The Lake of Dreams by Kim Edwards

the first time in decades, I suppose. They found this window leaning against the wall behind the altar and started to take the protective boards off the others. They’ve been pretty much forgotten all these decades. Everyone has been amazed by the quality of the glass art. There are nine other windows in addition to this one. Those I’ve seen so far are quite exceptional. Stunning, really. I was hired to do an early assessment of their quality and to recommend a studio for restoration, which they desperately need. Since this one wasn’t in the wall, I brought it here to have a closer look.”
    “Do you know who made it?”
    “A few ideas, but nothing solid. Why?”
    I sat down on the floor in front of the window, studying the colorful scene dimmed with grime.
    “It’s this border,” I said, tracing a section with my finger, the pale, interlocking spheres of glass, thickened in places, the vines and flowers made of leading. “There was a piece of cloth in a trunk in our house. My mother found it, years ago. It’s got this same pattern woven into the fabric. I’ve never seen anything like it, have you?”
    “No, I haven’t. Not in glass, anyway.”
    “I suppose it could be a common pattern for the era. I’d have to do some research. But the coincidence is so striking. It seems there must be a connection.”
    Keegan squatted down beside me, so close I could feel the heat of his arm.
    “The church might know something about the donor. There’s at least one other window with this border motif. Much larger and grander, actually; it also came from the chapel, and they’ve already had that one restored. It’s on display in the church downtown for the time being, so people can see it while the other windows are assessed and cleaned. I think they’re hoping to raise some more money. The restoration is pretty expensive. You really should see it, just because it’s so beautiful. I’m working there tomorrow, if you want to stop in.”
    “Thanks. I’d like to. Keegan, why did you call this the Joseph window?”
    He laughed. “That’s what the rector calls it. Otherwise, I have no idea. I think it’s the story about the coat of colors, when Joseph gets tossed into the well and taken off to Egypt. As I understand it, this particular scene comes at the end, when his brothers finally find him during the famine.”
    “Really? I don’t remember a chalice in that story.” The glass near the base of the window was thick and slightly buckled, as if it had begun to slip and pool. “It looks as if it’s melting,” I added.
    “It is, kind of. Glass isn’t really a solid. It always longs to return to its fluid state. Over time the lead weakens and gravity pulls at it—that’s why restoration is so necessary. Otherwise the glass will eventually flow out of its shape and the window will be lost.”
    A buzzer sounded. Keegan stood up and opened the door to the studio. He had a quiet but hurried conversation with the new babysitter, during which I gathered my purse and the papers I’d been carrying around all day, feeling the tempo change, feeling both excited about the window and suddenly in the way.
    “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” I asked, starting down the stairs, and Keegan paused to smile and wave and tell me to meet him at St. Luke’s at ten.
    The next tour had already started, the furnaces roaring, the guide explaining the process to a new group of mesmerized tourists. The only exit was through the gift shop, and I stopped to look at some of the work—vases and plates, stained-glass sun catchers and delicately blown spheres. As I turned, my purse caught the edge of a display, and when I reached to catch the perfect glass egg I’d jolted loose, I hit another display and started a cascade of plates tipping over one by one until the last one fell against a dark red bowl and sent it crashing to the floor.
    “Hold still,” the sales clerk said, raising her hands, palms open as if to push back a wave.