You stay with the plaster and the boy.

Kit’s diagonal is too short until it is not. You say three, four, five until it is a song that squares a bay. You draw a pointed rib and a round one on the same span so he can see the elbows. Maud, coming and going, adds putlogs in charcoal: standard, ledger, wedge, lash.

In the chapter, whether you are there or Maud carries your sentences, extra timber is paid for. The choir opens a day after Saint Brice’s Translation, in the nave first, then under a crossing that was allowed to wait. Canon Odo learns, visibly, that a calendar is not a load path.

No one falls. The lodge eats. Iseult’s glass waits on a wall that will be ready. You are eleven and the memory of the floor for an afternoon, which is a kind of mastership that does not need a title.

You draw putlogs until Kit can point to a real one on the choir and name it. Odo, later, pays for timber without calling it a miracle. The Translation happens under the nave’s old wheel-arches, then a day later under a crossing that was allowed to be true. You are not famous. The floor is.

THE END

What you learned: 3-4-5 squares a bay; putlogs and lashings keep people off the courtyard. Funding extra timber and delaying a feast is how adults let geometry win.