The Secrets of Life and Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

invited here.’
    I stepped back from the reach of the man’s stink. ‘We have been blessed by angels who have spoken wisdoms to us,’ I said, with some anger. ‘Those angels affirmed that Jesus was the son of God.’
    ‘And demons cannot lie?’ He chuckled, then coughed, his whole body shaking with each racking paroxysm. I stepped back, and he splattered the stones and rushes at my feet with spots of blood. ‘Stupid child,’ he gasped, his lips speckled. ‘The witches will take your magical letters, and build abominations and monsters from the bodies of innocents.’
    ‘The king is a devout man. A true Catholic.’
    He cackled for a moment. ‘Devout, yes. But for Istvan, family comes first, and with family, money. Always money.’
    I stepped away from the man, from his malice.
    ‘We are serious men of science.’ I drained the last of the flagon.
    ‘You raise the dead.’
    I knew speaking to a spirit beyond the grave was a glimpse of heaven, or, at least, purgatory, worthy of scientific enquiry. ‘I have been a mouthpiece for angels, old man.’
    ‘You are a deluded child, manipulated by demons.’ The man shuffled closer until I could see the crucifix against his ragged robes. ‘Istvan will have you keep the dying from the grave with your demonic magics.’ He crossed himself, and despite myself I followed suit. ‘Leave the heretic sorcerer. Go, before—’
    A man entered, in the embroidered robes and red boots of a noble, and raised a fist at the priest. The old man returned to his humble stool, babbling what I took to be apologies.
    The newcomer turned to me. He tipped his head towards the door. I followed him, but cast a final look at the old man, his eyes bright with something that looked like malice. He was mumbling something familiar, crossing himself.
    ‘… et Judicis nostri, et in virtute Spiritus Sancti, ut descedas ab hoc plasmate Dei …’
    My throat tightened as I recognised the rite of exorcism.

Chapter 6
    Jack’s cottage was over four hundred years old, hunkered into the landscape like a tortoise under a thatched shell. Built with two rooms downstairs, two upstairs, it had had a small bathroom squeezed between the two bedrooms at some time during the last century. The kitchen, added in the sixties and looking over the back of the plot, caught whatever morning sun was available. It was warmed by a chipped Rayburn. Jack huddled by the open firebox, occasionally poking the logs as they started to catch off the embers.
    ‘You’ll put that fire out,’ Maggie said. She was drying up, the familiar movements graceful and reassuring. Jack stretched her hands towards the warmth.
    ‘It’s cold in here.’
    ‘Still cold?’ She touched Jack’s forehead. ‘You can’t afford to get chilled like that. It’s been two days, and you’re still icy to the touch.’
    ‘There’s a terrible draught coming in the bedroom window. I’ll get some newspaper to stuff in the cracks when I’ve got time.’
    ‘Make time. I’m serious, you look blue.’ Maggie tutted. ‘You could just mend the windows.’
    ‘How about the kid?’
    Maggie put the mug down with a thump. ‘She has a name, you know. How would you have felt if I’d called you “the kid” when we rescued you?’
    ‘OK, how’s Sadie ?’
    Maggie shut the firebox door down to a crack. ‘Still alive. She’s got a terrible bruise on her back from the fall, but I think she’s breathing better.’
    Jack leaned against the back of the rocking chair, feeling the warmth of the dog against her leg. ‘At least she is still breathing.’ Breathing, yes, but for how long? The sadness at Carla’s death crept into Jack. She wondered if they would be able to save this one.
    Maggie hung the tea towel on the front of the stove. ‘Are you ready to talk about Carla?’
    Jack shut her eyes again. Carla’s last triumphant wave through the window of the train as it pulled out of the station flashed into her mind. ‘What do you want me to say? She got