Free The Translation of the Bones by Francesca Kay

now that’s a terrible mistake. If you do that you’re lost forever, girl. When they take the child away, you’ll grieve for life.
    Fidelma had kept her eyes wide open the whole time. She had learned to do that when she was not much older than a babe herself. Let your guard down even for a minute and you’d be very sorry; there’d be some old devil of a priest coming at you with his poking fingers and his pink tongue lolling out. Or a sister finding fault with you, when you’d done no wrong. Woe betide the child who closed her eyes to danger. She’d find herself locked up in the thick blackness of the cellar or locked out in the coldness of the night.
    Come now, Mary-Meg, Fidelma said. Did you get to the shops? Good girl, why don’t I make you something while you go and have a nice hot bath?
    It was not a major story but nonetheless it was still news. Tucked away in the middle of the tabloids and on local radio: eyes open, statue bleeds. Pretty Kiti Mendoza was there, in a photograph taken outside the church, looking sweet and pious. So was Father Diamond, clutching the great key of the church defensively in his hand. Cover-up.Authorities have ordered the figure of Jesus to be wrapped up in a curtain and are banning visitors. Barring access to the church. Why? What are they frightened of?
    Hints of a conspiracy by Roman Catholic priests—always an attractive target—gave the story resonance and it spread as fast as an enormous oil slick. Speculation about earlier attempts to cover up the truth—of the marriage of Jesus to Mary Magdalene, for instance, or the whereabouts of Jesus’ body—was a diverting way to fill the hollow miles of space. By Monday evening the crowd outside the church was large.
    Father Diamond consulted the diocesan office. The Secretary to the Bishop reminded him of policy: outbreaks of hysteria are to be discouraged. They are not healthy and do not give glory to God. The face of Our Lady on a pizza, Our Lord on a slice of toast! Such a load of hocus-pocus, with no place at all in the contemporary world. The very last thing we need, given all the trials we face today—have you seen the news from Ireland?—is a bunch of hostile journalists accusing us of being stuck in a medieval time warp and fanning superstition. Ammunition to the Angry Anarchists Brigade! They’d have a field day.
    This isn’t quite the same as a slice of toast, Father Diamond said, scrupulously. No, the secretary agreed. But as you and I know perfectly well, plaster figurines don’t bleed. Nor do they open their eyes. They don’t have eyes. They have molded eyelids and a dab of paint.
    Some of them have glass eyes, Father Diamond pointed out. And eyelashes made of real hair. But both men knew that was beside the point. The question remained, though, of how to pacify the crowds. People keep arriving, FatherDiamond told the secretary. Bringing flowers and cards. Their intentions on scraps of paper. They want to get into the church.
    Let them in, the secretary said. At certain times. When you can be there too. Put a notice on the door announcing when the church is open. Put another in the chapel explaining why the cross is veiled and when the veil will be removed. You might be in for a nice surprise on Easter Sunday!
    All right, said Father Diamond. There was nothing else to do. If only Father O’Connor were around, but there was almost another month of his sabbatical to go. Father Diamond asked for a grant toward the cost of security, as it seemed to him he might need some guards. Some members of the crowd could be positively hostile.
    Mrs. Armitage, with her dog Tommy, ran into Stella, who was on her way to the park, on Wednesday afternoon. They stopped to talk. What a carry-on, Mrs. Armitage said. All that stuff and nonsense at the church. Yes, said Stella. I saw there were a lot of people. What’s been going on? Oh, said Mrs. Armitage, you’ve been away, of course. I forget that you are not around much on a