The Sacrifice Stone Read Online Free Page B

round to the front and have a look inside.
    She lost sight of it behind the jumbled buildings of the old town but, by bearing left and left again, soon found herself in a square, at the end of which was the church.
    The door was closed, but opened when she lifted the latch. A young woman was arranging flowers, and she looked up and nodded to Beth. Nodding back, Beth moved across to the far wall and inspected the first of a series of little shrines set into it.
    St Joseph, holding Jesus in his arms. Several worshippers had lit candles to him. She wondered irreverently if they were people who’d come adrift with DIY-ing the new bookshelves.
    Stop it, she told herself. Just because I’m cross with Joe, there’s no need to take against the whole Christian world.
    She walked slowly on. The church had a serene atmosphere, and she was calming down with every step. In front of the next shrine, someone had placed an arrangement of vine leaves and ripe corn; admiring its artistry, at first she didn’t take in the statue.
    Then she looked up. The boy was young, only a child, with fair hair and, considering they were in southern France, improbably blue eyes. He had an expression of piety, somewhat marred by a crack in the stone across his throat that made him look like a cartoon Frankenstein’s monster, head sewn on to neck with ludicrously clumsy stitches ...
    It wasn’t Frankenstein’s monster. And it wasn’t a crack across the neck, it was a deliberately painted gash.
    The child had had his throat cut.
    Although the statue was crude, with chocolate-box details and insipid pastel colours, the cut throat had a power to shock which made her knees shake and the sweat break out across her back.
    There was a handwritten notice at the boy’s feet. Leaning forward, fighting the dizziness, she read it.
    St Theodore d’Arles .
    Joe, Joe, she cried silently, I’ve found your boy!
    Eyes returning to the child, she noticed he was pointing to the wound in his neck; remembering Joe’s story that the little saint could cure sore throats, she realized why. There were several ceramic plaques fixed to the wall behind the shrine, most bearing a simple ‘Merci’, sometimes with a date. The latest date was 1955: for a medieval superstition, the reputation of St Theodore’s legendary abilities had endured pretty well.
    Still feeling slightly sick — and cross with herself for being so susceptible — she went to sit down in one of the pews. The young woman, who was now placing fresh votive candles in front of the shrines, glanced at her. I wonder if she wants me to go? Beth thought. Then: why on earth should she? I’m not doing her any harm — my scepticism can’t possibly show.
    For a moment, forgetting she was angry with Joe, she thought she would rush straight home and tell him what she’d found. Then, getting up and walking out of the church, she changed her mind and set off to continue her exploration.
    She crossed the square into a narrow street sloping steeply downhill, lined with tall houses. Some of them had washing hanging on poles outside. A man watering his potted plants smiled at her.
    The street curved round in a tight bend, then opened out on to a wider road.
    Staring at what stood immediately in front of her, she thought she must be imagining it.
    Vast and solid at the top of a wide flight of steps, its double tier of arched walls soared up into the blue sky and curved away to either side in perfect symmetry. It was huge, dominating the scene and crowding out all the little houses, shops and bars that huddled around it as if flexing its great muscles and shouldering them away.
    At first she just stood and stared. Then, coming back to herself, she wondered what it could be, answering her own question instantly: it’s an amphitheatre.
    She felt illogical tears start in her eyes. I didn’t know , she thought, angrily brushing them away. I’m so ignorant that I had to actually stand here looking at it before I realized