DOCTOR DEATH PART 1

The music room was on the second floor on the east side of the house. It was a warm, comforting spot and Solene's second favorite room in the entire mansion - the first being the library on the top floor. The windows were open this mid-morning and the comforting May breeze tossed the white curtains, brushing the white lace doilies that decorated the three prong candlesticks on the lampstands. Books of music and nonfiction histories sat on long shelves along the back wall.

Perched at the grand piano with her pink dress flouncing over her ankles, Solene's fingers flipped through the keys with schooled grace. Tossing the notes of Beethoven as easily as flicking her yoyo, Solene ended Fur Elise with a practiced flourish and glanced up at the instructor with a small curl of pride on the right side of her lip.

Her instructor straightened her thick glasses and let out a small hissing breath.

"You haven't been practicing, have you?"

The proud smile instantly slipped off the young girl's mouth. Reaching over Solene's head to flip through the music, her instructor's thin frame, black-lace dress, and thick white hair reminded Solene of a magician's wand. Following the lady's long finger, she saw her circle the thick run of notes.

"Right here, Mademoiselle Montilyet," she said stiffly. "You used number two finger instead of three. This threw off the entire rhythm."

It hadn't - the rhythm had been perfectly in sync - but Solene had learned long ago to let the woman criticize without comment or barb. Her instructor's tongue could be sharper than Marjoline's if called to it.

"I apologize, Madame Mendeliev. Let me try again."

The older woman, her irritation defrosting, backed away and nodded. "From the top, if you please."

Straightening her shoulders, just as Solene began the first measure, the door to the music room opened and her fingers fumbled as her father walked in. Her instructor gasped in surprise.

"Oh, Monsieur Montilyet!" Solene's eyebrows quirked at the older lady's sudden wide smile and glittering eyes.

"Please excuse me for the intrusion, Madame Mendeliev, but I must speak with my daughter privately for a few minutes."

"Of course, of course! I will step outside. Please, take your time."

She sashayed around the grand piano like a prancing twig and, as the door closed behind her instructor, Solene snorted giggles.

Seemed the torch Madame Mendeliev held for her father was still burning brightly as ever.

Her father frowned disapprovingly, stepping quickly stepped up to the piano. "You are still working on Beethoven? I thought I'd asked Madame Mendeliev to move you to Bach's Fantasy and Fugue in D Minor. I need you to play that piece during Monsieur Pernell's gala next month."

"We are just perfecting the runs," Solene answered, rising up to show him the sheet music. "I already started Bach last session." Catching his eye, she gave him a small smile. "I'll play it as beautifully as I can, Father. I promise I'll be ready."

Her father sighed slowly and his blue eyes drifted from hers to trail to the lovely carpet.

The silence grew between them for a few palpable seconds before she dared to ask, "Is that all?"

"No, Solene. There have been some developments," he finally said, his gaze still avoiding her.

"Developments?" She repeated with a nervousness suddenly springing in her stomach. "What kind of developments?"

"Seems I have underestimated the Bourgeois taste for the dramatics." His back straightened and he laced his hands behind his back. "Monsieur Bourgeois has written to Le Temps and a reporter is being sent to the house for a statement."

"A statement about what…?"

"The… matter of the dinner party the night before."

Solene blinked in surprise. "You mean the monster attack-" she stopped herself as he glanced sharply at her, "-I-I… they want a statement from us? Why? Nothing out of the ordinary happened that night."

"The Bourgeois have proclaimed bold accusations against our family."

"What kind of accusations?"

"That we are the reason monsters have started attacking Paris."

"What!?" The entire notion was so absurd, Solene couldn't help the incredulous laugh that escaped her. Her father scowled tightly and her laughter died in her throat.

"This is serious, Solene. If these wild claims spread, our legacy, our reputation, will be in shambles. Never mind your running off during the Expo. I may be called into the courts for this."

Her face paled and all humor wiped completely away. "The courts? But there isn't any proof! Just accusation! They can't do that!'"

"Sometimes accusation is enough to warrant an arrest. I know many are anxious to stop whomever is causing these attacks."

"What will you do, Father?"

His fingers, clenched tightly in a fist, rose to rest on the piano's cover. "I will remind them that we are an old family of upstanding morality and that this wild allegation from the Bourgeois is lie based on false ceremony. The Montilyets have sponsored Paris on numerous occasions throughout the decades and helped to build her to the crowning jewel she is today! We need to remind them of our services to France! Of all that we have fought for and won! I will not let our family dynasty be torn down by those Bourgeois scum!"

