The Serpent Papers Read Online Free PDF

Struck by Lightning. Island Sanctifies Atheist for Contributions to Society. It’s what you’ve always wanted.’
    I laugh and push him away.
    He holds me tighter. Hands pressing into my waist, bringing my chest closer. Pulling me into him.
    ‘No compliments?’ he murmurs into my ear. ‘ My darling, you are a genius. That would be nice . . .’
    Nice. He smells like musk. A nice smell. A lovely smell.
    ‘I spent my day slaving away in a laboratory to stabilize your manuscript, while you got to frolic on the mountainside. And you didn’t even come by to see what we have done for you! I’m insulted. Deeply offended, but I’ll let it go. Just this once . . . Think of it from my perspective. Anna Verco abandons Lowly-Professor-Who-Sacrifices-Life-and-Limb to resuscitate parchment . Letters come from the Spectroscopy Department of the University of Barcelona and the Laboratory of Restoration at the Archive of the Crown of Aragon: “Join Us . . .” Professor asks Book Hunter: “Will you come with me?” .’
    ‘Is that true?’
    ‘Not yet. But one day soon.’
    I kiss his ear then push him softly. ‘The soup will burn.’
    ‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’ He lifts me up onto the kitchen counter, back against the cupboards. ‘Tell me everything you know,’ he growls. ‘What did you find at the chapel?’
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘Lies!’ he teases. ‘You sent down a bone. And not just any bone at that.’
    I blush.
    ‘A human phalanx.’ He beams. The final joint of a finger. ‘We haven’t dated it yet, but it must be thirteenth-century. Buried around the time the chapel was built. I imagine it was some old anchoress.’ He kisses me again, tongue warm in my mouth. ‘We’ll start looking for the rest tomorrow.’
    I have never seen anyone else so excited by a skeleton. ‘Now. More importantly: we have wine and you’ve cooked dinner.’ He laughs and lets me go.
    ‘A glass each? A toast? What do you prefer? I couldn’t decide what to get. Red or white . . . They were all asking at the market. Word travels fast in this town. They all want to know the secrets. I said there are none. Senyoras, Senyors, I humbly proclaim that the mouldy lump is just an old book, nothing more. No conspiracies. No occult machinations. It is literature! A palimpsest! Now may I have some sobrassada , two bottles of wine and a bag of apples?’
    Francesc unpacks his satchel. Bottles clunking on the kitchen table.
    ‘ A palimpsest? Is that a curse? An old woman who was buying bread asked me that. No, madam , it is a better deal – two books in one. With that I made my exit.’ I watch as he pulls a tablet from his work satchel, accompanied by a bound case of papers, loose receipts and a chewed pen. He takes an envelope from the case and gives it to me.
    ‘This came in for you today.’ It is a simple white envelope, with a lime-green stamp of King Juan Carlos I. There is no company insignia or business template, and no return address, though the postal markings indicate that the letter had been sent from Barcelona.
    ‘Maybe it’s another love letter from one of your old antiquarians,’ Francesc laughs over his shoulder. He fetches glasses from the cupboard and a corkscrew. I open the envelope. He begins to lay the table, rhythmically. A bill. I sigh. A fee for the location of a few out-of-print nineteenth-century novels. Personal interest. Nothing more.
    ‘Anna, where have you gone?’ Francesc asks. Smiling. Always smiling . I stir the soup on the stove. Pulling me towards him, he kisses my hair, warm hands round my back – I feel the breath of him, the reassuring beat . . .
    ‘You always worry,’ he says. ‘But not tonight. Please. Don’t think about those things tonight.’

An eerie sound disturbs my sleep. Low crackle and steam . The hiss of a boiling kettle. Francesc’s broad back rises and falls beside me, mouth close to my shoulder, breath condensing into warm moisture. I sit up. There is a