The heavy iron pedals of the Salem organ required a rhythmic, physical effort that Megan Pryce provided without thought. Rain lashed the slate roof of the chapel, the rhythmic drumming muffled by the thick stone walls, while a single paraffin lamp cast a flickering amber glow over the music-rack. Below her, in the cold nave, a lone coffin sat before an empty front pew. No mourners had climbed the cliff road from Llandeilo Mawr on this wet Tuesday; only the senior deacon, Mr Aled Thomas, had stood briefly in the vestry to check the time before vanishing.
She finished the final cadence of a minor-key voluntary, the air in the bellows sighing as it escaped the pipes. The silence that followed was heavy with the scent of beeswax and old hymn-paper. Megan reached for her mourning band, preparing to leave, when a floorboard creaked near the threshold. A tall man stood in the doorway, his dark wool overcoat damp with sea-fog. He held a soft brown hat in his hand, his eyes fixed on the organ pipes with a gaze that suggested more than mere curiosity.
'The tuning is out on the middle C,' he said softly, his voice carrying a gentle Carmarthen lilt. He stepped toward the console, his leather case of tuning-cones clutched in his right hand. Megan watched him, her fingers still resting on the polished oak bench. He looked from the pipes to the empty coffin, then back to her with a shadow of recognition. Mr Vaughan reaches into his dark wool coat and begins to draw something out.
