Durham Devotion
"Cathedral organist Folake plays sacred music—but the thick Malagasy choirmaster who joins the music program composes something altogether more profane between services."
Ravaka's voice could break hearts.
Her conducting could move mountains.
Her effect on Folake was less holy.
"The acoustics here are extraordinary," Ravaka observed. "Every sound carries."
"We should be careful then."
"Should we?" That smile promised trouble. "Or should we test them?"
After evensong, the cathedral emptied.
Just them and the massive organ and centuries of sacred space.
"Play something," Ravaka requested. "Something passionate."
Folake played. Ravaka watched. The tension built like a fugue.
"Enough playing," Ravaka finally said. "Now let me play you."
Behind the organ, hidden from anyone who might enter, they found their own music.
Ravaka conducted Folake's body like a master—knowing when to build, when to rest, when to crescendo.
"Quiet," she warned. "The acoustics, remember."
"I can't—"
"Try."
The organ loft became their sanctuary.
Every rehearsal ended with a private performance.
"This is blasphemous," Folake said once.
"This is love," Ravaka corrected. "God created love."
"Did He create this?"
"The best parts."
Durham's sacred music flourished.
The organist and choirmaster, a legendary partnership.
What the congregation didn't know wouldn't damn them.
"Best collaborator I've ever had," Folake told the Dean.
"Best instrument I've ever played," Ravaka whispered later.
Some harmonies, they learned, were too beautiful for public performance.