“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 upbetween 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?”
