a/n: I'm back from my hiatus. Thanks for waiting patiently while I was away. I'm still very interested to read your constructive criticism, so please leave a review and let me know what you like or don't like about my writing.

Chapter 10: Awakening

Alice opened her eyes, and her surroundings slowly came into focus. She remembered exploring dark, shadowy tunnels… there had been piles of corpses, their bones neatly stacked like ghastly bricks… But now she was someplace else: A familiar musky fragrance, and amber light... The Persian's drawing room materialized from the fuzzy haze of her vision.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle Mifroid," whispered the Persian as he removed a washcloth from her forehead. "You've had a terrible accident on the road. Where were you going, without anyone to escort you?" She stared at him blankly. "Well, you're lucky not to have hurt yourself very badly!" Confused, Alice tried to sit up, but was overcome with lightheadedness by the sudden movement. "Careful now, Mademoiselle. Maybe you'd like a drink of water?" She nodded weakly, and he rose to fill a glass. "Darius has gone to get your family," he called over his shoulder as he left the room. "I'm expecting him any minute."

When he departed for the water, Alice lifted herself to a comfortable sitting position. A coarse blanket lay over her, and she tried to push it aside. Although the blanket was heavy, it slid back enough to uncover a hood sewn into its underside. Along the sides of the blanket were generous sleeves. This is no blanket, she realized as her mind regained its sharpness, it's a cloak! Instantly she remembered the robes of the Carthusian monk. He had turned to look at her, and she had seen a horrible face—a death's head, with no nose or eyes, but animated with violent anger—and she knew she had fainted from her terror. But didn't the Persian report that she had met some misfortune in the street?

"Drink this slowly, Mademoiselle," the Persian commanded, returning to her side. He helped her to sit more comfortably before handing her the glass, then quickly removed the cowl to stow it in another room.

Puzzled by the Carthusian robes, she sipped the cold water while she studied the Persian's drawing room. A wooden clock on the mantle read eight o'clock, and because the lamps were lit and darkness hid behind the heavy folds of the curtains, Alice realized that she had awakened late at night.

As her senses returned to her, she began to shiver in the absence of the cowl's warmth. She felt freezing even though she still wore her own woolen cloak. The fireplace was empty of wood, and she stared with distress at the empty hearth. Then something in the ashes caught her eye… a glowing ember? Testing her strength, Alice stood from the settee and went to the hearth with the hopes of coaxing a fire from the last burning cinders. But what she had seen was not a burning piece of ash—she realized it even before she reached the fireplace. It was a speck of gold, buried beneath the refuse, and she dug her fingers into the soft, grey dust to retrieve it. As she did so, though, the fine dust rolled down the slope of the pile and climbed into the air like smoke, unearthing another artifact as well. When she withdrew her hand, she held in her dusty fingers both a gold ring and a large, iron key.

A sudden knock announcing visitors caused Alice to start. Quickly she hid the unusual treasures in the folds of her dress, wiping the ash from her hand onto her already-soiled sleeves.

"Ah, I believe your parents have arrived," the Persian announced as he passed the drawing room on his way to the front door. Surprised to see her standing in the middle of the carpet instead of laying on the settee, he stopped. "And your strength seems to have returned, Alhamdulillah." He then opened the front door so hurriedly that his hair lifted in a breeze. "Madame Mifroid! Your daughter is safe. Please come inside. I found her unconscious beside a path by the Tuileries—there had been an accident between her cab and a cart carrying lumber, and the two drivers were busy arguing when I arrived while enjoying my evening walk. I recognized Mademoiselle Mifroid, and since it seemed the two drivers would quarrel all night, I decided to bring her back here and dispatched Darius to get you. She was unconscious then and still doesn't remember what happened. I think she was traveling somewhere, though. Here are her bag and lantern."

At the mention of her belongings, Alice herself looked to where the Persian indicated, at the side of the settee furthest from the fireplace. They were as she remembered them. But hadn't she left them in the rotunda as she ran from the vile monk? Was the Persian's story true, then? If she had indeed received a concussion as the Persian declared, then was her own recollection just a dream begotten by her injuries?

"Dear Alice!" her mother cried upon entering the drawing room. She folded her own coat across the back of the settee then reached to cup Alice's face in her hands. "Where in Heaven's name were you going, without any servant to escort you?"

Alice only stared into her mother's eyes in confusion. What could she say? She didn't know what was happening to her. Her mother cast a glance at the Persian, who understood immediately and withdrew with Darius to allow the two women some privacy.

Madame Mifroid led her daughter to the settee. She examined Alice from head to toe, noting a torn sleeve and scratches on her right hand. "You truly remember nothing?" In answer, Alice shrugged helplessly. "My poor, darling girl," her mother crooned, brushing the loose hairs back from Alice's forehead. She sighed. "Perhaps your father's harsh criticism has affected you, and you thought to run away."

Her mind still preoccupied with the riddle of how she had arrived at the Persian's flat, Alice spoke at last. "Everyone except Papa thought that my interests were improper. But now I've lost his favor, too."

"But you're a grown woman," her mother began slowly. "There comes an age when fathers can't prevent their daughters from pursuing their passions. Dear Alice, your life belongs to you now. Your beautiful mind doesn't need a man's approval."

It was hardly the response one would expect from a mother who suspected that her unmarried daughter had tried to run away. Alice was now so confused by what had transpired and still embarrassed by her trapdoor experience that she was utterly unsure of herself.

"What am I to do?"

