The Serpent Papers Read Free Page A

to the waitress: ‘No tea for me, I’ll have a fresh juice. Grapefruit and ginger? Anyone else?’ I ordered dutifully, hiding my shoes under the table. Leather brogues. I had worn them every day. Fraying laces. Holes in the side, torn seams. Mud spattered. ‘Weathered’ would be the polite word, but they were destroyed. My anxiety grew deeper. Fingers un-manicured. Not a lick of make-up. They’ll see right through me.
    ‘Do you like your current research?’ Bingley asked.
    ‘Very much.’
    ‘And your work with the universities? Challenging enough?’
    I paused. Any positive affirmation would be a lie.
    ‘No.’
    Harold Bingley scratched on a notepad produced from a pocket.
    ‘Novelty is good for the soul. A challenge best of all. Don’t you think, Crawford?’
    ‘It is indeed,’ Crawford said. Then the men asked me if I had any questions. Picatrix is funded by a billionaire. Would that be a constriction?
    ‘What’s it like working for an anonymous patron?’ I asked.
    Bingley frowned.
    ‘How do you handle the pressure?’ I soldiered on. ‘You don’t feel at all compromised, intellectually? In terms of your parameters?’
    ‘I rather view it as a privilege,’ Bingley sniffed.
    ‘And what about the man himself?’
    ‘Our founder is quite secular. He does not take sides. His goal is the restoration and publication of lost manuscripts, particularly the missing literary and scientific masterpieces of antiquity . . . the disappearance of which he considers one of the greatest tragedies in history. He is an earnest palaeographer.’
    ‘You would describe Picatrix as a secular organization?’
    ‘With absolute sincerity.’
    ‘And if I worked for you, you would not curtail my interests.’
    ‘On the contrary, Miss Verco, we would fund them.’
    You would what?
    ‘All of them?’ I stammered.
    ‘Within reason.’ He turned to Crawford. ‘You’re certain about her?’
    I did not inspire faith.
    Crawford nodded conspiratorially. ‘She’s one of our best, Bingley; I wouldn’t send you anything less.’
    Bingley coughs delicately into a linen handkerchief.
    ‘This is our offer, Miss Verco. It will only come once. Our team is elite. We are in the unique position of being able to empower the minds we wish to work with. Picatrix trusts your intelligence, and if you prove yourself in the field, we will follow where you go. Now, as this is your interview, it’s my role to ask questions. How would you describe yourself?’
    ‘You’ve knocked the wind out of her, Harold.’ Crawford laughed across the table.
    Harold Bingley smiled coyly.
    ‘Why so shy, Miss Verco? Where does your elusive passion lie?’

On the road from Valldemossa to the Hermitage of the Holy Trinity I pull my collar up against the cold. The monks will show me where they found that damn book. Now. Today. Walk faster. The rain has turned to snow, and it drifts lightly down. It is not a long journey and the cold helps clear my head, scarf wrapped round my throat, hat pulled close over my ears. Bare fingers in pockets. Buses fly by, roaring up into the mountain, careening around a one-lane highway. I move swiftly, heading towards Deià, where the road forks, until I hear the honk-honk of a truck behind me. ‘ Bon dia, Nena! Com estes? ’ the farmer calls, his red nose swollen, slapping the side of his pickup, arm hanging from the open window. ‘Where are you going?’ I tell him I am walking to the hermitage. ‘ Anem! ’ he shouts. ‘ Hop in! It’s too cold to walk.’ In the truck he chatters idly. ‘Did you hear? The bolt struck a chapel! In the dead of night! A fire on the clif f !’ I listen to the farmer, who asks about the house, our garden, if my Francesc can help him with his wife’s roses. I nod. Francesc has green thumbs, Francesc has broad hands.
    ‘You’re not at the university today?’ the farmer asks. ‘I saw your man going down this morning in the car.’
    ‘No,’ I shake my head. I’m a free