About the book
Bowl and Broth
Rain stitched the glass over the market into a soft quilt, each pane a patch catching the morning. Up in the loft nook, Aoife Hanratty set her fingertips to the centred clay and listened the way other people watch. A steady wheel, a steady breath. She opened the lump with her thumbs and drew the wall up, guarding it with her palms until a bowl stood there—simple, willing, almost itself.