He pounded the piano so hard with his fist, it clanged the strings inside. Solene jumped.

"I am needing you to be on your best behavior, Solene. Our very house depends upon it. Until there's another monster attack, we have to be constantly vigilant in how we publicly display ourselves."

"We don't know when another monster attack will happen though," Solene said softly, her blue gaze flicking to her fingers - which were twisting in her lap.

"You must continue to act as if nothing is amiss in your social circle. The less we speak about this incident, the better. It will brush over soon enough."

"Father-" Solene started, the slice of worry hard and thick inside her stomach.

"Please, concentrate on your piano. Monsieur Pernell is expecting perfection."

She watched her father leave the room, his back straight as ever, but his shoulders holding a slight dip in defeat.

Marcus Dupain had stepped out early at dawn - leaving Gaspard in charge of the morning rush.

Sara, Gaspard's long-time friend and local flower girl, popped in after an hour of him pouncing back and forth inside the shop like a panicked feline trying to fill out orders. Setting her flower basket aside, she whisked an apron from the back shelf, tied it around her thin waist, and stood behind the counter to tend the pastry case. Gaspard nodded gratefully to her as he maintained the back ovens and kept their depleting shelves stocked. They worked well together - the redhead smiling gaily at the filing customers while Gaspard packaged up croissants, sourdoughs, and the sweet loaves his father had made the day before.

When the morning finally broke to noon, both teens sat together behind the counter - tired, but happy.

"Thank you for the help, Sara," Gaspard said kindly. Leaning with an elbow on the case, his navy shirt was dusted with powdered sugar and his pants had a light stain on the thigh.

He looked like a handsome mess, standing there beside her. The redheaded girl blushed lightly but kept her brown eyes on the rag she was using to wipe down the counters. She was still nervous after confessing her feelings to him several days prior, but she couldn't help the affection that laced through her heart at his lovely smile.

"I expect proper compensation," she said, with a business-like flair attempting to hide her reddening cheeks. "Your busy bakery kept me from a day of flower selling, Gaspard."

He laughed and swept a hand though his draping locks - and didn't notice Sarah's eyes flick to follow his fingers. "Papa and I will make sure you are well compensated for your assistance today. You really saved my neck."

"Where is Papa Dupain anyway?"

The blond gestured to the remaining baguettes in the corner tray. "He received a notice that one of our longtime patrons was ill this morning. He decided to deliver the baguettes to the gentleman himself."

"That's very kind of him to drop everything for a customer. Especially when it's been so busy every day."

"The gentleman has been coming here for years. It's the least we could do. He's one of Papa's best customers."

The door's bell tinged, momentarily distracting Gaspard, and Sara used the opportunity to study him. Though he was his same cheerful self, she couldn't help but notice a tightness behind his green eyes. It was almost as if he hadn't gotten enough sleep these past few days. He greeted the customer with his usual genteel courtesy, but she saw him sigh quietly as he moved to grab six small loaves of sourdough and package them up.

Something was off about him.

As the customer left through the door, she dropped the rag and tapped her fingers thoughtfully on the counter. Gaspard went to the back room and a lovely waft of fresh croissants floated into the air. She inhaled gratefully as he came back to the front.

"Those smell wonderful," Sara said.

"Here-" he held the tray out for her, "-take one while they're hot."

Snatching wax paper, she grabbed a croissant and he turned away to the display case - but not before she could catch the troubled expression just on the outskirts of his green eyes.

"Hey, Gaspard?" She asked, fingering the warm, flaky pastry without taking a bite.

"Hm?"

"Do… do you have something on your mind?"

He was quiet for only a moment before: "Nothing in particular - no. Why would you ask?"

"I can't help but think you're troubled."

"I'm fine," he answered, keeping his back to her.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"Are you telling me the truth?"

"You don't believe me?"

"Nope." She could see his shoulders tensing underneath his suspenders.

With a smile, she decided to prod further. "Gaspard…"

"Sara..." He mocked over his shoulder.

"You're ly-ing," she sang.

"No, I'm no-ot," he sang back. "Where is this coming from?"

"You're acting weird."

"How?"

"I don't know. There's something wrong with your eyes."

"My eyes?" He turned with a look of surprise. "What's wrong with them?"

"You are trying to hide something - I can tell."

"There's nothing-"

"Yes, there is!"

"-and even if there was, maybe this is something I don't want to talk about."

