Roswyn Brightwillow's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

The wind came off the lake in a hard push. Roswyn was mixing a fresh batch on the flat stone, tilting the puppy's shed dust into the little cup of binding oil. The dust never reached the oil. It lifted, spun, and blew sideways across the water in a thin silver streak. The puppy shivered and folded its wings tight. The half-mixed batch in the cup went dull and gritty. Roswyn cupped her hands around it and lost more dust between her fingers. She needed a windbreak, and she needed it before the puppy stopped shedding for the night. She looked up the slope. Her kiln stood under its stone hood, cold. The worktable held rows of unfired cups, a bucket of clay, her wheel, her tools. Shapes made to hold things. That was the answer. Not a wall. A vessel. She carried the puppy up to the worktable and set it on a folded cloth. She wedged a lump of clay fast, slapped it onto the wheel, and kicked. Her hands were shaking. She centered the clay anyway. She pulled the walls up tall and narrow, wide enough for the puppy to sit inside, with a lip that curved back over like a hood. A cup for a small animal. A shield against wind. She cut it off the wheel and carried it, still wet, to the kiln. She had no time for a real firing. She stuffed the kiln with dry kindling and lit it, and shoved the wet vessel in on the long paddle. Steam hissed. The clay would probably crack. She did not care if it lasted a week. She needed it to last one night. "That kiln is going to explode." Roswyn turned. A young man stood at the edge of her firelight in a pale coat, a dragonfly hovering at his shoulder. She had not heard him climb the slope. Behind him, further back on the path, a second figure waited with a wolf at his knee, watching but not coming closer. "I know," she said. "May I?" The prince did not wait. He crouched, pulled two flat stones from the kiln's base, and vented the side. The hiss dropped to a mutter. "Wet clay. Fast fire. You wanted a shell, not a pot." "I wanted a wind hood. For the puppy." He glanced at the butterfly-winged pup on the cloth. His face did something quiet. "Then we pull it now. Half-fired holds a night." They pulled it together. The little vessel came out dark and steaming and whole. Roswyn set it on the stone at the water's edge and lifted the puppy inside. The wind hit the curved lip and slid around it. Dust fell straight down into the oil cup. The paint caught, and glowed. The prince watched the light. "Those marks on your notebook," he said. "I can read some of that."