The Serpent Papers Read Online Free PDF Page A

Centimetre by centimetre, I stretch out onto my belly, wriggling until my hand reaches the firm, fleshy object whispering from beneath the rock. Instinct drives me. I pull gently, not wanting to lose my arm beneath the pile, holding the weight with my shoulder, tugging at the mass until it comes free with a slick, chugging thud. Struggling back from the other side of consciousness, I cannot see clearly, enchanted by the light’s movement. The fleeting, darting paroxysm of its stillness. Gradually I focus on the physical. A heavy weight. Coated in black dust, sealed with a strap of cloth and an old tortoiseshell button. One breath. Two. Electricity shudders up my knuckles. A pulsing. Just behind my ears. Emerging thickets of sound. The wail of a finger sliding along crystal, taste of sherry, stale bread. I open it gently. Black ribbon of mould, fecund and festive dancing round the edges. Dank potato odour. The hard scratch-scratch of a metal nib, bent at the side, inky divots on pearled paper – Dear Heart  – my eyes roam across the page. A quick desire. Irresistible. Pure.
    ‘Miss Verco?’ my guide calls.
    Snap it shut. Hold the contraband against your chest. Hide.
    ‘Anna, where are you?’
    I do not answer. Crouched against the flagstones behind the altar, snow wet into my knees. He calls again.
    ‘Quick, Miss Verco! The storm has come too fast. The wind will blow us off the mountain.’ The beam of his flashlight scrapes against the musty air. He swallows his words. Staring into me.
    ‘Are you mad? It is pitch black in here.’ His flashlight reaches my face. ‘Anna, you are covered in dirt.’
    ‘I fell,’ I say, dusting off my clothes. Adjusting the weight of the bag around my shoulders. Sliding the satchel behind my back.
    He frowns. Now. Outside .
    We stand in the snow. His gaze flicks to my clenched fist.
    ‘What have you found?’
    ‘A bone.’
    ‘Show me.’
    I give the fragment into his gloved fingers.
    ‘Animal.’
    ‘Perhaps.’ I bide my time. ‘I’ll have Picatrix send up an archaeologist in the morning. They’ll want access. No one should touch it until then, Anselmo.’
    He nods, placing the bone in a handkerchief produced from his coat pocket. ‘We will give all the help we can, Miss Verco. With some parameters, of course.’ He slips the cloth bundle into his pocket and taps it twice with the flat of his hand. ‘Privacy is paramount. You understand that, I’m sure. We trust you. You have done great work for us, and now the favour will be returned.’

In the pantry, I reach for a round winter squash, two onions and a head of garlic. Cinnamon. Brown sugar. Chives. I heat the oven to 180 degrees centigrade. The blade of a broad knife scrapes against the skin of the squash, looking for an entry point. I push my weight into the gourd, snapping it in two, then scrape out the centre, saving the seeds for roasting in the oven. I crush the head of garlic with the fat side of the knife. Rub the clove into the meat of the squash. Olive oil, rosemary, sea salt. Slicing the onion, my eyes burn, but I continue fiercely. An hour passes. Maybe more. I try not to think too much. There are patterns in the wooden cutting board like shells and leaves. Stains made over many months.
    ‘Where are you hiding?’ Francesc calls from the door. A cold draught billows into our house at the edge of the village. I shout back that I am in the kitchen.
    ‘I can smell a feast!’ Francesc slides his coat onto a hook by the door, leaving his satchel on the kitchen counter. A good-looking man, with a square jaw and bright hazel eyes, short beard and thick brown hair. He wears a knitted fisherman’s cap to ward off the cold. A recently broken pair of spectacles perch at the end of his nose.
    ‘You didn’t come back to the lab?’
    ‘I was tired.’
    His face close to mine.
    ‘ Book Finder Braves Perils on Mallorcan Coast ,’ he teases. ‘I can see the headlines now: Savant discovers Ancient Gospels in Church