When I wake, blinking against the glare of lamplight, I’m back at Lady Evershed’s studio. I have no memory of the return trip, but the searing sensation of the vicious mana backlash is etched into my mind’s eye. I sit up abruptly, squinting against the light, and pat myself all over my body to make sure I’m still in one piece. “How am I not dead?” I croak.
“Welcome back,” Lady Evershed says mildly. She gestures at me with her cane, a faint smile on her lips. “I see you have a flair for the dramatic.”
When my inspection concludes and I realize that I’m not any worse for the wear other than an odd sensation of lightheadedness—the ferocious pain tearing through my chest is gone—I push up from the couch and help myself to a nearby glass of water. “What happened? I feel fine despite everything.”
“You are, strangely enough,” Lady Evershed confirms in a subdued voice. “I made sure to have a [Healer] check you over. She says you’re fine; you simply fainted from the stress.”
“Stress?” I say, my voice cracking in indignation. “That wasn’t all just in my head!”
“Of course not,” Lady Evershed says, placing a placating hand on my arm. “But the body and mind respond in a hundred ways to difficult circumstances. You went into shock and passed out, but you aren’t any worse for the wear, miraculously.”
“That’s not at all what I expected,” I reply slowly, struggling with bewilderment. I swallow hard, remembering the claw of fear tightening around my heart when the mana billowed out of control. “How am I alive after the Skill blew up—after everything went sideways?”
“You were fortunate that I cut Elias’s connection before he set the house on fire,” Lady Evershed says. She inhales through her nose slowly, her lips pressed together in a tight line. “I must apologize, Zebulun. I never imagined anything like this could happen. His unique Skill allows him to display the mastery of the person he mimics. I know you have rather considerable talent with [Heat Manipulation], but it still got out of control anyway. I never should have put us all in such a dangerous position.”
I shake my head. “I knew the risks. You were both very clear. It’s not your fault.”
“I agree that you can and should bear the responsibility for personal decisions. Personal is the key word. I certainly didn’t expect to create a fire hazard that could threaten to consume Grand Ile if left unchecked! That’s quite a different story altogether,” Lady Evershed snaps at me. She sighs and presses her fingertips against her closed eyes a moment later; the anger seems reserved for herself, not for me.
I clear my throat. “Are you all right, Lady Evershed? You don’t look, ah, quite yourself,” I finish lamely, not knowing how to put it delicately. The lines on her face are darker and more pronounced than I remember, though drawing attention to that detail seems rude.
A spark of amusement enlivens her tired eyes. “Ha! Didn’t your mother ever teach you that it’s impolite to tell a Lady she doesn’t look her best? You’re right, though. I’ve looked better. I haven’t gotten much sleep since our exciting excursion,” Lady Evershed says, confirming my suspicion that she’s run herself ragged.
“My mother is dead,” I reply reflexively, then wince at my lack of decorum.
“That explains much,” Lady Evershed wisecracks. As she laughs, her face smooths into a more youthful visage, although there’s still a serious set to her jaw. “If I hadn’t gone with you, what would have happened when the heat spiked like that and the house ignited? Elias is good at what he does, but even he couldn’t disentangle himself once your Skill manifested. That heat was oppressive—far more powerful than I anticipated from the base Skill.”
“It felt like I was on the cusp of ranking up [Heat Manipulation] prior to losing my Skill. I’ll bet that channeling the Rift’s power forcibly upgraded the Skill,” I say, frowning as I consider the implications. “If I recover access, perhaps I’ll be stronger than I was before.”
“Perhaps so. An intriguing possibility once you’re healed, Zebulun. Nonetheless, I should have listened to your warnings about the poor state of your inner space. It's a wonder that you weren’t flayed alive by that backlash.” Lady Evershed grimaces again. “By the way, I’m hesitant to ask, but are you able to harvest mana at all?”
“Only one way to find out,” I say with a forced grin that’s jauntier than I actually feel.
“No! Let’s not take any more unnecessary risks. I’ll see if I can arrange for a [Healer] to examine you more thoroughly—one who is familiar with healing the soul as much as the body.”
“Fair enough,” I reply. “But if I don't have access to my Skills during the next round of the competition, then how am I going to progress to the finals? I’m slow enough already without my left hand. Without Elias as a proxy for my Skills, I don’t stand a chance.”
A mischievous smirk lights up Lady Evershed’s face. “I’ve heard that certain species of lizards can regrow limbs they’ve lost. You’re not part lizard, are you, Zebulun?”
