Galahad considers. There are things he thinks a priest would want -- things for a congregation, things that the church would think are needful. But Magnus has made him a chapel that has everything that matters now. It's a place that reminds him of Percival and Magnus, a place that's consecrated even if it's not what's expected. He thinks of the Israelites wandering in the desert, carrying God with them, or Christ saying where two or three are gathered in my name, there I am in the midst of them. A church can be anywhere. It can be anything. It can be an oak tree bent into a holy rood and strung with bells because your best friend loves you and wants to make the thing you've been missing. It can be a tango. It can be a bedroom. It can be a baby griffin in a shed, a taste of sweetness, a message written in flowers, a burned hand, a meal made with a man who is and isn't your father. Everything is holy. Everything can be a church.

"Nothing else," he says. "It's ready."