The vault locks.

You would like a trumpet. You get a grunt from Ned, a thumb from Rowan, Maud blinking as if lime had gotten into her eye, which it did not. The keystone is seated, plumb true, neighbors in agreement. The centering stays, a wooden saint, until the mortar says the stone may be trusted alone.

Canon Odo stands below and hears, perhaps, the difference between a hole and a choir. Iseult’s blue will have a wall that knows where its shove goes. Gareth touches a pointed rib as if greeting a foreigner who has brought useful food.

Two days, or a day, or whenever the chapter is allowed: voices under a crossing that works because string was honest, wedges were lashed, flyers were covered, and a child did not confuse bravery with unwedged boards.

You sleep in the lodge like a dropped plumb, straight down into dark.

Peverel writes crossing vault locked as if ink could hold lime. Maybe it helps. You walk the cloister once, well on your left, lodge on your right, nave west, choir east, map still true. Sleep takes you like a plumb dropping.

THE END

What you learned: a pointed vault works as wedges around a keystone; centering holds them until they agree. Plumb, square, and patience lock a choir—not daring.