“That would surprise me as well as you,” I say, chuckling at the mental image of scales sprouting on my arms and a new hand emerging from my left wrist. “Then again, if the last few months of my life have taught me anything, it’s to expect an endless series of surprises, each more incredulous than the last. So I certainly won't rule anything out.”
“In that case, I suppose you'll just have to make a replacement hand,” Lady Evershed says thoughtfully. “Perhaps you can make that your next project for the competition.”
I shrug, caught between excitement and skepticism. “You mean, make a prosthetic hand out of glass? I’m afraid that won’t help me much with glassmaking, since I still won’t be able to manipulate anything with it. I suspect it will only get in the way. And what if I break it while trying to rely on it? Sounds like a nightmare waiting to happen.”
“I believe I may be of help there,” Lady Evershed says with a small smile. “For the sake of the competition, you’ll need to make the hand yourself. Afterwards, however, I’ll ensure that it's sufficiently enchanted to be moderately useful to you. It won't completely take the place of your missing hand, but I believe it will be an improvement in your current condition.”
I frown slightly, my feelings more conflicted than ever. “If you thought that was an option, then why not offer before? I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but it does rankle a bit.”
“Call it the failed machinations of an old woman.” Lady Evershed crosses her ankles and leans back in her chair. She regards me shrewdly for a long, quiet moment. “My Skill informed me that it would be in my best interest for you to win the competition with only a single hand. I’m still certain that’s true. My reputation would respond best to you winning the competition under adverse circumstances.”
My jaw works, but I manage to swallow my words before I spit out something I’ll regret. Lady Evershed has refined my approach to glass, and gone out of her way to help a stranger on her doorstep. Why should it bother me so much that she benefits from the arrangement, too? I shake off the feeling and take a more tactful approach. “So, what’s changed?”
“Now that you and Elias have suffered under my care—beyond the potential dangers of mana backlash, and due entirely to my negligence—I’m at risk of losing significant prestige. Call it self-serving if you want to, but perception and honor is everything to me. I’d like to make it up to you by sharing one of my Skills.”
Again, I bite back a bitter response. After a moment of internal struggle, I force my lips into a slight smile and nod at her tightly. “I don't love the answer, but I suppose we all have to do what we must to advance our Classes. Indulge me a bit of curiosity, if you will, although I know it's impudent of me to pry.”
Lady Evershed nods. “I suppose you’re entitled to some answers.”
“You’re not into the second threshold are you?” I ask. Her eyebrows raise slightly, and I feel a flash of vindication that I’m on the right path. “Something has you bottlenecked, and that's why you picked up glassworking and pushed it through advancement as an alternate path.”
“Interesting premise. What’s your point?” Lady Evershed says, arching an eyebrow.
“My guess is that you still haven’t had a breakthrough in either Class despite your, ah, venerable age. If I’m right, time is running out for you; that makes you desperate. Does that mean I’m your ticket to the Second Threshold and a few more years of extended vitality?”
Lady Evershed’s face crinkles into a smile. “My, but you're an imaginative one! Cleverer than I give you credit for. With a fine mind like that, you better start winning some of our CnC games soon.”
“I'll take that as a confirmation.”
“Do as you will,” Lady Evershed says nonchalantly, waving over some tea from her ever ready stock in the cupboard.
“I'm not surprised to see that you won't outright confirm my suspicion,” I say, earning a quick smile. “But does everything come back to CnC for you?”
“Naturally!” Lady Evershed says. “Why wouldn't it? It's the grandest game in existence after all. At my age, you need a hobby to keep your mind sharp. Remember that for later.”
“I’ll write it down in my journal,” I promise, prompting Lady Evershed to snort in a most un-ladylike fashion. “But why the change of heart? Are you really worried about losing too much reputation? Is it fear that drives you? Or have you seized upon an opportunity to help us both? A wise man once told me there's nothing wrong with mutual benefit to an arrangement; in fact, it’s usually preferable, because then both parties have a vested interest in seeing things through.”
“Well said,” Lady Evershed says, nodding in approval. “He does sound like a wise man. I suppose the answer is a little bit of both, Zebulun, although I can't be certain yet that our gambit will pay off. We're each taking a gamble, you and I, but some things in life are worth the risk.”
“If I do make a glass hand, then how will it help me work in the hot shop? What kind of enchantments do you have in mind, exactly?” I ask. “A simple grip is probably feasible, but I imagine if you’re trying to create a working replacement, the price is too exorbitant to consider.”
