Eyes watering again, she blinked away the tears and nodded. “All right.” She turned away from him to face the countertop and picked up the lump of clay. “This is the Urib equivalent of porcelain clay on Earth. It’s the finest clay and a bit tricky to work with. It has a smooth, fine texture and is known for its translucence after being fired.”
She took his hand and set the lump into his palm. His fingers automatically closed around the moist, cool, malleable substance.
“Work it in your hands a bit and learn its feel.”
Ursula gestured toward the shelves behind them as he worked the lump of clay. “There are blocks of stoneware clay over there, too. Stoneware clay works well for mugs, pitchers, and plates for everyday use. Porcelain clay works best for fine ceramics and delicate work. Most of the wares in my shop are made with stoneware clay.”
“Why were you throwing it on the countertop?” Zul asked. He squeezed the lump of clay in his hand, folded it over, and squeezed it again.
“Do you know how magnetism works?” she asked. “Like how the ions in iron need to all be aligned in the same direction for the magnet to work?”
He nodded.
“Clay is like that. Slamming the clay aligns the particles, so they run in the same direction. It makes the clay stronger and more stable and easier to work with.”
Zul began to suspect that pottery was a good bit more complicated than he anticipated. Just like her.
“We’ll start with slab pottery first, a tall vase,” she said and walked to the table with the press on it. Turning a wheel, she adjusted the space between the smooth steel roller and the flat surface of the table beneath it. “The goal here is to flatten and stretch the clay into a uniform shape and thickness.”
With her direction, he patted the lump into a more or less oblong shape and fed it through the press. She handed the somewhat flattened piece to him and adjusted the roller. He fed the clay through again. After several runs through the press, the clay had flattened to the desired thinness and its surface was smooth and unbroken.
“Would you like to emboss the surface?” she asked.
He blinked. She opened a drawer and pulled out a length of heavy lace, a silicone sheet with a pattern stamped on it, and other items, including a rolling pin.
“Pick a pattern or two that appeal to you.”
He touched a fingertip to the lace and to a length of chain with interesting links.
“Place the lace on the clay.”
He did so and she adjusted it.
“What do you intend for the chain?”
“A border?”
She gave him a quick smile and laid the chain above one edge of the lace. “The patterns look nice together.”
Her praise warmed his heart, but not as much as the way she’d begun to relax in his presence. He felt pride in having found an effective way to connect with her and set her mind at ease.
She led him through the process of pressing the patterns into the sheet of clay, just hard enough to emboss the surface. Unfortunately, he had to repeat the entire process of preparingthe clay four times before he managed the lightness and delicacy of touch needed. She showed him how to cut the clay into a clean strip and wrap it around a form to create an evenly proportioned cylinder. She taught him how to score the clay and paint on a light wash of slurry to meld the edges and secure a watertight seal. She showed him how to cut the base and gently marry it to the cylinder. When they finished that night, a new vase had been placed on the shelf to dry beneath a clear dome which would prevent the clay from drying too quickly and, thus, cracking.
“The clay should be dry in a couple of days,” she said as they washed their hands and tools. She draped the wet lace and the chain over a rod to dry. The scoring tool and small paintbrush were thoroughly rinsed and set in a jar to dry. She wiped down the countertop and table, anywhere and anything the clay had touched, to ensure its cleanliness when it would be used next. “Then we’ll pick out glazes. I’ll show you how to mix them.”
“Thank you,” Zul said.
She blinked at the simple gratitude in his voice. “You’re welcome. I… I enjoyed it. I enjoyed teaching you.”
At that moment, Zul realized that neither Bran nor Gil had given her the opportunity to teach them. They instructed her; she was always the student and never the master. Softly, he took her hand and said, “It was my pleasure to learn.”
“Doesn’t Urib culture forbid males from doing… er… creative things?”
The corners of his mouth lifted in a small smile. “Not forbid. Discourage, perhaps. Warriors are bred to fight, and we excel at it.” He gestured toward the shelves. “But it’s nice to know that fighting is not all we’re good for.”
She favored him with a melancholy smile and took her hand in his. Giving it a light squeeze, she thanked him then walked away.
He did not ask her what she thanked him for. He knew.