"When you longed to travel and study science, it was only possible for you by leaving us for America. I think your pursuits now require that you live independently. Otherwise you'll find yourself too often forced into the tender roles that you've outgrown." Her mother smiled, and Alice felt her own lips curl in response. "I'll talk to your father when he returns from his work later tonight, and we'll see what can be done."

Within a week, Madame Mifroid had found an ideal arrangement: An aging Russian intellectual had an extra room for which he sought a live-in attendant. He would prove to be an invaluable tutor. Dr. Mechnikov was a robust but elderly man with thin, grey hair and a full beard. A celebrated scientist and appointee of the newly-founded Institut Pasteur, he was a living authority on microbiology. He also propounded a strange, new science that he called "thanatology." As its name suggested, the new discipline represented a holistic study of death.

"For almost twenty years, my life has been preoccupied with the study of disease and an obsession with prolonging life," he confessed to her as he led her into his flat. "The unfortunate truth is that death has no cure. We will all die, eventually. It is something we must accept. Yet there is very little scholarship on that matter."

He opened a heavy set of double doors and swept his arm across the threshold of his impressive library. What had once been the ballroom of the lucky landlord had been transformed into a vast space lined with shelves. In the center of the room were a desk, two floor lamps, and comfortable leather chairs.

The room was deadly silent, and Mechnikov's thickly-accented French echoed thunderously. "My library, Mademoiselle. It requires very little maintenance. Perhaps a weekly dusting and brooming will suffice. You're welcome, of course, to read anything you like. Be sure to return the volume to the exact shelf where you found it."

He lead her back into the hall and secured the double doors. "But to continue with what I was saying: Many of us fear death, despite its inevitability. For some, it's an inescapable fixation. The American author Edgar Allen Poe, for example, was terrified that he could be buried alive. His writing focused on death as a way to safely scrutinize his phobia."

Alice shuddered, remembering the morbid organ room in the house beneath the Opera. The polished coffin had sat in the middle of the room under a blood red curtain, as if on center stage. It had seemed a testament to the owner's suicidal desire. If indeed the room and its disquieting coffin had not been a dream, could it have been like Poe's stories—an innocent means of embracing the unknown? And the torture chamber… might it, too, have been a monument to some agonizing obsession?

Mechnikov led her further down the hall as he continued, "What does it feel like to die, and what happens afterwards? Is death the beginning or the end? Do we sleep, or is it like awakening? All we have in answer to these questions are legends, myths, and religion. What's more important than their accuracy is how these answers affect dying individuals. A positive characterization of death, for example, does not inspire fear. In fact, some might see death as more desirable than life. I believe that these predispositions determine an individual's susceptibility to an untimely death.

"You see, Mademoiselle, even without actually committing suicide, we control our own mortality. Our will to live, such as it is, influences our biological processes. Men and women really do die from fright… and from a broken heart."

At the end of the corridor he opened an unassuming, austere door. "My laboratory," he announced with understandable pride.

Alice's eyes sparkled as she took in the room. Lined up along a workbench like dutiful soldiers were the most modern instruments of microbiological research: an assembly of microscopes, retorts, Petri dishes, a Bunsen burner, and even an incubator. Illustrations of the systems of the human body hung from the walls. Tucked conveniently in one corner, an additional bookshelf with glass doors offered reference books close at hand. Wafting in the industrial space was a peculiar odor, like seared rubber or an exposed electrical current. After her confusion of the past few weeks, Alice was relieved to find herself in her element once again.

Mechnikov returned her wide smile. "Of course, the laboratory will require more frequent cleaning than the other rooms. I trust you're familiar with the maintenance of this equipment; your mother related to me a most impressive curriculum vitae. I am currently examining the effects of various chemicals on waterborn bacteria. My next experiment is tomorrow morning at ten o'clock, and I will need everything in order before my assistants arrive. Of course, you are most welcome to observe the experiment. Now allow me to show you the rest of my humble apartment, and then we shall retire."

So saying, he opened various doors along the halls: this room a bath, another his bedroom, a kitchen, and a tiny room for Alice. Although smaller and much less luxurious than her room on the Rue Scribe, her new chamber resembled the cozy dormitory at the Massachusetts seminary, and was equally practical.

"And now, Mademoiselle, you may unpack your bags into that chest of drawers and rest. My cook arrives at seven to begin breakfast. You will find me to be an early riser. Oh, and lest I forget—here is a set of keys for all the locks in my apartment. They open the front door, some cabinets in the laboratory…. if it has a lock, you have the key. Good night, Mademoiselle."

Alone, Alice took a seat in a small armless chair by the window. She held the ring of keys under the candlelight, and they flashed gold and silver. One key was very tiny—it must be the one for the cabinet in the laboratory. She would have to try the others before she knew which opened what. With a tired sigh, she placed them on her dresser, then emptied her pockets onto the dresser as well. She pulled a sleeping gown from her traveling bag to prepare for bed.

As she filled the drawers with her things, her tired eyes came to rest on the top of the dresser. From her pockets she had taken a handkerchief and the gold ring and iron key from the Persian's fireplace. The iron key rested like a black talisman beside the sparkling new keys from Dr. Mechnikov.

If it has a lock, you have the key….

What lock would yield to this mysterious iron key?

Alice lifted its heavy weight and ran her fingertips over its rather simple, angular teeth. There were three: the first tooth poked straight out and took a right angle back towards the handle, the second one was simply straight, and the third was a mirror image of the first. Like some primeval device, she mused. Its size was similar to that of keys used to open mausoleums in the cemetery. But why had the Persian dumped it into the fire?

What had he been trying to hide?