There were three sorts of people. Those who ran, those who stayed, and those who were built in.

Dean Jocelin has a vision: that God has chosen him to erect a great spire. His master builder fearfully advises against it, for the old cathedral was miraculously built without foundations. But Jocelin is obsessed with fashioning his prayer in stone, and his halo of hair grows wilder and his dark angel darker as the spire rises octagon upon octagon, pinnacle by pinnacle, watched over by the gargoyles - until the stone pillars shriek, the earth beneath creeps, and the spire’s shadow falls like an axe on the medieval world below …