Lamps make the choir into a cave of poles. Wind comes from the west, over the nave lead, into the crossing, out toward the flyers. You walk only lashed paths. Odo’s silence is a gift. Maud’s small beer is a gift. The keystone under wrap is a loaf that must not be eaten by hurry.

Storm night at Woldminster is lamps in putlog holes and a wind that wants the boards for souvenirs.

You cover mortar. You check lashings. You do not climb for the view. Maud sends small beer and bread that tastes like not-falling. Canon Odo, to his credit, appears in a cloak and says nothing about saints drying mortar. Peverel writes oilcloth twice, harder.

Kit falls asleep on a sack of pins and is moved like a voussoir of low weight.

If the keystone is already on the centering platform, it waits under a wrap like a loaf. If it is not, the dawn has it on a cart in the yard, mud to the axles, Rowan asleep on his feet.

The crossing is a mouth. Morning will try to put a word in it.