Chapter 42 TENSION
“Uncle Kelvin, what is this, and what’s it used for?”
I looked up to find her pointing at the slab roller machine sitting across the room, her small finger hovering inches away from it.
“It’s called a slab roller,” I explained, wiping my hands on my apron. “It helps flatten the clay, and it’s mostly used for making plates.”
“Wow, that’s cool. What about this one?” she asked immediately, already moving on.
“It’s an extruder.”
“And this one?”
“A pottery wheel,” I answered, finally feeling the full pressure of having a five-year-old around.
“Can I use any of them?”
The questions kept coming—one after another—and I could already tell I wasn’t getting much work done today. But surprisingly, I didn’t mind at all.
“Yes,” I said gently, “but we need to start from the basics. How about we try molding a little teacup first?”
Her face lit up instantly.
“Awesome!!” she echoed as I grabbed one of my aprons and carefully tied it around her small frame. It hung far too low, almost swallowing her, and I couldn’t help but chuckle. Her tiny giggle followed mine.
“It looks so big on me,” she laughed, glancing down at herself, and for the first time since I’d found her sitting outside earlier, her bright blue eyes sparkled with real excitement.
“I’ll get you a smaller one, I promise,” I said softly. “Now, let’s go make that teacup, shall we?”
She nodded eagerly, rushing to stand beside me.
I started by mixing the clay, encouraging her to join in. She watched my hands for a moment, studying every movement, before mimicking me with careful concentration. Once the clay was well mixed, I broke off a chunk and handed it to her.
“I want you to roll your piece of clay into a ball, like this,” I said, shaping mine to show her. She immediately got to work, her little hands molding the clay into a slightly lumpy—but respectable—sphere.
“Good,” I praised warmly. “You’re doing great.”
I placed my hand over hers to steady it. “Now this is the magic part. It’s called the pinch pot method. Stick out your thumb and make a hole in the center, but don’t push all the way down—we need to leave a cushion for our tea to sit on.”
She did exactly as I said, pressing her thumb in and stopping almost immediately as I gently held her hand so she wouldn’t go too deep.
“Perfect,” I encouraged. “Now imagine your fingers are like a little crab’s claw. Start at the bottom and gently pinch the clay against your thumb, then turn it a little. Pinch, turn. Pinch, turn. See how the walls are growing taller?”
“It’s opening up like a flower!” she giggled.
“Exactly,” I smiled.
We sat there for a while, the only sound filling the room being the soft, rhythmic pat–pat–pinch of her small hands against the clay. Her cup turned out a little wobbly, uneven in places—but that was what gave it character, what gave it soul.
“Now it needs a handle so you don’t burn your fingers,” I said, handing her a small snake of clay I’d already rolled out. “But we can’t just stick it on. In pottery, we use something called the Secret Handshake.”
Her eyes widened.
“It’s called scoring and slipping,” I explained.
I handed her a small needle tool—one dull enough to be safe. “Scratch the side of your cup where the handle will go, and scratch the ends of the handle too. It makes them stick together like Velcro. Then we add a drop of this ‘magic mud glue’—we call it slip.”
She worked carefully, tongue peeking out the corner of her mouth as she scratched the clay like a tiny scientist deep in thought. When she finally pressed the handle into place, she lifted the cup up proudly, her face glowing with triumph.
“Is it done?” she asked, already ready to run off toward the kitchen.
I laughed, gently taking the little cup from her. "Almost, little potter. Now comes the hardest part for an artist: the waiting. We have to let it rest in the air until it’s as hard as stone, then I’ll put it in the 'Big Oven'—the kiln—where it will transform into ceramic. Next week, we’ll paint it with colors that turn into glass."
She stared at her cup, then at her tiny, clay-covered hands, and finally back at me, her eyes shining with a grin that stretched from ear to ear.
"I think I’m a pro, Uncle Kelvin," she exclaimed, pride bubbling over in her voice.
"I think you’re right, Renna. I think you’re absolutely right," I said, ruffling her hair gently. "Go wash your hands now."
Her little giggle, so full of joy and accomplishment, filled the entire room as she sprinted to the sink.
Just then, I heard movement outside. Curious, I walked to the window and was glad to see Nancy making her way up the garden path.
“Renna!” I called after her. She peeked out from the kitchen doorway, eyes wide.
“Mum’s back!” she squealed, bouncing with excitement.
“Really? I need to show her the tea cup!” She didn’t even wait to remove her oversized apron as she dashed out the door.
I chuckled, watching her sprint toward the gate, her tiny feet kicking up dust. That’s when I noticed Nancy wasn’t alone.
Jaxon Lennox was with her, his broad back to me as he spoke, calm and commanding even in casual stance. Beside him, a big white-furred dog padded silently, elegant and alert.
What on earth was he doing here?
Nancy’s POV
After an exhausting day scouring CCTV footage for any trace of Ravyn Vale, frustration gnawed at me. Every lead ended in a dead end, leaving me with no answers. I didn’t want to risk reaching out to Mr. Lennox through his business line—it could complicate everything.
Late in the afternoon, I received a call from Arabella. She had to leave, and Mum and Dad were out at the market. That left Renna alone at home. Immediately, I informed Linda before taking the next available taxi back.
As the car pulled to a stop outside our house, I noticed a luxury vehicle parked nearby. My curiosity spiked, and I settled the driver with a wave, my heart beating faster as I walked toward the car.
Before I could guess who it belonged to, Mr. Lennox stepped out. His gaze found mine instantly, calm yet assessing, and for the first time in a while, I felt a strange sense of relief at seeing him.
I approached cautiously, keeping a polite distance. His hands were in his pockets, stance relaxed yet imposing. His assistant stayed close, and the beautiful white-furred dog walked silently behind him, adding to the commanding presence.
“Mr. Lennox, what brings you to my house?” I asked, stopping just far enough to maintain my composure yet close enough to catch the faint smile tugging at his lips.
“Miss Carter, I needed to talk to you about our discussion. I hope you have something reasonable to report back to me,” he said, his voice laced with controlled anger, the tension in his eyes unmistakable.
“As a matter of fact, I do. I’ve been wanting to reach out to you, but I was told you were out of town. I also realized I didn’t even have your number.But you might want to follow me inside,” I said, our eyes locking as we stood there, each of our thoughts racing like wildfire, unspoken but impossible to ignore.