The feeble sunlight has compounded her lighting problems, however, so that she has resorted to candles and a storm lantern to light the space. She put a match to the fire in the wood-burning stove more than an hour ago, so that now the room is warm enough. Thistle, who has become her gray shadow, settles herself on the rag rug in front of the stove. The studio already has a familiar, cozy feel to it. Tilda sits in a dusty, glaze-stained chair by the patio doors, sketch book on her knee, attempting to reproduce the shapes and patterns she saw among the twisted branches of the crannog trees. She works with quick, confident strokes, her stub of soft pencil creating thick marks on the paper. She tries to recall the way the limbs of the trees entwined and crossed through and over one another. As if winter winds have tied them in knots. Her intention is to fashion her trademark large, bulbous pots, and to work onto them these intricate, flowing designs. She has not yet decided on colors. Should she use mottled, natural finishes, or opt for deep, rich glazes?