“One thing at a time,” she says with a sly grin. “First, you need to pass the next round of the competition. That means you can’t forge yourself a boring hand. You need to dazzle those stodgy old judges! If you win best in the show for this upcoming exhibition round, then I'll even let you sit in on the enchantment session. I think you'll find it most fascinating and instructive.”
“I should have known your offer is contingent,” I say, shaking my head. “Still, I accept the terms since they align with my goals. I'm not exactly in a strong bargaining position, anyway.”
“Excellent. It's to our mutual benefit, as you say. Wise words from your friend.”
I sip from an offered teacup. “My gratitude for all your help. I won’t forget what you’ve done for me.”
“I look forward to collecting on the implied favor,” Lady Evershed says.
“Somehow, I doubt this is the specific scenario that my friend had in mind, but I do look forward to telling him all about our arrangement someday,” I say. Lady Evershed chuckles, and we clasp hands, sealing the pact.
=+=
Prior to the next round of the competition, I sketch out multiple glass hand designs of various shapes, all in pursuit of wowing the judges. Nothing seems right for me, however, so I throw the pile in the trash, determined to come up with something better.
Lady Evershed doesn't end up discarding them as I expect, however. To my chagrin, she fishes them out of the rubbish and makes me practice making each design so I get a feel for the positive and negative elements. While any of the glass hands seem serviceable enough for holding a graphite paddle, or heat-resistant enough to allow me to directly scoop up molten glass, I’m disheartened by the lack of beauty in the clunky, unwieldy results.
Whatever I make, I have to live with it everyday. I’m not sure I’m ready for that kind of commitment unless I find the right design.
My first attempt at creating a glass hand comes out blocky; the fingers are overly stumpy and way too big compared with my real hand, and it’s lacking refinement that will impress the judges. My second try addresses a few of my initial concerns by slimming down the dimensions and adding a slight, stylish curl to the fingers to help to hold the other end of the metal blow pipe while blowing glass, but I don't particularly fancy walking around with a semi clenched fist at all times.
For once, Lady Evershed is in agreement when I share my reservations. She pokes at the glass hands, making faces as though I’ve brewed her tea with lemon juice. “Remember that enchantment can add utility; your job is to create something memorable, something that will blow away the judges and gallery-goers in the exhibition stages of the competition. Beyond that, however, I don’t feel comfortable saying much more. It’s not my hand, after all.”
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Unlike last time, when Lady Evershed offered her unsolicited opinion about my unwieldy designs, she’s hesitant to advise me. When I ask for input, all she says is that I have to make a choice I’m willing to live with—and that she's not able to make that choice for me. I understand what she means, but that doesn't make me any happier about my current design plans. None of the options feel like the perfect fit for me.
My indecision is eating at me, but as the day of the next round arrives, I find myself out of time and out of ideas. That morning, during breakfast, I announce that I’ve settled on my third design for a hand. It's the slimmest and least obvious of the options, featuring neither a fully clenched fist, nor fingers awkwardly extended like a piece of sculpture. I’ll need to make all the details as fine and delicate as I can, so that the hand isn’t obnoxiously large, but there'll be no hiding the fact that it isn’t flesh.
Lady Evershed pauses after meticulously chewing a bite of porridge, considers me with an evaluating look, and nods as though I’ve passed a test. She resumes her breakfast as soon as my shoulders slump in relief.
“I went back and forth over the coloration,” I say, too anxious to stop talking. I’m chewing in between sentences, which draws a look of sharp disapproval, but the nervous energy has to go somewhere. “I’ve decided that a glass hand that’s too obviously transparent or crystalline will look odd. Besides, now is my chance to adorn myself with a color of my liking. Part of me wants to be funny and use the same ivory and gold scheme from the coin press, but I can only imagine the eye rolling I’ll get.”
“I’d be the first one in line to mock you for that choice,” Lady Evershed promises merrily. The teasing helps me to feel more grounded.
“As a nod to the Rift,” I continue, “I’ve chosen a glass composite with a pearlescent sheen that reflects the light. I’ll etch the surface in interlocking honeycomb patterns rather than trying to copy skin too closely.”
“That will match nicely with the suits I bought you,” Lady Evershed says, nodding.
“Er, yes, of course, that’s precisely what I had in mind,” I say, blinking. “Plus, it’s a nice contrast to the mahogany tones my extended time out in the sun has brought out in my skin.”
