The Cave smelt of dust, candle wax and boy.

It was never truly warm down there. The thick stone and low, barrelled roof that had made it an ideal storage space in some distant century now kept in the chill as efficiently as any icehouse. Breath smoked faintly in the air. Someone’s ink bottle had tipped earlier; the tang of iron gall hung over the usual admixture of chalk, leather and nervous sweat.

“Again!” Varley Barker’s voice cracked like a whip. “From ‘Domine Deus’. Handl, you were ahead of the beat by a full quaver, don’t argue. Polkinghorne, if I hear you slide into that note one more time, I shall send you to sing street ballads for coppers in the market.”

The boys shuffled their feet, with music books clutched in mittened hands. T...

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