That evening, the Cathedral was quieter than it had been for days. Snow muffled footsteps: the wind had dropped. Evensong had been sparsely attended, the psalms set to a gentle chant that made the stone sound reflective rather than triumphant.

Afterwards, Lomas loitered by the vestry door while the clergy undressed themselves from their ritual skins.

Barker came out first, tugging at his collar.

“If you are about to haul me in for another round,” he said, “I warn you, I’m running out of adjectives.”

“Not today,” Lomas said. “I’m waiting for Tuttle.”

“Tuttle?” Barker frowned. “He’s usually out already, with the surplices. He’s not been himself. You haven’t frightened him into confession, have you?”...

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