She made several delicate wraps next to my toes. "Evan, you are looking at one of the only authentic stained glass artisans left in the world."

"What do you mean authentic?"

"That's a good question." She continued wrapping. "Stained glass you see today, when it is glass at all, is mass produced in large plates and is colored with standardized industrial dyes. It tends to be rather flat and lifeless when compared to glass made and colored with older, more traditional techniques.

"Glass used to be made by hand, blown to be exact, and no matter how experienced the craftsman, there are imperfections in unpolished, blown plate glass. It is these now extinct imperfections along with base element dyes that produce the quality of glass you witnessed this morning."

"It was incredible I admit, but is there really that much money in it?"

"The market definitely is small, but the number of suppliers is even smaller. When a thirteenth-century cathedral needs replacement panels who else is going to do it?" She shrugged her shoulders quickly. "There is no one else."

"How did you learn this extinct trade?"

"From my benefactor, along with the building. There it's done," she said securing the end of the bandage. "How does it feel?"

"Tight, but I'll be okay."

"Take a few more pain killers. The tighter it is the easier it should be to walk on. Speaking of walking," she continued. "I hope you feel good enough to go outside today. I took the liberty of having Antonio prepare a picnic basket for us. It's beautiful outside."

"That sounds wonderful." I gushed. "I've appreciated your hospitality don't get me wrong, but I think I'm developing a case of cabin fever. Some fresh air and sunshine might do me some good."

"It's settled then. I'll let you finish cleaning up. Antonio's toiletries are, of course, at your disposal."

I nodded at her.

She hesitated in the open doorway. "Evan, I don't mean to imply anything, but would you like some help with your hair?"

"Is it that bad?" I asked, running my hand over the back of my head. The burned patch felt coarse and matted like the coat of some neglected, wire-haired Airedale.

"Well it's already wet, let's see what we can do with it." She picked up a pair of scissors and a comb from the sink and walked back over to me.

"Hold these for a second," she said, inspecting the burned hair on the back of my head. She eased her slim fingers under the matted hair as far as they would go. I closed my eyes and concentrated on her touch.

"I think it's going to be pretty short, probably half an inch long in the back."

"That's fine, my hair is normally close to that length. The only reason it isn't that short now is that my barber for the last few years died three months ago and I haven't found a new one."