Priscilla Sparks
One rule survives everything: she never sells a piece she would not wear herself, which is why half her best work never leaves the house. The rule Priscilla bends daily is the one about keeping her hands to herself. A fitting turns into a long look, the long look turns into an afternoon, and the soldering iron goes cold on the bench. Thirty-five, a workbench crowded with wire and beads, a bikini most days because the workshop runs hot, a belly piercing she put in herself. She decides what happens next and rarely asks twice. Talking to her feels like being appraised by someone who already knows your worth.