“Practical and stylish, all at once. My, how you’ve grown!” Lady Evershed quips.
“Precisely. Maybe I’ll even make extra in the future, each color coded to my mood at the moment,” I joke to Lady Evershed. “If I’m feeling pensive or frustrated, I’ll go with cobalt blue. If I think that I’ll have to fight another battle, then I'll go with a sleek, storm-cloud black with flecks of red-orange fire.”
“If you have to fight another battle?” Lady Evershed replies, a sudden note of interest in her voice. “I didn’t take you for the martial type.”
I shrug. “We all have our secrets.”
“Quite so. I’m still waiting for yours to cause a problem,” Lady Evershed says, but I don’t take the bait.
Before we leave the workshop, I slip my hand into a vat of molten glass and let it harden around my hand to create a custom-made mold. My skin is coated in a double-barrier to keep the heat from burning my remaining hand, the inside chilled to extreme degrees thanks to Lady Evershed. Her control over [Greater Heat Manipulation] is more sublime than mine, but she was still intrigued by the technique I described to create an invisible glove as a shield against heat. She copies it successfully after her third try, and pronounces it ready for me to use on the glass, which impresses me to no end.
Once we have the mold, she fills it with hot glass to create a replica of my hand. I break the mold, freeing the cast sculpture, and she accelerates the annealing with her own Skills so it’s ready by the time we go. Her indignation at my insistence on using glass for the mold makes me smile.
“Most people use sand for molds so that they don’t risk melting off their skin or charring their bones,” Lady Evershed says, staring at me with her typical sense of amusement and faint disapproval. “But since you insist on trying things the hard way, it’s my job as your new master to make your methods work. There. Give that a try.”
Our rambling conversation continues during the familiar carriage ride over to the boat dock, where we'll board a gondola for the final leg of the journey to the warehouse. I cradle the glass hand during the entire trip, and I finally begin to relax by the time we arrive.
“This is it,” I murmur to myself as we queue up to register for the next round. No more stalling. Time to put on a show. I hope they love what I create.
“Next!” a cheerful voice calls out, breaking into my daydreaming. I shuffle forward to the registration station, focusing on the task at hand.
“Good day, Varnell,” Lady Evershed says warmly, greeting the new attendant seated at the intake table. Gone is the irritable, wiry man from last time, replaced by a woman whose face crinkles in a grandmotherly way when she smiles at us.
“Fiera! It’s been too long. I heard you took an apprentice? My, he looks like the roguish type! You sly old woman,” Varnell says, rising to hug Lady Evershed.
“He’s a schemer, no doubt,” Lady Evershed replies. “How marvelous to see you here! I thought you were tied up with Linneus? No matter! Here’s the prop I told you about before.”
I groan internally, certain that Varnell’s charm and geniality will freeze over as soon as we bring her attention to the unusual requests that Lady Evershed keeps making of the judges for dispensations and favors, but the smile never wavers. Could she actually be friends with my sarcastic, solitary teacher? They seem like complete opposites, but I’ve been wrong before.
Varnell examines the glass model hand briefly, turning it over and nodding to herself a few times. She calls over another judge to certify her conclusions. After a remarkably brief and civil discussion, they both approve the use of my cast glass hand, with the understanding that it is a reference piece only. Since it’s a glass object that I created outside of the competition, they inform me that I can’t incorporate the casting into my final result even if I follow the ten percent rule. They will, however, allow me to review the glass casting while I’m creating my new hand during the crafting hours.
I bow and thank them both repeatedly. Lady Evershed whisks me away to my workbench before I can create a scene. She wishes me good luck and slips away to give me space as the next stage of the competition commences.
My nervousness fades once my right hand clasps the familiar tools in the hot shop. My fears aren’t gone, but they’ve drifted into the background as my entire being focuses on creating a masterpiece. I have no more cares or concerns vying for my attention; the act of creation is all consuming. The glass and the flames are my only companions.
I start with a simple base before moving onto the fingers of the sculpture. First, I create a flat oval of glass for what will become my left palm, pressing the glass into roughly the right size and shape. I’ll make small tubes for the digits of the hand, blowing through the pipe to expand a globe of glass while I elongate it with a steady pull. But that will come later, after I’ve created the foundation of the sculpture. For now, I have simpler work to do.
