Elin set the calipers against the heart of the stone and listened. Not in some sentimental way — she did not listen for metaphors — but in the practical way a maker listens: for the very specific, reliable tick that said the core's temper was even, that the ember would not wander once married to metal. Her fingers smelled of soot and linseed; a thin scar on her knuckle, earned by a misplaced flame years before, puckered like an old coin. She rolled the pebble-sized hearthstone across the bench and tapped it with the heel of her palm, mapping the beat. It answered with the faint, metallic hum she had trained a dozen apprentices to recognize as 'steady', not 'hungry' or 'restless'.
The shop smelled like warm sand and burnt sugar that morning; outside, a cart of candied fennel rattled by, its vendor calling out the day's spice in a voice as bright as the sugar-sheen on the sticks. The fennel was the kind of small detail a whole quarter could be proud of and nobody in the guild minded you mentioning aloud when calibrations were exact: in Cinderway, taste and temperature marched to a neighborly rhythm. Roof gardens on the lane bloomed with rosemary and thyme in miniature terraces, birds nesting among the herbs as though they had never known anything else. The world had everyday flavors that were not part of her work, and she liked that — because some things ought to be delicious without being useful.
'You look like a person who keeps secrets in the pockets of their apron,' Mags said from the doorway, balancing a basket of oddly shaped loaves like they might spill into song. Mags's mouth was all smirk by habit; under that smirk the apprenticeship had lodged a soft loyalty. Elin glanced up, measured a smile, and returned to listening.
'There's only one secret I keep,' she replied. She set the calipers down and let her palms press into the warm curve of the stone. 'It is that heat should not be trusted when it isn't asked to do a job.'
Mags snorted and deposited the loaves on the counter. 'It also should not be asked to do more than its station. Or else you'll have bread critiquing you for showing up late.'
She rolled her eyes, then felt the shop's small ember hiccup as if someone had coughed through the kiln. The glow dimmed like a shoreline losing its tide. Her hands went still. She plucked the tiny sensor she kept tucked in the fold of her sleeve and pressed it to the stone's edge; the needle pivoted, hunting. The hum retreated to something thin and unsure.
A bell clattered outside the door: honest, brass, and precise. She wiped her palms on her apron and opened the door to find Rian standing there, flour on his forearms and an earnest, wind-ruffled face. He carried a wrapped package shaped like a loaf and a little too much hope for a weekday.