"Ah, so there is something wrong! Is it about the bakery? Your dad?" She took a sharp stab in the dark. "Or a girl!"

At the word 'girl', the half empty tray slipped from Gaspard's fingers and went clattering to the checkered tile, dumping several rolling croissants on the floor. The blond boy exhaled sharply before finally turning to her. Behind her smirk, her crossed arms, and her knowing expression, a tight sadness pooled in her heart as his open look.

She'd hit the nail on the head.

"Look, Sara, I-"

"You promised me if you found someone you were interested in you'd talk to me about it! I told you I'd help you!"

He was so cute, pressing his fingers against his face before dragging them slowly off his chin with surrender. Letting his hands drop to the sides of his apron, he let go of a long breath.

"Someone told me that this is something I need to figure out on my own. I shouldn't ask for advice from anyone-"

"Gaspard," Sara laughed incredulously. "You realize you have no idea about women, right? Like, you are probably the most clueless person I know! If anyone needs advice, it's you. Who in France would ever say to figure it out on your own? I'll bet you don't even know what to figure out!"

"Thanks for the confidence," he said darkly, but not without a tiny curve hitting his lips. He got quiet for a few seconds, his thoughts obviously mulling over her words. And finally-

"There's… a girl…"

"Ah-HA! I knew it! Who is she? What does she look like? Do I know her?"

His face blushed red at her triumphant giggles. "You-you don't know her. I barely know her. I just… I don't know. It's stupid, Sara."

"Stupid?" Her eyebrow quirked up.

He folded his arms and leaned against the counter - the tray and spilled croissants momentarily forgotten. "I-I met her at the Expo several days ago. Well, not really met her. I mean, I spoke with her, but she-it- it was brief and then she was gone. It was stupid of me to keep thinking about her, but…-" his green eyes grew distant with a pleasant memory, "-she's different, you know? There's something about her. Something… special. I could tell the moment I saw her."

The redhead locked the tightness in her chest and forced a smile to stay on her lips. His eyes were warm now, his expression almost wistful.

"Special, huh? Sounds serious for only one meeting."

"Actually… I met her again - a day or two ago?"

"What!? Did she come to the bakery? Was I there?"

"No, no!" He shook his head and his blond hair draped into his green eyes. "It was later. I was out of the bakery and I kind of ran into her. She… she didn't recognize me though. She thought I was someone else."

Sara frowned, confused, but Gaspard waved his hand in the air.

"There were circumstances. I learned her name though. It's… Solene." Just the name passing his lips made Sara's stomach curl in pain.

So, the girl had a name. He'd met her again and learned her name and-

"Solene… interesting - does she have a last name?"

"I don't know it, but…" he blushed brightly, "I know where she lives."

"Whoa!" Sara blinked before forcing a teasing grin. "That's a serious crush, Gaspard!"

"It was an accident. It just sort of happened. I wasn't stalking her or anything."

He turned away to pick up the fallen croissants and avoid her knowing smile. "Besides, it's not like it matters. She's... so high above me. This is just stupid and pointless, and... I've already told myself that there is no point to liking her. She's basically a princess."

"A Princess of Paris and a humble baker looking on with eyes of love…" she sighed. "Almost like a fairy tale."

To her surprise, he jumped as if shocked and the dropped croissants spilled out of his hands - making more of a flaky mess on the floor.

"Fairy tale," she heard him murmur under his breath as he quickly bent to pick the pastries back up. "Why is it always fairy tales…?"

"So, you know where she lives. Why not go see her?" Sara asked simply.

"What? Are you crazy?" He dumped the croissants on the tray and gave her an incredulous scowl. "I can't do that!"

"Why not?"

"Be-because she doesn't even know I exist!"

"And yet you met her before and learned her name…?"

"That was different. I told you there were circumstances."

"Right-" Sara rolled her eyes, "-circumstances. Well, lover boy, you can't wait around for circumstances to keep happening. Sometimes you must create your own. I say go visit her. Or at least try to meet her again soon. Maybe even learn her last name this time around?"

Placing the tray and ruined pastries on the counter, he gave a furtive look, but shook his head - tossing his blond hair out of his eyes. "No, no, I couldn't go. Not again. Not without a reason."

She sighed quietly, all the pretense of jest falling off her face.

"Look, I think you should know: you are a wonderful man, Gaspard. Any girl would be lucky to have you. If you like her that much, don't let her go. She must be somebody really special if she's caught your clueless attention. But you can't just wait for something to happen on its own. You have to pursue her - show her that you're interested."

