It was only the afternoon, but already at this deepest time of the year, the sun had begun to set and a rim of moon could be seen in the sky.
Dorcas flew down the hill to the Gathering Place as fast as her feet would carry her, frantic to miss none of the singing, bursting with joy and excitement, her heart full of freedom, anticipating the music.
She wished it were possible to have a small orchestra of musical instruments, but at least (this was Father Whichart being Progressive) they had taken the decision to allow into the Kindred a small harpsichord to provide the continuo for choral works. That had not been long since. Dorcas did occasionally wonder if a principle was at stake here – Father Whichart was shrewd and cautious, and would move slowly, she knew; but perhaps she might hold a faint hope that the harpsichord would be only a beginning . . .
