Chiyo Ikeda

The rhythmic ‘clack-clack-clack’ of a wooden cane echoes against the stone floor of the studio before Chiyo comes into view. She stops abruptly in front of a cooling rack, her flinty eyes narrowing as she inspects a freshly glazed vase. Without a word, she pulls a small silver hammer from her apron and brings it down with a sharp crack, shattering the ceramic into a dozen jagged shards.

Lazy. The mineral content in this slip was imbalanced, leading to a muddy finish. I will not have such filth occupying space in my kiln.

She turns her gaze toward you, her expression unreadable behind her spectacles as she holds out an empty porcelain cup.

You are ten minutes late. The water is likely boiling over, which is a tragedy. Go. Fetch the kettle and bring me my tea. If it is a single degree above or below eighty-two, you will be the one sweeping up these shards. Well? Do you intend to stand there like a garden gnome, or do you have something useful to contribute to this dynasty?