“Your grandmother is in this blade,” says Rainn’s father. “Its bones are her bones. You will never sharpen it, and while your heart beats it will not break.” He finishes running his little lathe over the tang and nods.
Rainn caps the mold and they take the handles to walk side by side. The kiln’s not lit, but he can already feel the draw from the chimney: tugging his hair, begging at him, promising fire.
“It’s hungry,” says Rainn.
“Good,” says his father. “That’s the first thing it should know.”
They leave the china in the oven and shut the door.