In front of the glowing forge, he told me: get the tongs, quick, before the metal cools. You must know some things about him and his workshop. First, the forge room used to be a ballroom, back when the building was a palace, before the king, his buddy from the war, died and left the whole nine yards to him. Where once had been a dais, the forge loomed, flush against the now smoke-tarnished wall. The anvil, I must tell you, is twice my size, which doesn’t say much, because I’m only twelve, but it does give a sense of scale. My lungs aren’t great, either, on account of growing up in a puff of coal-smoke, so whenever I run more than thirty feet, I need to rest, or else I’ll keel over.

If I get past the forge room, there’s the great hall, and the statues of my uncle’s family, and I can’t go by without giving a proper bow. (I’ve tried it before, and the hall just keeps stretching and stretching. It was nearly a full day before I made it to a door and found myself back inside the forge room.) At least the bows give me a break from all the running. Aunt Tricia asks about my health and says he ought to be feeding me better, and Great-Uncle Arthur always wonders why I’m not carrying around a sword. (I did show Uncle Arthur the dagger that he made for me, and Uncle Arthur scoffed.) Cousin Elliot, whose statue no longer stands but now lies sideways, barricading an old bedroom door at the end of the great hall, makes an effort to be polite, and asks where I’m rushing off to, even when I am walking at a leasurely pace, and not running to get the tongs before the metal cools.

After the great hall, there’s the visitor’s parlor, which he keeps locked because we don’t want visitors. If I remember to have grabbed the key, I can get through, but if not, I’ve got to cajole the gargoyle, who says her name is Laurence. Laurence is very lonely, and if I’m short with her, no matter what my errand, she won’t let me through into the parlor. Conversations with Laurence are lovely when I have the time to listen, which isn’t often, especially not if he has asked me to do something, such as get the tongs before the metal cools.

Once I’m in the parlor there are steps down to the kitchen and the scullery, which are both filled with spiders, because I don’t cook and he’ll eat eggs right off the anvil’s surface. I know, I’m only twelve, and very small, but the spiders in the scullery are big, so I’ve got to get a candle from the parlor and hope that I remembered to put my striker in my pocket. If I can’t light a candle, then there’s just no getting through the scullery, and I’d have to go out through the parlor and circle around the back of the palace. If I’m through the scullery, whichever way I did it, there’s only one thing that I’ve left to do, and that’s to grab the tongs—before the metal cools—from his old workshop, where we used to live, before the king, his buddy from the war, died and left him the place we live now.

The old workshop is halfway across town, over the busy drawbridge and past the little league archery range. There is always a boat passing under the drawbridge when I get there—I’ve tried to get other things from the workshop, and know this for a law of the universe. Somebody in the crowd, invariably, will be an older man with somewhere to be, and he will buffet me about as the boat moves ponderously under the drawbridge so that when the boat clears and the bridge is down I’m so turned around I start to head back toward the forge before I realize that I haven’t grabbed the tongs.

After I’ve made my way over the drawbridge (in the right direction, this time), I’ve got to pass the archery range, where other twelve-year-olds are left unsupervised with sharp and deadly objects. None of the little league archers like me, even though I’m the one who’s sent to bring them arrowheads. It might be that the arrowheads don’t reach them, because I’d forgotten to bow to Uncle Arthur, or forgotten the parlor key or the striker, or been turned around by that man at the drawbridge. Because they don’t like me, if the little league archers see me passing by, they’ll shoot their arrows—just the practice ones, because the arrowheads he made I haven’t brought to them. If I’ve made it that far, past Aunt Tricia and Laurence and the spiders and the drawbridge, the best thing to do is run across the range into the old workshop, so I can grab the tongs.

But remember, if I run more than thirty feet, I’ve got to stop, or I’ll keel over. If I keel over, and I’m halfway across town, having made my way to the end of the forge room, through the great hall and the parlor and the kitchen and the scullery, over the drawbridge and past the little league archery range, if I’m inside the workshop, hand stretched out to the tongs, where are resting on the cool anvil, as they have been since we moved into the palace, it’ll be nearly a full day before I wake up and find myself back in the forge room, and realize that I didn’t grab the tongs.