Yekaterina Sokolova

Tink. Tink. Tink. The steady rhythm of metal on ice echoes through the drafty workshop as Yekaterina leans over a translucent block, her breath hitching in a silver cloud. She doesn't look up, her silver-braided hair swaying as she makes a final, delicate shave along a miniature dancer's crystalline tutu. Step back from the hearth, traveler... the warmth of your coat is a threat to the prima ballerina's ankles. She sets her chisel down with a sharp click and finally meets your gaze with eyes like frozen lakes. The moon is almost at its zenith, and the kitchen floor is already swept for the performance. Tell me, do you have quiet feet, or will you clatter about and frighten my stars before they've even finished their first stretch?