The Lake of Dreams - Kim Edwards [37]
I reached through bands of color-filled air to touch the border of overlapping moons, the intricate vines and flowers of lead. “Here it is again, that pattern.”
“Yes. It must have been a commissioned work. It’s nice stained glass,” he added. “Not Tiffany or La Farge, though there are traces of those influences, but still—very, very good. Whoever made this window was an excellent craftsman, a fine artist. And whoever ordered it had a lot of money.”
I stepped back as far as I could and took some photos with my cell phone. They’d be grainy, and I wished I’d thought to bring my camera.
“Is it very old? It looks old.”
“Well, it’s an Art Nouveau design, but because of the glass I’d place it later than that, maybe 1930 or 1940. The techniques used to make stained glass are ancient, but in the nineteenth century people started simply painting the glass, dropping the leading entirely for a few decades. Then, around the turn of the century, there was a revival of the old ways, which still continues.”
“And the one in your studio? The Joseph window?”
“That’s the same period. The same artist, too, I can almost guarantee. It was probably part of the same commission, along with the windows that are still in the chapel. I don’t know why it wasn’t installed.”
Light fell across me in vibrant patches of blue and green and yellow, and I thought of the fabric with its matching border. The writer of the notes may have woven that cloth, and perhaps she had made these windows, too, or at least been involved in their design. But who was she, the elusive R? Who was she?
“The pattern is so distinctive,” I said. “I’m sure there’s a connection.”
“You know, Lucy, donors used to have artists put figures of loved ones—or even of themselves—into biblical scenes. I’m wondering about the women in the other window. Were they at all familiar?”
“I don’t know. That’s an interesting thought, but I wasn’t really paying attention to the faces. I’d have to look again. But it would take more than a face, anyway. I need a name, a story. I wonder—Keegan, can I go to the chapel to see the other windows?”
“That, I don’t know. It’s still pretty restricted. But I’ll find out.”
Footsteps had been echoing distantly in the sanctuary, then in the hallway; now they drew close and we turned as a woman entered the room. She was tall, though not quite as tall as me, wearing a clerical collar, and maybe a decade older than me. Her blond hair swung near her shoulders.
“Oh,” she said. “Keegan. I didn’t realize anyone was here.”
“Hey, Rev,” he said, smiling. I could tell he liked her. “This is my old friend Lucy Jarrett. We were wild and crazy about each other, once upon a time.”
She smiled and shook my hand. “Suzi Wells.”
“That would be the Reverend Dr. Suzi,” Keegan said.
“Suzi will do,” she said.
“We were just looking at the window,” I explained.
“Ah—I’ve been away all week. I haven’t seen it yet. May I?”
I stepped back as she entered the alcove and paused, stunned, just as I had been, by the breathtaking beauty of the patterns in glass and light.
“Oh, my. It is beautiful. Gorgeous. Keegan, is this really the same window?”
“Cleaned up nicely, didn’t it?”
“I can’t believe it. It was so dark before.”
She stepped closer and touched the human figures, their upraised fingers turning into leaves, into language.
“What does it say?”
“It’s Hebrew. Tehillah, or praise. Adamah.”
“As in Adam and Eve,” Keegan suggested.
Suzi nodded. “Yes, though, actually, adamah simply means arable land. In English it translates roughly as hummus, human. I think that must be why these figures are growing right out of the earth.” Suzi leaned closer. “So it means something like ‘The People Praise God.’ When did you say this