Maggie flared her eyes at her plate of buttered noodles. Thank God.

The aunt chuckled, sat back in her chair, and hoisted Kate onto her lap. She gave her a bear hug, then bounced her on her knees. “Want to play with the clay? Want to make something?”

“A piggy bank.”

“A piggy bank? That might be tricky. How about a bowl? For your Froot Loops? Would you like that?”

“Yes!” Kate clapped, then pitched forward and squealed when Wren tickled her.

Maggie poked at her pasta with her fork and took in the laughing exchange with a bitter sensation. “Can I make something, too?” she blurted.

Wren, Sam, and Kate turned to stare at her blankly.

“Well, sure,” the aunt said. “I mean, yeah. Why not? If you want to.”

Maggie was miffed. Jeez. Rein in the enthusiasm, why don’t you? Swallowing her irritation, she got to her feet. “I’ll go change.”

“Put on something you don’t mind getting stained,” the aunt suggested. “Red iron oxide is murder on clothes.”

“Mine are bigger than yours,” Kate said.

The little girl was standing by the wheel and coolly eyeing Maggie’s … bowl? Cup? Hollowed-out blob? Maggie slouched over the wheel, raised a limp hand to shove away a curl that had escaped her braid, and then, remembering the current state of that hand, dropped it to her lap instead. It didn’t matter if she left a splat on her jeans. They were filthy.

The pot, big enough to hold a strawberry, three blueberries, max, was the single outcome of two hours of repeated failures. This one would have gone the mushy way of the others if the aunt hadn’t taken pity on her and provided some hands-on assistance.

Maggie couldn’t believe how horrible she was at this. “I suck.”

“That’s not a nice word,” Kate said, circling the table where she’d put her finished creations: three—three!—pots.

“Sorry. Awful. I’m awful.”

Sam shrugged. “Why do you think I never wheedle wheel time out of Wren?”

“You’re not a potter?” Maggie asked.

“I like to think of myself as a sculptor. This though…” He flapped a hand over the wheel and shook his head.

“It gets easier with practice,” Wren said, “just like everything else.”

“I thought it’d be relaxing,” Maggie said, arching her sore back.

“Ha. Not at first.” The aunt scraped a pile of mangled clay off Maggie’s work stand. “Later, like years later, when you’re really good”—she spread the wet clay on a wedging board—“you might begin to feel all Zen and meditative and one with the world, but early on, you’re mostly—”

“Frustrated,” Sam suggested.

“Humbled,” Maggie said.

Kate grimaced at Maggie’s pot. “Bad.”

With a laugh, Sam rose. “Come on, Kate. We need to get you washed up. It’s a school night.”