"But-but what if she rejects me?" he asked, his fear so open she couldn't help but smile for the poor kid.

"At least you tried. You'll know how she feels about you and that's it's time to move on. And what if she does like you back, mmm? As I said before, any girl would be lucky to have you. Maybe it'll work out like a fairy tale after all."

As the glimmer of potential hope spread on his handsome face, Sara decided to take her own advice.

It was time to move on from Gaspard.

For a well-dressed gentleman, Dupain was expecting a large house with a parked carriage in the front. Instead, following the address he was given, he found a modest one-story complex with boarded windows on the outskirts of the industrial section. Shouldering the baguettes with a touch of apprehension, Marcus hurried up the broken concrete steps and rang the bell at the chipped door.

It opened with a loud creak only several seconds later and an older woman's head appeared around the side. The bags under her eyes, the sickly parlor of her skin, and the thin ragged curls seemingly glued on her scalp almost made Dupain trip down the steps in fright. She reminded him of a ghost - one of those banshee legends his childhood friends used to tell stories about.

Her owlish eyes scowled at him as he swallowed down his unease and brushed the satchel's flap back to withdraw the long package.

"Good morning, Madame. My name is Marcus Dupain. I am here to deliver some baguettes to a Monsieur Jacque Révérer."

"He's ill," the woman croaked, her eyes twisting to the bread.

"I heard. He's always been a steady patron of mine and I wanted to wish him speedy recovery and a gift of his favorite baguettes-"

"That's nice, but he won't be gettin' better. You should never come here ever again."

Dupain almost dropped the bread.

"W-what? What do you mean he won't be getting better? Why not?"

The woman clicked her tongue and reached out with spindly fingers to snatch the long package from Marcus's hands.

"The fool got the White Plague."

And the door slammed shut in Dupain's face.

The room was silent - not a squeak of a leather chair nor a clearing of a throat. The smell in the large oval-shaped room was mixed with musty books, thin body-odor covered with copious amounts of powdered cologne, and a thick smoky scent of cigarettes. The white-wigged occupants in the room radiated a hot skepticism and irritation.

Sitting on a raised platform, they stared down at Jean-Antoine Villemin as he stood facing each of their disbelieving eyes with a shiver of hopelessness rushing down his spine.

A powdered wig stood from his chair with sharp dark eyes clenched in anger.

"This is the fifth time you have called for us to meet, Monsieur Villemin. You seem to think the French Académie Nationale de Médecine are at your beck and call. I, for one, have read your Etudes sur la Tuberculosis and I find it completely preposterous. Did you monitor the subject's behavior hourly? How does inoculating those infected prove it can be spread through inhalation? There have been families where only one comes down with the disease and yet the rest of the family is spared."

"My assistant and I were as diligent as we could be," Jean answered, straightening the round spectacles perched on his nose. A bead of sweat rushed down the side of his round cheek and dripped on the shaking papers in his hand. "If you look at this recent study, Monsieur Abelin, you will see that I have included not only the recent study between infected rabbits, but a successful transmit of the disease from human to cow."

"And how does this prove the disease is spread airborne?" Another physician's voice spoke up. "There are too many circumstances to take into consideration!"

Abelin nodded briskly. "Oui, oui! How long was the infected incarcerated with the non-infected? How did they interact? How far along was the disease in the infected? Did they touch physically? Did you put any of this into account in your theory?"

Jean swallowed. "The-The subject was with the cow for a total of three days before it was proven the cow also was infected."

"Ah-ha! From physical touch! I knew it!"

His grey mustache trembling, Jean turned to the third section of his notes. "They never touched. The subject was only in the beginning stages of the plague. The cow got the disease through other means - which can only be deduced as an airborne virus. If you'd just see my study here-"

"Enough of this nonsense! I have a class of respectable doctors to teach! I am ashamed to have sat here for this long listening to your wild, unprovable gibberish. I declare this meeting over and the matter of your studies closed."

Mouth shutting with a snap, Jean's eyes turned to stare at his work clutched in his hands as, one-by-one, the council filed out the room. Within minutes, the door shut with a bang of finality and silence rang throughout the empty chamber. Jean dropped the papers on the desk and put his face in his hands. He was grateful his assistant was not here to see his failure. Having worked for years on this discovery only to be turned away by the so called most brilliant medical minds in Paris would probably do the poor chap in.

That is - if the disease didn't get Révérer first.