Sava put the brass plate on a folded cloth before offering the child a stylus, keeping its point turned toward the table.
"This end?"
"That's where your thumb goes," Sava said, showing her the worn patch beside the grip, "mine has polished it for years."
The girl rubbed the smooth place with her thumb, looking toward Sava's hand before settling into the chair she had chosen.
Hajin sat beyond the corner of the worktable with his arm on a cushion, finding the third morning's lesson already occupied by an argument with the tool.
"It turns."
"Let your other fingers help."
She brought them around the grip, frowning when the point moved farther from the place she meant to mark.
Sava demonstrated on a scrap beside the cloth, pressing lightly enough to leave a line that Hajin could barely see from his chair.
"A little more pressure makes it deeper, though you don't have to start with a deep one."
