‘That’s Phillip, not the chapel! He smiles at your voice all the time, but he tries not to, he’s not meant to have favourites.’

Missing the beginning of class every morning, William is spurred on by the constant need to catch up. It serves him well. The masters recognise he works hard and are impressed that, even though he seems joined at the hip to Mussey, he never gets into trouble. Classes are to be endured, prep a daily task to be completed. Fortunately, William finds he does have endurance, he is able to complete his prep, and he even has time to cajole his reluctant, restless friend to finish his.

▪ ▪ ▪

With seasonal music oozing through his pores, he walks with Martin and two other choristers along the corridor towards the history room. It’s three weeks before Christmas, on a Wednesday morning, almost at the end of William’s first term. His fingers are a lilac colour from the cold and his nose is runny. William likes this particular classroom, which may be more cramped than others but is twice as warm. Martin holds the door open, bowing and gesturing extravagantly for them to go before him.

The cosy fug of bodies and the hum of radiator heat register first. He becomes aware that everyone is listening to music before he recognises what it is, but when he does, he comes to such an abrupt halt that Martin bumps into him.

Next to Mr Hawthorn’s desk is an upright square of pale wood with a metal mesh circle at its centre. The music coming out of it is well known to William; the blunt simplicity of the tenors’ plainsong about to bloom, the swooping harmonies and embellishments, the not quite human top C of the treble’s solo. Martin nudges William and flicks his head in the direction of two empty desks. William doesn’t move, held by silence like a basket holding the wonder of what’s just happened and the expectation of what’s about to come.

Allegri’s ‘Miserere’.

He was five, sitting on his father’s lap, staring at the record player’s leathery red and black casing, the stylus riding the grooves of the shining vinyl that rolled round and round and round.

‘Why are you crying?’ Evelyn laughed, reaching across to ruffle his hair. He slid from his dad’s lap, knelt by the record player, so close he could smell the heat and the plastic, see the slight undulations as the record revolved, the wisp of dust gathering on the needle.

‘Again. Put it on again, Mummy!’

When Evelyn told him that this beautiful, beautiful sound was made by a boy just a few years older than him, his world cracked open. If a boy like him could make a sound like that, what other magic was possible?

‘That’ll be you soon,’ Martin mutters, as he pulls him by the sleeve to sit down.