* * *
The cathedral’s interior was massive—it seemed, impossibly, even larger than the outside—and though damaged, a few hardy believers knelt here and there in silent prayer. The altar was buried under a midden of debris. Where a bomb had pierced the roof, sunlight fell down in broad beams. A lone soldier sat on a fallen pillar, gazing at the sky through the broken ceiling.
We wandered, necks craned, bits of concrete and broken tile crunching beneath our feet.
“I don’t see anything,” Horace complained. “There are enough hiding places here for ten thousand pigeons!”
“Don’t look,” Hugh said. “
We stopped, straining to hear the telltale coo of pigeons. But there was only the ceaseless whine of air-raid sirens, and below that a series of dull cracks like rolling thunder. I told myself to stay calm, but my heart thrummed like a drum machine.
Bombs were falling.
“We need to go,” I said, panic choking me. “There has to be a shelter nearby. Somewhere safe we can hide.”
“But we’re so close!” said Bronwyn. “We can’t quit now!”
There was another crack, closer this time, and the others started to get nervous, too.
“Maybe Jacob’s right,” said Horace. “Let’s find somewhere safe to hide until the bombing’s through. We can search more when it’s over.”
“Nowhere is truly safe,” said Enoch. “Those bombs can penetrate even a deep shelter.”
“They can’t penetrate a loop,” Emma said. “And if there’s a tale about this cathedral, there’s probably a loop entrance here, too.”
“Perhaps,” said Millard, “perhaps, perhaps. Hand me the book and I shall investigate.”
Bronwyn opened her trunk and handed Millard the book.
“Let me see now,” he said, turning its pages until he reached “The Pigeons of St. Paul’s.”
“Listen closely!” Millard said. “If there’s a loop entrance nearby, this tale may tell us how to find it. It’s a short
