’s a physick garden here?” That could prove promising.

“Yes, of course. It’s a replica of a famous one. We call it the apothecary garden, though. Would you like to get refreshed, or if you’re keen, I can show you the library.”

“Rest is for the dead.”

His smile was broad. “A girl after my own heart. The library it is, then.”

Dorian led me downstairs and through the house, and soon we were wending our way along a dark passage and then out and through a covered walkway, speckled with moss the color of a ripe avocado, and into the entrance to the old monastery.

Inside that ancient structure, the atmosphere felt starkly different.

What had once been the nave had been converted into a library, with books stretching up and across as far as the eye could see.

Dorian continued on through toward a stairwell, but I stayed put, staring in awe at that magnificent space.

A door high up between the shelves caught my eye.

For just a second, I could barely breathe.

That door—I’d seen it somewhere before, I was almost sure of it. In a childhood dream, perhaps.

“Where does that door lead?”

“That’s an old wing. It’s closed off now,” he said, continuing on.

“The monks’ quarters?”

“At one point, but not anymore. Come, I want to show you the scriptorium.”

Together we started down a dark, circular stairwell. As we descended, our way lit by wall sconces, the air grew frigid.

“It’s important to keep the manuscripts cold,” Dorian explained. “But I’m sure you know that.”

At the bottom of the stairwell, we passed through a stone arch, but almost as soon as we did, I backtracked and pointed up at a carving at the apex of the arch.

At first it appeared to be a crude rendering of a heart, but on closer inspection, it wasn’t a heart at all. It was a snake eating its own tail.

“Is that an ouroboros?”

“Hm?” He seemed distracted. “I think so.”

Throughout history, a variety of different meanings have been ascribed to the ouroboros, everything from the cyclical nature of time to fertility to immortality.

It was even said that our understanding of the structure of benzene sprang from the ouroboros.

German organic chemist August Kekulé dreamed of an ouroboros and woke up with the knowledge that the carbon atoms that composed benzene were structured in a ring formation mirroring the structure of the ouroboros.

It was a universal symbol, to be sure, but it was gnostic and alchemical, not something that would typically appear in a monastery.

“Why is it in a church?”

He shrugged. “This place is old. I don’t know everything about it.”

“But it’s not a Christian symbol.”

It wasn’t clear if he hadn’t heard me or if he chose to ignore me, but he left my observation unacknowledged and continued on, leading me into a scriptorium filled with old oak tables.

The vaulted ceilings and cold stone walls gave the impression of a catacomb, and when I breathed in the cool air, a sweet tangle of scents swept over me.

Through the space, I scanned the area, looking for Dr. Casimir’s relic, even though I knew it was unlikely I would find it down here.

“Are you okay?” Dorian asked.

“Fine,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest and indicating a narrow corridor with my chin. “What’s through there?”

“Most of what you’re looking for. Come on.”

I followed him through to a back room and was astonished to see row after row of shelves filled with leather-bound manuscripts—mostly what looked like religious tracts, but also a good deal of what had to be pharmacopoeia, bestiaries, and the like. It was an absolute gold mine.

I pulled out an herbal text. “There is an herb I’ve been trying to locate information on. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about rare herbs, would you?”

He shook his head. “Not my area, I’m afraid, but you’re welcome to comb through anything in our collection.

I’ll give you a key and you can work down here as much as you like,” he said, noticing my enthusiasm.

However, my excitement turned to dizziness, and I thought I might even faint.

I steadied myself on the edge of a desk. He gently took my arm.

“Are you all right?”

“Just dizzy, I think I might need to lie down for a bit.”

“Of course,” he said. “Altitude sickness is fairly common up here.”

“Is that what this is?”

My temples throbbed, and my heart beat so loudly in my head that it was hard to hear much else. I’d read about altitude sickness, but had never experienced it—something to do with the body not getting enough oxygen as it attempts to adjust to the lower levels available at extreme heights.

“It should pass if you rest and hydrate. Let’s get you to your room.”

When we arrived back at my quarters, he gave me a gentle pat on the back. “I’ll have your dinner brought up to you—we’ve a marvelous cook, and all our produce is grown right here at Hildegard—and if your symptoms worsen, we will have you examined.”

“I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“You’re no trouble at all. Eat, rest, and you can get started with your work as soon as you’re feeling up to it.”

After Dorian left, I made my way over to the window and opened it, letting the fresh mountain air wash over me.

In the distance, the tops of large pine trees swayed like fragile dancers.

An array of brightly colored birds flitted through the garden, darting between hedgerows and fountains.

Leaning farther out, I inhaled deeply. The air was amazing, fresh and fragrant, riven through with a hint of floral spice I couldn’t quite identify.

From my perch high above the rest of campus, I felt like a cartographer staring down at her map, tracing lines from building to building, from garden to garden.

After showering, I felt a little better, so I set my computer up on the rustic oak desk and streamed some shows, mostly old episodes of The Twilight Zone, including my favorite, the one about a mannequin who gets lost in a department store.

Later that evening, Dorian arrived at my door bearing an enormous tray filled with delicacies: cassoulet, fresh salad, rolls, and even crème br?lée.

After he set it down, he pulled a bottle of Advil from his pocket.

“Thank Christ,” I said, immediately downing a couple.

“You look like you’re feeling better.”

“I think I am.”

“Eating will help. I can sit with you, if you like.”

I dragged a wingback chair over and we sat together, talking while I ate.

“The land is gorgeous here,” I said. “And the air is something else.”

“This entire area is breathtaking. And there’s a village a few miles down the mountain. It’s an interesting spot, settled by a small group of French immigrants in the nineteenth century. They still speak the language in the village. Hardly any English.”

I set my water down and chose my words carefully. “I read about the town. Petit Rouen, isn’t it? A young woman was killed there recently, right? An animal attack?”

There was a long pause, and immediately I regretted speaking too soon. He cleared his throat.

“Excuse me,” he said, his tone heavy. “You must forgive me. I didn’t want to burden you with our recent troubles, but yes, a young woman was killed down in the village, and as you know, our dear friend Professor Casimir left not long after.

The trouble, you see, is that no one has heard from her since.

There is no logical reason to connect the two incidents, but they happened such a short time apart that one fears… ”

“I’m sorry about your friend,” I said, the enormity of the situation really hitting home.

Isabelle Casimir wasn’t just some cardboard cutout representing the apotheosis of my research pursuits; she was an actual person with friends and loved ones who were obviously worried about her.

I felt a squalid emptiness inside my chest that slowly began to fill with guilt.

“Can I ask about the circumstances? Do you have reason to believe she was … that something bad happened to her? Could she maybe have just left without telling anyone where she was going?”

“That is what the authorities think. She did take a bag with her, and her ID and her phone were missing. But it was so unlike her. She gave no indication that she was going to do anything strange. She was working on a big project at the time. I’m sure she would have wanted to see it through.”

“But if she took her ID, at least you know it was planned to some degree.”

“Yes,” he said, but his tone made it clear he didn’t actually believe what he was saying.

“But my fear is that she went into the woods. The woods here are very dangerous. You must never go off the marked trails. Never. There’s a history, you see.

And she disappeared at night. If she went into the woods at night and came across …

You know, bears take the bodies back to their dens. We might never find her.”

“But why would you think she would go into the woods in the middle of the night?”