The Serpent’s Curse - Tony Abbott

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large steel door opened on a staggeringly wide, deep, and high-ceilinged room.

      Becca started to wheeze.

      “Indeed,” said the curator, grinning for the first time since they’d met him.

      One side of the room was lined with numerous three-tiered display compartments and multishelf bookcases. On the far end was a honeycomb of hundreds of narrow slots built up to the ceiling. Paintings were shelved upright in these spaces. Classical sculptures of people and animals—some realistic, some fantastical—were clustered here and there the entire length of the vault.

      The curator set the dagger and its holster reverently on a worktable, then stepped over to a portion of the wall containing built-in safe-deposit-type boxes.

      “What is your birth date, Wade?” he asked.

      “Me?”

      Lily remembered how the deciphering of Uncle Henry’s original coded message had involved a reference to Wade’s birthday. That was what had started their quest.

      “October sixth.”

      “So…” The curator selected and removed one of the boxes, which he said was “made of a titanium alloy,” and brought it to the table. He placed the holster and dagger inside the box, sealed it, tapped in a key-code combination, and returned the box to its slot in the wall. He then withdrew the box directly below it. “The, ah, object you wish to store here?”

      Darrell drew Vela from an inside pocket.

      Raising his eyebrows very high, the curator took the heavy blue stone—the relic with something buried in its interior—and swaddled it carefully in new velvet.

      “It’s priceless,” Lily said.

      “I believe it,” the curator responded. He set the velvet-wrapped stone in a wooden box. Then he placed that box inside a second titanium container, which he inserted below the one with the dagger inside. When he pushed it all the way in, there was a low whump followed by the clicking and rolling of tumblers that stopped with a hush.

      “Now you’ll want to see our head of antiquities,” the curator said, leading them all briskly out of the vault and security corridor. “I’ll ask her to meet you upstairs in the atrium. If anyone can help you decode your message, she’s the one.”

      Taking one last look at the sealed vault door, Lily breathed easily. Vela, the first of the Copernicus relics, was now hidden safely underneath New York City.

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      The curator led them back up to the atrium.

      As Wade watched the man disappear, Darrell’s hip pocket began to ring. “It’s Dad,” he said, and stepped away, listening, Lily along with him. Becca turned to follow them when Wade stopped her.

      “How’s your arm?” he asked.

      She smiled. “Okay. Better all the time.”

      “Good.” He was still deciding if he should tell Becca about the dream. The one he’d had leaving Guam in which Becca had seemed to be, well, dead. He’d so far been unable to say it out loud. It was too upsetting, even for him. Naturally, he worried that his dream had something to do with Markus Wolff’s intense look at her in the Mission in San Francisco, although that was clearly impossible, since his dream had been earlier.

      “What about the Mission?” Becca asked.

      “What?”

      “You said Mission, just now.”

      His face went hot. “I did? Well … it’s just … I wonder what Markus Wolff meant about the twelfth relic. That we should ask ourselves what it was.”

      “Me, too. Strange, huh?”

      “Yeah.”

      That went nowhere.

      Darrell was off the phone now. “Good news. Investigators are spreading across Europe.”

      “He said we have to be prepared that they won’t find your mom today or probably tomorrow,” Lily added. “That it’ll take some time, but everybody feels good about it.”

      “Excellent,” said Julian. “It may not be long now before we know what the ribbon says and where it points.”

      “Find the relic, find Sara,” Becca said.

      “That’s the idea,” said Wade.

      There was a slow click of heels on tile, and a tiny, very old woman hobbled into the open atrium as if wandering in from the long past. She wore a dark beige pantsuit with a bright pink scarf flowing up out of her vest like a fountain. Her eyes flickered like a pair of tiny flashlights low on battery, and she bleated, “I’m … ancient …”

      Wade glanced at the others, then back to the woman. “Oh, not so much—”

      “… curator here at the … Morgan,” she said, scowling at him. She huffed several more breaths as if each could be her last. “Dr. Rosemary Billing …”

      “Pleased to meet you, Dr. Billing,” Becca said.

      “Ham,” the woman said.

      “Excuse me?” said Lily.

      “Ham,” the woman repeated. “Billingham. My name is Bill … ingham. Why won’t you let me …” Three, four breaths. “… finish? Now … who are … you all … and how … may I help you?”

      One by one they told her their names. She frowned severely at each one until Julian’s. “Julian?” she gasped, adjusting her glasses. “There you are! Well, if you’re … here then it’s quite all right. Fol … low me.”

      Stopping and starting several times, like a car backing up in a tight space, Dr. Billingham turned around and toddled down the hallway she had just come from, wheezing the whole time. What seemed a day and a half later, they arrived at a small, windowless room. Rosemary flicked on the lights and, after much finger motion, unlocked a glass-topped display case.

      “Despite these … scytale staffs being, in many cases, also used as … weapons, they’re old, and … we must consider them extremely fragile. Rather … like me …”

      Wade didn’t know whether to laugh or not, but he knew to wait.

      Five breaths later, she added, “… dieval manuscripts.”

      Then Rosemary waved her hand over the contents of the case like a game-show hostess. She was right to do so. As Julian had promised, the library’s collection of scytale staffs was special. They were obviously ancient, and all were roughly between five and ten inches long. Two were carved in thick ebony, one appeared to be cast in bronze, and the others were shaped of ivory or wood. Each was nestled in its own formfitting compartment and labeled by date. The earliest was from the sixth century BCE—“Before the Common … Era,” Rosemary explained—the most recent from Germany in the eleventh century. The smallest staff was little bigger around than a pencil, while the largest bore a circumference similar to the handle on a tennis racket.

      “Now show me your rib …,” Rosemary asked Becca alarmingly, then finished with “… bon.”

      Becca removed the ribbon carefully from her pocket, unrolled it, and laid it flat on the table.

      The curator frowned through her spectacles as she examined the ribbon. “About a … hundred letters?”

      “Ninety,” Becca said, glancing at Julian, who nodded.

      “Ah, just … like … me …”

      Wade waited six, seven breaths, but that turned out to be

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