Part Three: The Front Desk

The first thing you notice once you pass through the doors is the hearth itself.  Set at the far end of a wide open room, the fireplace itself is nearly as tall as you are.  Large gray stones create a small rectangle jutting out to the room and climb up the walls, culminating in what looks like a gigantic column embedded in the wall.  Fresh wood is stacked up on the left side of the heart while a set of black pokers lean haphazardly in a matching black side on the right.

After a moment, you start to notice the rest of the room.  A handful of mix-matched chairs sit are scattered throughout the room while a sofa lines the right wall, each covered in a different fabric.  Quilts and patched pillows are spread unevenly amidst the chairs.  The sole occupant of the main room is an older woman, sitting quietly in the chair closest to the fire.  A knitting project, maybe even another blanket for the room, rests limply in her lap but her hands are still and her head is tilted forward, slowly rising and falling with her deep breaths.

“Can I help you?” asks a woman to your right.

You turn and see the front desk, and explosion of color that you can’t believe you missed when you first entered the room.  The desk itself is a deep red, like the frames of the windows outside, but a bright abstract painting covers most of the front of it.  You find yourself wondering whether the artist is nervous that the painting is so close to the ground, dangerously near aimless feet.

“Um, yes, I’m here for the introductory workshop.”

“Wonderful! You’re the first one so far, let me just find the right materials….”

The woman smiles and you feel more at ease.  She has dark skin and large, bright eyes set under heavy eyebrows.  You can see the corner of a tattoo on her neck, maybe a leaf or a wing of some sort.  She’s wearing a bright silver necklace on which hangs an intricate pendant of a sunburst.

“I like your necklace,” you tell her, smiling shyly as you lean against the desk while she flips through manila folders, muttering the labels under her breath.

Her hand flies to her throat, “oh this?” she says.  “It’s one of my favorites.  Arianna made it, she’s on of the metalsmiths here.  She’s assisting with the workshop so you’ll have a chance to see her and maybe even go to her studio.”

“Is it close by?”

The woman nods as she pulls out a manilla folder and flicks it open.  Inside you see maps to the grounds of Miranda’s Hearth.

“There are twenty studios for artists on the grounds,” she tells you, pointing to a series of small buildings on the map around the outskirts of the grounds.  “Fifteen of them are permanent artists, many of whom also teach in our classes.  The other five are for resident artists who can apply to stay here on a six-month or three-month basis.  Arianna is one of the originals, she has this studio here.

“But I’m getting ahead of myself, would you mind giving me your name?”

You give it to her, spelling it out so she’ll get it, and she types it into the computer.

“Oh wonderful, you’re in the crimson room.  I’ll show you the way.”

She puts up a small, elaborately decorated sign that says “I’ll be right with you,” grabs a key with a crimson tag form the wall behind her, and steps out from behind the desk.

“Follow me,” she says with a smile.