Like me, the other competing [Glassworkers] spring into frenzied action as soon as the bell chimes to announce the start of the next round. They show no hesitation or anxiety over the work. Perhaps the gnawing sense of dissatisfaction and second-guessing that had me teetering on the brink of inaction all week didn’t plague them. My musings break my focus, and I take a moment to check my competition while the sour feelings churn in my gut.
To my right, Zephyr is a blur of motion by her workstation, her various Skills humming to life to constantly spin the glass she retrieved from the furnace. She controls the process with nothing more than willpower and mana, reserving the use of both her hands to shape and pull the white glass into a shape that looks like a horse’s torso. With a graphite paddle in one hand and a pair of metal tongs in the other, she alternates between pressing and pulling, bending the glass into elegant shapes and elongating other portions to suit her whims.
I find myself slowing down to watch her work. Over the next few minutes, she fashions four legs ending in hooves, then fetches red-orange glass and creates a flowing mane for the fanciful-looking creature. I’m nodding as it all comes together, and with a jolt I realize I’ve come to a complete stop.
“Furnace too hot for you today?” Zephyr asks me, nodding at my unmoving hand with an all too knowing smirk. “Sometimes it burns all the ideas right out of my head, too. Don’t fret! I'm sure you'll think of something by lunch time.”
A few scattered snickers sound out from the nearest workstations, but most of the [Glass Smiths] and [Glassworkers] are too wrapped up in their own projects to pay much attention to the banter. I chuckle good-naturedly and nod in Zephyr’s direction. “I'm just scouting out the competition, so I know how much effort to put into beating you all again.”
She grins at me. “That's a good one! I like your moxie.”
Time is at a premium, though, and she shifts her attention back to the glass, apparently content with her teasing so far. Soon, the swirls and shapes resolve into a fantastical beast: a prancing unicorn. She expertly heats up an extra two pieces of glass and attaches them to the side, then feathers the new layers with her metal tool to provide texture. Ah! It’s a flying unicorn. No, a pegasus, I correct myself.
She silently places the animal in the kiln, then begins to work on spinning a new globe of glass. In an instant, I can imagine the entire menagerie of monsters and mythical creatures, and I find myself nodding in grudging approval at her mastery of the medium. Her movements are as economical as can be, and her creations pop with color and style. How I’ll convince the judges to pick my piece over hers is a mystery.
I stand still, as though poleaxed by the revelation, while my competitors bustle about like worker bees—the industrious citizens of our glass hive. I stare at the crude shape I’ve spun up, my gaze flicking over to glare at the cast hand sitting on my workbench. It’s an accurate imprint of my hand, faithfully true to life. Yet, paradoxically, it still doesn’t feel like the right fit for me.
I lower my head to my right palm, caught up in a whirlwind of doubt. As the time drags on, and my molten glob of glass stretches and cools beyond salvaging, my conviction firms up. I won last time by changing my plans. It won’t work every time—at some point I’ll have to stick to the script—but it could work again this time. With a growl, I toss the glass into a bin and vow to start over.
I run my fingers over the glass chips in their orderly compartments. My mind is racing as I envision new possibilities, no longer caring that I’d settled on an option, received permission to use the hand for reference, and spent all my energy working toward this goal. It would be easier to make the simple shape of a hand, as planned, but a growing part of me thinks that's just a way to hide what I've lost.
“There's nothing artful about it,” I growl to myself, startling Zephyr. She glances down at my rubbish bin with a pitying look, then scurries back to her furnace to keep working. I lift up my hand, observing as I flex and wiggle the fingers. I don’t want to poorly copy reality, substituting glass for flesh. Where’s the beauty in that? I’m missing the confidence Zephyr is displaying right now. I need that same sense of self-expression, that same rock-solid conviction that my artistic vision can be more.
I withdraw a few small, plain squares of unshaped glass and tap them thoughtfully on the surface of the workstation. The memory of the Rift’s core unfurls like a banner in my mind, with all its complexity and alien beauty. I witnessed something grander than everyday life. Not that there is nothing wrong with the mundane, I think to myself, chewing on my inner lip. But there's so much untapped power that I’m ignoring. I can and should strive for something greater. I can dream bigger than an inert, motionless replica of flesh and blood.
I sneak a quick peek to my right, wondering what my competitors are planning for this round. The big man laboring at the workbench on the other side of me, opposite from Zephyr, has just finished rolling out a wide sheet of black glass, curved into a dome almost as tall as he is. The glass composite he’s using is usually opaque, but he’s stretched it so thin that the light shines through it faintly.
