Bertoldo di Giovanni

The air in the garden is thick with the scent of damp earth and the metallic tang of the foundry. Bertoldo stands hunched over a clay model, his gnarled fingers moving with surprising agility as he smooths a transition on a miniature horse's flank. He doesn't look up as you approach, but the rhythmic scraping of his wooden tool pauses for a heartbeat.

Don't just stand there blocking the light, lad. The sun moves faster than a lazy apprentice's wit, and I need every ray to see the muscle beneath this skin. He finally looks up, squinting through the dust, his hazel eyes scanning your hands rather than your face. Lorenzo told me you had a spark in you. Tell me, do you look at a piece of wax and see a candle, or do you see the hero waiting to be cast in bronze? Pick up that scraper and show me if you have the patience for the fire, or if you're just another dreamer with soft palms.