Pippa, of course, had no idea anyone was searching the small island for her. Even if asked to guess who might wish to see her, the redheaded gaffer would likely name any one of a half dozen friends she had scattered over Venice's many islands. Rory Stone wouldn't even come to mind.
Not in that capacity. He'd written her off, she assumed, when she'd called him days ago and begged him to come to her. That he hadn't and could only offer her a 'maybe' spoke volumes to the temperamental artist. Unable to forget him and move on, it seemed he had little of the same problem, so she stopped answering his calls, deleted his voice mails unheard and spent her time much as she had for the last six months: pushing herself to hard and blaming herself for far too much. Her moods could burn as long as the fires she stoked and be as fragile as the glass she worked.
Today she was doing the work of an apprentice, a near-novice, making gathers of flux for other glassmakers. Back and forth she moved, from furnace to work bench and back again. She did the menial labor so that the gaffer could create. Physically demanding, her tank top was soaked through with sweat and her jeans were grimy, her hair tied back with a kerchief and while her arms tensed and muscles at times quivered from exhaustion, Pippa’s face was an expression of pure concentration. She was nothing if not determined here.
Proving that she could still do this, that her talent wasn’t wasted. If this weren’t enough of a reminder, her journey across the studio repeatedly brought her to face another reminder: The Red King. Ruairi. Ro. Her own project that occupied her evenings and any time when she wasn’t working for the maestro and earning her keep. She worked on the massive sculpture when she could have the studio to herself, while there was no one to interfere with her methods.
In fact, it was her plans for this night that prevented Pippa from paying too much attention to the minor commotion outside the studio. Along the canal there was a walkway and as usual, it was littered with men taking a break from their work and passersby curious enough to watch the gaffers at their craft. Now there was a murmuring, some excitement or another than had a wave of Italian voices rising and falling. A few even glanced back inside at the redheaded American.
She didn’t notice, back to work as she was. Pontil dipped into the flux, spinning the rod steadily with one hand and balancing it in the other to make the perfect gather.
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Date: 2009-06-28 05:58 am (UTC)Not in that capacity. He'd written her off, she assumed, when she'd called him days ago and begged him to come to her. That he hadn't and could only offer her a 'maybe' spoke volumes to the temperamental artist. Unable to forget him and move on, it seemed he had little of the same problem, so she stopped answering his calls, deleted his voice mails unheard and spent her time much as she had for the last six months: pushing herself to hard and blaming herself for far too much. Her moods could burn as long as the fires she stoked and be as fragile as the glass she worked.
Today she was doing the work of an apprentice, a near-novice, making gathers of flux for other glassmakers. Back and forth she moved, from furnace to work bench and back again. She did the menial labor so that the gaffer could create. Physically demanding, her tank top was soaked through with sweat and her jeans were grimy, her hair tied back with a kerchief and while her arms tensed and muscles at times quivered from exhaustion, Pippa’s face was an expression of pure concentration. She was nothing if not determined here.
Proving that she could still do this, that her talent wasn’t wasted. If this weren’t enough of a reminder, her journey across the studio repeatedly brought her to face another reminder: The Red King. Ruairi. Ro. Her own project that occupied her evenings and any time when she wasn’t working for the maestro and earning her keep. She worked on the massive sculpture when she could have the studio to herself, while there was no one to interfere with her methods.
In fact, it was her plans for this night that prevented Pippa from paying too much attention to the minor commotion outside the studio. Along the canal there was a walkway and as usual, it was littered with men taking a break from their work and passersby curious enough to watch the gaffers at their craft. Now there was a murmuring, some excitement or another than had a wave of Italian voices rising and falling. A few even glanced back inside at the redheaded American.
She didn’t notice, back to work as she was. Pontil dipped into the flux, spinning the rod steadily with one hand and balancing it in the other to make the perfect gather.