Every ware in this emporium passes beneath my own hands—painted by candlelight at workbenches older than the maps that neglect to mention this street. I do not hurry. Hurry is a habit of the short-lived. Each skull, each scroll, each candle is coaxed into being with pigments ground the old way and a patience only centuries can teach.

The kiln has never once been lit. It has never needed to be.