The glazing shed was the quietest room in Maud Venn’s workshop.
Sunlight streamed through the high, unglazed windows, lighting up rows of wide wooden shelves laden with hundreds of unfired clay pot vessels waiting for their second dip of stone slip. The air smelled of slaked wood ash, crushed copper carbonate, and wet bone meal.
Maud stood at her long glazing bench, her sleeves rolled to her shoulders, dipping a smooth two-quart milk pitcher into a deep stone trough filled with pale blue cobalt glaze. With a practiced flick of her wrists, she coated the outside in an even, glowing layer, shook off the excess drops. Then she set the pitcher onto a clean drying board.
The rhythmic thump, click, step of Davren’s approach announced him before he reached the threshold.
Davren walked into the shed, propping his ash stick against the doorpost. He carried the rolled linen route chart under his arm. He stepped carefully across the damp stone floor to avoid the powdery glaze dust.
Kezra followed three paces behind him, leaning quietly against the doorframe, keeping her mouth shut and letting her brother take the lead.
Maud didn’t look up right away. She wiped her dripping hands on a coarse hemp towel, inspected the rim of the dipped pitcher with a critical eye. Then turned her attention to her son.
