A spider emerges from a crevice in the cold limestone wall and waits. Far below, amidst a tiny pool of flickering light, Father Thomas dips a quill into coal-black ink and stares absently at the squat candle. And then,biting his lip, he peers down at the word he has written. A memory puckers his brow and forces a grimace. He wipes a tear from his eye,inhales deeply through his nostrils and resumes the letter. The words splutter and falter, bunching into short desperate sentences. His tight lips twitch involuntarily, punctuating each syllable as if sewn together in macabre penance. When he is done, the priest folds the letter and with shaking hands slides it into an envelope. A rush of wind rattles the shutters and delivers an echo of cawing crows. Father Thomas kisses the envelope and makes the sign of the cross. The candle flame shrinks and snuffs to a glowing ember, unravelling an ethereal black snake that slithers up into the rafters, past the all-seeing spider and its silver web.