The wind was picking up. It wasn’t a constant blowing, but sudden gusts that shoved one aside or threw the dry soil about. Gaspard shielded his eyes. Already his ears and the bottom of his pockets carried a fine layer of dirt.
Duma crept into the circular nave, brandishing an oil lamp like a flail. The lamps in the chapel were trimmed, and burned with a clean but low light. It must have been the sexton’s final task before his head was caved in.