“Mere,” it said, and began to purr, a very small purr. A purrlet.

“Where did you get this kitten?” I said to Verity.

“I stole it,” she said. “Don’t look like that. I intend to take it back. And Finch will never miss it.”

“I love you,” I said, shaking my head. “If I’m fated to spend my life with you, does that mean you’ve decided to marry me?”

“I have to,” she said. “I just ran into Lady Schrapnell. She’s decided what this cathedral needs is—”

“A wedding?” I said.

“No, a christening. So they can use the Purbeck marble baptismal font.”

“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to,” I said. “I could sic Lady Schrapnell on Carruthers and Warder, and you could make a run for it to someplace safe. Like the Battle of Waterloo.”

There was a fanfare, the organ launched into “The Heavens Are Declaring the Glory of God,” and the sun came out. The east windows burst into blue and red and purple flame. I looked up. The clerestory was one long unbroken band of gold, like the net at the moment of opening. It filled the cathedral with light, illuminating the silver candlesticks and the children’s cross and the underside of the choir stalls, the choirboys and workmen and eccentric dons, the statue of St. Michael and the Dance of Death and the orders of service. Illuminating the cathedral itself — a Grand Design made of a thousand thousand details.

I looked at the bishop’s bird stump, cradling the kitten in the crook of my arm. The stained-glass window behind outlined the bishop’s bird stump in glorious colors, and the window of the Dyers’ Chapel opposite tinted the camels and the cherubs and the Execution of Mary, Queen of Scots emerald and ruby and sapphire.

“It is hideous, isn’t it?” I said.

Verity took my hand. “Placet,” she said.