Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
"I'd like that," I say, meaning it.
I pull up a chair, positioning myself where I can watch her work while still maintaining sightlines to the approaches outside. Security never fully leaves my mind, even in moments like this.
I ask her to explain the process, and my wife looks at me in surprise. "You'd really like to know?"
"Yes." Because I'd like to know everything about her.
"First, you choose your wax," she explains, selecting a deep burgundy block from her supplies. "Different compositions for different purposes. This one has a higher beeswax content, which makes it more pliable but also more prone to cracking if cooled too quickly."
She places the wax in a small copper pot, setting it over a portable heater she's brought from her shop. "The heat has to be gentle, consistent. Too hot and the wax loses definition. Too cool and it won't take the impression properly."
I watch as she works, her movements confident and precise. There's something meditative about it, about the careful attention she brings to each step of the process.
"While that's melting, we prepare the base material." She selects a thick cream-colored card from her supplies. "The surface needs to be receptive but not absorbent. Like paper that's been treated with a slight sizing."
She marks the center point where the seal will go, then sets the card aside. Returning to the melting wax, she tests it with a small tool, assessing its consistency.
"Not quite ready," she murmurs, more to herself than to me. "A few more moments."
There's something deeply compelling about watching her work—the focused attention, the quiet confidence, the respect for the materials in her hands. It reminds me of my grandmother, of the way she approached cooking not as a chore but as a sacred act, a form of care.
"Can you see it?" Kleah breathes. "How you'll know when the wax is ready? When it moves like this, like honey rather than water..." My wife lifts the pot, pouring a precise amount of the burgundy wax onto the center of the card. The wax pools, a perfect circle of deep crimson that catches the light like liquid garnets.
"The timing here is crucial," she explains, setting down the pot and reaching for a seal. "Too soon and the wax is too soft, the impression blurs. Too late and it's too hard, the seal won't penetrate deeply enough."
She holds the seal poised above the cooling wax, watching with intense concentration. Then, with deliberate pressure, she presses it into the center of the pool.
"Firm, even pressure," she murmurs. "Hold it... hold it..."
After several seconds, she lifts the seal with a smooth, decisive movement. The impression left behind is crisp, detailed—a design I recognize as her maker's mark, the stylized "KM" surrounded by a simple knotwork border.
She looks at me with a beaming smile. "Done!"
"It's perfect." I mean this. The edges are clean, her impression deep and precise, and the color of the seal rich and consistent.
"Would you like to try?" Kleah asks eagerly.
I hesitate, unaccustomed to being a novice at anything. It's been years since I approached something with complete inexperience, with no certainty of success. But when I look at my wife again and see how her hazel eyes are shining—-
"I'd be honored."
Kleah guides me through the process step by step, her voice calm and encouraging. When the wax is ready, she stands beside me, watching as I pour it onto the prepared card.
"Perfect," she says as I set the pot down. "Now wait... wait... a little longer..."
I hold the seal as she instructed, poised above the cooling wax. Her hand covers mine, guiding the pressure as I press down.
"Firm," she murmurs. "Steady. Now hold..."
The contact of her hand on mine, the warmth of her beside me, the scent of her hair—all distract me momentarily from the task. But I maintain focus, keeping the pressure even as she instructed.
"Now lift," she says. "Smooth, decisive movement."
I do as she directs, lifting the seal with a single fluid motion. The impression left behind is surprisingly good for a first attempt—the design clear, the edges clean, though not with the perfect definition of Kleah's work.
"Well done," she says, genuine approval in her voice. "That's remarkably good for a first try."
Pride—a sensation I rarely experience these days—warms my chest. "I had an excellent teacher."
"Thank you." A blush steals over my wife's cheeks. "Would you like to try another?"
We work together for the next hour, Kleah teaching, me learning, both of us focused on the delicate craft before us. It's strangely peaceful, this shared activity, this creation of small beauties amid the larger dangers surrounding us.
I find myself watching her as much as the wax—the graceful movement of her hands, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when concentrating, the soft curve of her lips when she's pleased with a result.