The stained-glass windows glowed, and something eased open inside Kestrel. As color seeped into the room, she felt an unexpected wish.
She wished her father were here.
You, who seek your own father’s death.
But she didn’t, she found that she couldn’t, no matter how he had hurt her. She wished that he could see her play, and win. That he could see what she saw now.
A window is just a window. Colored glass: mere glass. But in the sun it becomes more. She would show him, and say, love should do this.
And you too, she would tell him, because she could no longer deny that it remained true, in spite of every thing.
I love you, too.