Read VIII for Free Online Page A

should say a couple more Hail Marys; I always worry that I may have lost count and said four rather than five (in which case the protection against murder and evil spirits won’t work, will it?).
    So I kneel on the cushion – which puffs out a cloud of dust – and begin in a whisper, not daring to shatter the silence of the empty room:
    “Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum…”
    Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…
    And stop. I’ve heard someone speak.
    For one mad moment I think it’s the Virgin Mary replying. But then I hear another murmur – muffled, but close by – and footsteps. They’re coming from my left – from beyond the door in the far wall. I’m frozen, not breathing – listening.
    Then the handle begins to move. I don’t even consider racing back to the other door, the one I came through – there’s no time for that. Instead, I dive for the corner beside the altar, crouching low, so that the width of the altar shields me.
    Instantly, though, I can see this is not enough. I’m hidden from the door, but someone only has to move into the centre of the room and I will be in plain view.
    The door begins to open. My mother’s voice says, “This is the best place – no one comes in here.”
    My back’s resting on a piece of wainscot with a pattern of small holes in it. I realise it’s one of the doors of a press – a cupboard set into the wall. Quickly, still crouching, I open it a little. The cupboard is quite deep, lined with shelves in the upper part. The space below them is empty and, though not high, it is wide: plenty big enough for several people to hide in, let alone just me.
    This is the moment of decision: do I hide? Or do I stand up and admit I’m here; take the telling-off for roaming around without Compton, and go back to my room?
    I don’t stand up. I edge into the cupboard. Perhaps because I’m scared. Perhaps because, if my mother has secrets, I want to hear them. And later I wonder if there was something else at work too: maybe the three nails. Maybe God.
    They’re entering the room now: my mother and whoever she’s talking to. Slowly, carefully, my ragged breathing sounding loud in my ears, I pull the cupboard door shut, hoping they’re still not far enough into the room to see it move.
    I brace myself for being found out – for an exclamation – but it doesn’t come. Instead my mother says, “We don’t have long. I must be quick.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” says a man’s voice.
    Through the pattern of holes in the cupboard door I can see only a slice of the room straight ahead of me; there’s a wall to my left and, to my right, my view is blocked by the side of the altar. For a moment I catch sight of the edge of a brown robe – a monk’s robe – and I know, from the voice, that the man who’s spoken is Father Christopher, my mother’s confessor.
    My mother says, “Well – did you go into the City? What are the people saying? Are there prophecies circulating?”
    “Yes, I’m afraid so, ma’am. As always at a time of crisis, the people distract themselves with any bill or rhyme or ditty they see pinned up on a tavern door, when they should be praying, or listening to their priest—”
    “I know your feelings, Father, but did you collect any? The prophecies, I mean?”
    “There is a notary of my acquaintance who has been collecting prophecies as a hobby these past few years. I asked him for his latest findings. He gave me this.”
    “You didn’t say it was for me?”
    “Of course not.”
    I hear paper crackling as if my mother is opening a package.
    Father Christopher says, “There are a few manuscripts, I think, and a few cheap printed folios. My acquaintance pointed out though, ma’am, that many prophecies circulate in a town by word of mouth only.”
    There’s silence for a moment. Then distractedly, as if she’s reading at the same time, my mother says, “There’s no one outside that other door, is there?”
    The plain figure of