It had been Kenzi's idea, the pottery class.
She'd thought of it back when Tamsin was still "Little Tamsin" and Kenzi needed some cheap babysitting. There had been a flyer posted on a street lamp advertising art classes at the local community center. Kenzi had signed her up for pottery figuring that the Valkyrie might enjoy the hands-on process of the art form, the ability to create things that could be used, not just looked at and admired.
And even though Little Tamsin had initially balked, Kenzi had been right. The Valkyrie had loved digging her fingers into the cold, wet blocks of clay. Loved feeling it roll and move and form under her hands. The clubhouse might not have had walls, but for a period of time it had more bowls and cups and plates than its occupants knew what to do with.
There aren't many left now. Most are now in pieces—shards, really—in the yard, where Tamsin has taken to throwing them against the wall of the house when the ache of missing Kenzi, her sometime maternal figure, grows too strong.
There's only one piece she won't end up destroying.
The very first bowl, the one she and Kenzi had made together.
Wobbly and colored in neon pinks and greens, Tamsin can't bring herself to look at it, much less touch it. Much less break it in her anger and grief.
This she can choose to save.
This she can protect.