A Symphony of Echoes (The Chronicles of St. Mary's, #2)

by Jodi Taylor

‘Dr Maxwell. Why are you wearing a red snake in my office?’ ‘Sorry, sir. Whose office should I be wearing it in?’

Why are you wearing a red snake?’ ‘Why, what colour should it be?’

‘It’s gone.’ ‘You’re sure?’ ‘Absolutely. It’s gone. They’ve done it.’ Kal said, ‘It’s like Frodo at MountDoom, isn’t it?’ She looked around. ‘I’m starving. Any chance of some pancakes? With ice cream and maple syrup?’ Helen nodded. ‘Oh, yes. Just like Frodo and MountDoom. I remember now, the first thing he did was stuff his face.’

Guthrie patted his shoulder. ‘Look on the bright side, Dr Peterson. You might not live that long, either.’

‘IT, that goes for you too. Any difficulties, tell me, so I can stare at you, baffled and confused.

Wings of various shapes and sizes had been cobbled together by the different sections, including a monstrosity from R&D, which looked to be about as aerodynamic as the Isle of Wight.

‘Yes, it was quite plain sailing really, although I’ve seen less ham on a pig.

Someone got an arm free. ‘I’ve got an arm free.

They looked like a cross between a turkey and a compost heap.

First, catch your dodo. Marinade in lemon juice, or something equally acidic for as long as possible. Preferably overnight. Stuff with breadcrumbs, roughly chopped onions, sage, rosemary, and thyme. Season robustly, lay on a wide plank or something similar, and cook over an open fire or BBQ until the juices run clear. Carefully separate the light meat from the dark. Throw the whole lot away and eat the plank.

Team R&D brought back a small rock on which they had attempted to glue a few feathers. Someone had drawn a face on it in pencil.

Furious at what he saw as Becket’s betrayal and realising he himself had provided his enemy with a powerful weapon, he uttered the immortal words: ‘Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?’ Four knights caught each other’s eye and slipped out of the room.

You could tell this wasn’t the British National Health Service. They had carpet on the floor.

I’d never seen anything like it. The curtains matched the bedcovers, which matched the cushions – always the sign of a diseased mind.

the best response is to remain calm and dignified and rise above it.’ ‘I’m not a bloody hot-air balloon.’

In ancient times – and modern, now I come to think of it – it’s always women who do the heavy lifting.

‘The trick involves producing silk scarves, for crying out loud. How the hell could he possibly manage to set fire to the curtains?’

Those wishing to grow a beard should note they are fashionable for men only.

shouting, ‘Make way, make way,’ in English, French, Latin, and some incomprehensible dialect he said was Geordie.

Always smile at the man with the big gun/spear/sword/tank/clipboard/whatever.

‘Seriously?’ he said. ‘You think I’m not going to be referring to it at regular intervals for the rest of your life? That I’m not going to drag it into every argument we ever have? That I’m ever going to let you forget? There will be ‘Driving The Car Into The Lake’ anniversaries. I shall commission a special card from Hallmark. There will be celebration cakes. We may even get a telegram from the King.’

He’s not big on facial expressions, but at that moment he looked like a cat who had not only got at the cream, but knew how to open the fridge. And who had possibly just invested in his first dairy herd as well.