Iseult’s loft smells of metal and dust that has opinions.

Sheets of color lean in racks: blue that cost a fortune in the story people tell, green, a yellow like weak coins. She is leading a panel, came after came, the H-shaped strips hugging glass.

“Not magic,” she says, because everyone in this yard is tired of being asked. “Sand and ash and metal in the melt. Lead to hold. Paint for faces, fired on. The window is a wall that learned to glow. It only works if the stone wall is not too busy being a fortress.”

She nods at your lime eyebrows. “Pointed ribs, flyers, thinner walls. That is why my loft exists. The old nave keeps its little slits. The choir wants a sermon in light. Don’t let Gareth tell you fashion. It’s load.”

A drip. She frowns toward the south flyers. “That joint is drinking. Cover it or my blue will sit in a wall that weeps.”

A came is an H if you slice it. Glass sits in the grooves; solder locks the joints; a rod bars the panel against wind. Iseult’s hands are nicked in the small way of people who work metal. She does not want your pity. She wants a wall that does not weep into her blues.