The service hadn't been concluded five minutes before he was in the vestry, whipping the white robes over his head. Certainly, he'd hear it later about how he wasn't supposed to walk so quickly when bearing the cross – it gave the wrong impression. Eager to be free of his altar boy image, however, that impression was spot-on accurate.

Slipping past his father while his back was turned, Caradoc fled for the kitchens – one of his favourite rooms in the old church. Unlike the rest of the institution, which was brightly lit and crowded, the kitchens were dark and ill-used. It featured two, stained glass windows – each in a little alcove set behind an enormous wood stove that hadn't been replaced since the foundation had first been laid nearly a hundred years previous. Both were coated with all the smoke and grime of the century until only a murky sliver of coloured light splashed onto the worn, stone floor. Depending on the hour of the day, that colour changed – bathing the room in all the hues of the rainbow as the sun moved across the sky.

This morning it was a shadowy, burnt orange. Opening up a cabinet, Caradoc climbed very carefully on to the counter, using each drawer as a step up to the next. Once, when he'd been younger, he had tried to slide from the ledge to the floor – and utterly failed when his belt loop got caught on one of the protruding cabinet knobs. He'd been stuck a full three hours, flailing madly and trying to wiggle free, before his father finally came to his rescue. Keen to avoid a similar situation, he was very wary of where he stepped when getting up and down.

He watched his feet as he navigated a sink, home to more spiderwebs than it ever had been dishes, and approached the rusty, iron stove. Because it was fueled with wood, there was a little lever at the very back that opened a narrow gap into the flue, if wiggled in the proper manner. The gap itself was conveniently wide enough for a child's hand, and – as he found – the perfect storage space for a pad of paper and a few pencils, atop a blackened grate that was fitted inside the pipe. With surprising dexterity for a child his age, he pulled everything out of the flue, brushing bits of charcoal from the binding.

The floor was steadily shifting from orange to fuchsia as he holed himself away in the window's alcove. From his vantage he could easily see the pattern from the glass, stretching out across the floor, even if it was hazy and distorted. Curling up, he picked up a pencil and found a clean page.

Minutes turned to hours as the colours changed, but he never stopped drawing. If it weren't for the rapidly fading lights, he wouldn't have even been aware of the time, other than it was slowly passing. He simply kept etching away in his little book, changing pencils when necessary, sometimes using two at a time. That was precisely how his father found him, shortly before supper.

"Caradoc?"

The boy didn't answer. His eyes glanced from the floor to the page briefly before selecting a new pencil.

"Son, it's time for supper."

His hand glided quickly across the paper, moving a bit more frantically. He knew his father's patience wouldn't last forever, and he was determined to finish the day's project before being forced to sit through a meal.

Wynn frowned, stepping into the room. "Son," he stated firmly, unaware of exactly what his child was doing.

From the window, Caradoc whined. "Da, your foot!"

Glancing down, Wynn lifted his foot, but saw nothing there. Light from the window reflected on his polished shoe, but the floor itself was barren. "What about it?" he asked curiously.

"It's in the way."

"Of?"

"Her face!"

Moving out of the way quickly, Wynn Dearborn searched the floor for the 'her' his son had referenced. Just as before, there was nothing but dirty stones patched shoddily together. He was accustomed to Caradoc's odd behaviour every now and then – but this bordered on bizarre.

"Who is she?"

"Mary."

"Mary who?"

Caradoc stopped drawing and looked up, meeting his father's gaze. His dishevelled, black hair was aglow with golden light from the window behind him, making it difficult for Wynn to see his face. "Jesus's [i]mummy[/i]," he answered condescendingly.

"Mind your tone," Wynn chided, walking up to the window. "Let me see."

Clutching the book to his chest, Caradoc leaned back against the window, away from his father. "She's not done yet!"

"She's a person, Caradoc, not a Christmas ham. Let me see her."

Reluctantly, the little boy handed him the sketchbook, letting his lower lip jut out in full evidence of his frustration at being stopped before the picture was complete. Wynn's jaw dropped in shock.

"Did you draw this?" He asked, his tone flooded with astonishment. Caradoc simply nodded.

"Son!" Carrot's eyes widened. "This is incredible!"

Though the page was smudged with dirt and ash, the image in the center of the paper was unmistakable. Beautifully rendered in vibrant colours and very simple lines, the Virgin Mary demurely looked up at him.

"How did you do this?"

Caradoc held up his pencils. Chuckling, Wynn ruffled his hair – still entranced by his son's apparent gift. The boy smiled, pleased that his father liked it – even if he was convinced that it wasn't quite right yet.

"Come here, you can finish it after supper."

"She'll be gone after supper."

"Gone?"

Caradoc pointed at the floor.

"The light? But…" He looked from the lights on the floor to the stained glass. "Son, that isn't Mary."

"Not that, [i]that[/i]," the boy answered, pointing to the floor again.

"It's the same thing."

The child shook his head sharply.

"That and the window are two different people."

Caradoc nodded again.

"Why?"

The boy reached out and took his sketchbook back, slumping against the window and picking up his pencil again to finish his artwork.

"God is in the light," he answered. "Not the glass."