The Forge – Part 1: Orange Heat

"Watch the colour," said Noor. "Not the iron. The colour tells you when."

"When what?"

"When it is ready to listen."

Tessa lifted the hammer and brought it down on the glowing orange bar. A shower of sparks danced across the anvil. The iron moved a tiny fraction under the blow, and her whole arm sang with the ring of it. The forge was a long, dark barn with a roaring coal fire, a heavy anvil and walls hung with tongs and hooks. Outside, the leaves were turning scarlet on the Vermont hills.

Tessa, thirty-six, was a furniture designer from Brooklyn who had signed up for a two-day class on a whim, and hadn't expected to love it. Noor, thirty-three, the smith, wore a leather apron, a bandana and a pair of thick gloves, and moved around the fire with great ease. She was short and strong, with deep brown eyes and a laugh that startled the swallows from the rafters.

"Again," said Noor. "Rhythm, not force. Let the hammer fall."

Tessa struck, and the iron lengthened. Noor stood behind her, one hand lightly on her shoulder, the other over hers on the handle. "Yes," she said, softly. "That. You have it."

The weekend became a week, and the week became the month. Tessa found reasons to stay in Vermont: a table commission, a client meeting, a sudden need for fresh air. She made a hook, a poker, a small crooked leaf. She watched Noor work at the fire and forgot what she was supposed to be doing.

"You are not looking at the colour," said Noor, one evening.

"I'm looking at the smith."

Noor's hammer paused. The forge fell quiet. "Tessa," she said, very quietly. "That is dangerous."

"Is it?"

"It is. I would like to kiss you, and you must tell me no if that is wrong."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Quench.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Quench.