The organ loft of Yorbridge Cathedral was like a ship’s bridge, suspended high above the stone sea of the nave. From below, the instrument presented a solemn façade of pipes; from within, it revealed its innards—wooden beams, bellows, wind–trunks, levers and stops—crowded together in ingenious confusion.

Lomas climbed the last steep stair and stepped into Barker’s domain.

Varley Barker sat at the console, his back massive in a black frock coat gone shiny at the seams. His large hands rested on the keys without playing. A single stop was drawn; a low, breathy note hummed faintly, as if the organ itself were thinking.

He did not turn when Lomas approached. “You’re just in time to hear nothing,” he said. “I was about to stop for the day.”

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