Chapter 32: The Winter Crack

The frost split the western support at the third bell, with a sound like a shot in a stone room. Ilan took it under the ribs. He was on his knees on the south alcove blanket before he knew he had woken, one hand clawing at the flag, and the whole west bay arrived in his body at once: every cracked stone a separate nail, a long bright line from the pier's foot to the crown of the springing, and past it, fainter, a tick in the Mercer keystone itself, up in the chamber's crown beside the empty north seat cut as its twin. The left shoulder took the arch's load and ran it up through his neck. His teeth clicked. The air tasted of cold iron and wet lime. Pell had him by the coat collar. "Up. Come on. Up." "Let go." "You're on the floor." Pell hauled, and…