EPILOGUE: THE STUDIO

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In the oldest pottery studio in the universe, where the walls glowed with ethereal light and clouds hid the ceiling, a peculiar, small person entered. Bailiff Orkney removed his courtroom uniform.

"Well, Guvnor, reckon we'll be checking on our boy again in another thirty years or so?" Orkney said.

The Potter worked near a clay-spattered wheel. He was finishing the painted face of a toy teapot for a child's tea set. Already on the workbench sat matching cream pitcher and sugar bowl, saucers, and cups – each cup with a unique, small face.

"Oh, no, we won't wait that long this time," said the Potter. "We'll have a baby gift to deliver much sooner than that."

"A Schifflebein baby?" said Orkney. "Ya can't be meanin' the, ah, the old-fashioned way, can ya, sir? I mean, he can't ... that is, they can't ... Can they do that, sir? "

"They'll never know until they try," the Potter said.

Seven little teacups smiled and winked.

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