The Serpent's Curse by Tony Abbott Page A

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—”
    â€œ. . . 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 . . .”
    â€œPleased to meet you, Dr. Billing,” Becca said.
    â€œHam,” the woman said.
    â€œExcuse me?” said Lily.
    â€œHam,” the woman repeated. “Billing ham . 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.
    â€œDespite 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.
    â€œNow 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?”
    â€œNinety,” Becca said, glancing at Julian, who nodded.
    â€œAh, just . . . like . . . me . . .”
    Wade waited six, seven breaths, but that turned out to be the end of her sentence.
    Rosemary tugged either end of the ribbon lightly. “The fabric is silk. Without . . . running tests, I would guess it was woven sometime in the fifteenth or sixteenth century.”
    â€œThat fits our date,” Darrell said.
    The curator raised a finger as if to shush him. “Also, it doesn’t . . . stretch very much. This is good. It means we’ll have better luck finding an exact fit. Let’s start small . . . and go up from there.” Then, chuckling to herself, she added, “The narrower the staff, the larger the mess . . .”
    Two breaths.
    â€œ. . . age.”
    Rosemary took up the narrowest of the staffs, more of a dowel than anything else, with five equal sides. Pinching the top end of the ribbon against one of the sides,