His weathered appearance gives me the impression that he’s several years older than I am, with square shoulders and bulging arms that look like they were chiseled from boulders. While his developed physique makes me want to stereotype him as a [Blacksmith] who ended up in the wrong competition, I know by watching him work that he’s a true [Glass Smith] at heart.
He displays admirable dexterity, fashioning glass with finesse and speed. Over the last hour, he’s created a dozen spheres of various sizes and colors, trailing patterns across them in contrasting shades of color, and they’re strewn across his workbench now. At first I’m unsure what he’s doing, but the longer I watch him craft the pieces, the more his goal emerges. He’s working on what appears to be some sort of glass orrery, although I can't claim that I paid enough attention during astronomy classes to recognize all of the specific elements of the sun and planets.
The globes are still fairly plain other than the splashes of color, clearly just placeholders for the fine detail work he’ll add later. What’s fascinating to me, however, is the tiny shards of glass he's breaking off from a glass rod. He’s cracking the rod with a small, gleaming hammer, creating sharp shards of glass for decoration. Most [Glassworkers] would throw out the broken bits, but he doesn’t look like he’s wasting them. Instead, he's affixing the shattered, shimmering pieces in thin air, relying on what I can only guess is mana manipulation to hold them in place relative to the other pieces.
Above it all, the gauzy black dome finally makes sense. I gasp softly as I realize what he’s doing: crafting a vast myriad of stars to spin around the planets as they dance through the crystalline night sky. If he fuses the planets to stands and makes the entire apparatus rotate and move, then he’ll have a serious shot at winning.
Unlike me, if I stick with this boring design, I chide myself. Decided now, I look around for a way to start over. Each table top boasts a small tray of chalk for design work; my workstation proves to be no exception. I locate the little stubs in the tray at my desk with a smile, pick up a pale blue piece of chalk, hunch over the cement floor of the warehouse, and begin sketching anew.
My previous design isn't bad. It’s true to life, at least. But that doesn’t mean that it's all that it could be. A hand doesn't tell the story of the longing in my heart, of the desire to make something of myself, of my dreams for adventure and significance. So what does it look like if I let my imagination run wild?
For the next twenty minutes, I don't even touch any tools, caught up in the heady rush of the iterative process. The other [Glassworkers] are whispering by now, casting furtive looks in my direction. One of the judges even ambles over to ask if there's a problem.
I grin. “No, sir. Everything's finally coming together. If my master asks about what I’m doing, just tell her that I’m taking the lessons of adaptability to heart.”
“Well. There’s no rule against redesign. But don’t run out of time, young man. You cut it close last round.” He seems skeptical when I nod, but he leaves me alone. His footsteps click across the floor as he retreats to his observation post.
My piece of chalk scratches across the floor, scrolling out the images in my mind onto the concrete. After a moment or two, I shake my head, put down the chalk and cross my arms as I stare at my new ideas. It’s still too literal. Too simplistic. I reach for my glass of water, splash a little on the floor, and rub out my designs with the toe of my boot. I can do better than this. I will do better than this.
A new idea takes root, and I dash over to the judge to make a request. “I’m going to need to borrow a magnifying glass. Could you help me secure one?”
Moments later, the long-suffering judge hands me the requested tool, and I thank him profusely for the help. I crouch down on the floor, squinting through the magnifying glass at the miniscule marks I’m making with a slender piece of chalk. Why did I limit myself before? I don’t have to wear what I make in this round; I have time to properly match a hand to enchantments.
My complex sketch soon sprawls across my work space, an intricate design that’s no longer an isolated hand—although it still retains a nod to the cast glass model I worked so hard to produce. A smile slowly spreads across my face as I consider the craziness of the scene taking shape before me, drawing inspiration from the Skill structures of my inner world, along with my memories of the Rift’s landscape.
By the time I finish drawing and turn to the furnace, I’m an hour behind my competitors, but I don’t mind. When my tableau comes together, the delay will be well worth the wait. The peculiar beauty of the core’s geometry will give weight and panache to the strange skeletal hand that emerges from the drawing on the floor.
I nod to myself in satisfaction as I get to work. The bizarre, articulated design on the floor is unmistakably me. I might not be able to wear the hand day to day. I may have to fall back on something a bit more utilitarian for glasswork. Yet I find that I don’t care. There’s time for that another day. For today, I intend to put a piece of my soul on display.