From her station on the dry third step of the north vestry stair, Nessa Vale leaned forward until her forehead nearly brushed the wet stone vaulting. She held her silver sound tube clamped tight against her left ear-bracket, its flared bell aimed directly down the center line of the flooded choir. In her right hand, she balanced a nine-inch tuning rod of hardened northern iron, its stem wrapped in oilcloth to deaden surface shaking.
“Tomas,” Nessa’s voice echoed down the water-filled vault, crisp and sharp as the snap of dry kindling. “Strike the altar base with the bronze hammer. One clean blow on the corner stone, then step three paces back so the ripple doesn’t distort the echo.”
Twenty paces away in the dark, hip-deep in freezing water, Tomas Reed nodded. He shifted his grip on the six-pound bronze sledgehammer, bracing his boots against the slippery limestone flat stone slabs. His left wrist ached with a dull, throbbing pressure beneath its calfskin brace. But he kept his forearm locked. He used the shoulder muscle of his broad back to swing the heavy bronze head in a compact, controlled arc.
CLANG.
The bronze hammer struck the green snake-like marble of the altar foundation with a deep, bell-like strike that rang through the water like an underwater gong. A circular blast wave rippled across the black pool, lapping against the eight-sided pillars and splashing faintly against the stair treads where Nessa knelt.
