A Finer End

was deserted; soon they would have to leave as well.
    ‘Here,’ Winnie told Jack, moving through the nave into the Choir. ‘I think it should be sung here, where it was meant to be sung.’
    ‘And where the monks shed their blood to preserve it,’ agreed Jack, gazing at the spot where the altar had once stood. ‘Is that possible? Could it be done?’
    ‘I don’t see why not. There are choirs all over England — all over the world, for that matter — that would jump at the chance. But...’
    ‘What?’ he pressed, seeing her frown.
    ‘I think the chant should be sung in Glastonbury, by ordinary Glastonbury folk. It’s not perfection that matters, but intent.’
    Jack pulled from his pocket the piece of paper he had brought to show her. ‘I wrote this today, at the office.’
    ‘Edmund?’
    He nodded and started to hand it to her, but she shook her head. ‘No, read it to me, please. I always imagine that his voice would have sounded like yours.’ Peering at the faint script in the fading light, Jack began to read haltingly. ‘There is much rejoicing among the Company. The Spirit liveth still, and that which we dreamed we pass on to you, a Symbol of the great Truth which is to come.
    But ye must be ever vigilant, for although ye have closed the door, the balance is ever in question, and the fall is perilous. Doubt not your worth, for this task is given you in good faith, and fear not, for we will Watch with you. May you grow in spirit and in joy.’
    Jack looked up from the page. The western sky was washed with the rose and gold of the setting sun, and for an instant, he could have sworn he heard an echo of voices raised in song.