I hadn’t known that about my father. I don’t remember him being shy or soft-spoken. What I remember is him throwing me high into the air and catching me. I remember him dancing with me, having me stand on his toes while he’d twirl me around the room. And I remember him telling me stories, though I can’t recall what they were about.

“I am glad to be here and to have met you,” I say. “I hope you don’t think differently.”

“Not at all. I can’t wait for us to grow closer.” She leans over to hand me a smelly sack full of dead fish. I reach in with my fingers, pull one out, and toss it into the water. I watch in fascination as two penguins race for it.

Before the day’s end, I set out to find the nearest smithy in the hopes that she’ll let me borrow her tools and forge. Temra waits outside with Volanna while I enter the shop. Temra obviously knows I need to make arrangements for Kellyn’s longsword, but Volanna thinks I’m commissioning something.

Stepping into the forge is like stepping into a hot bath. I breathe in the smells, take in the familiar tools. I feel relaxed at once.

Wornessa is nearly two feet shorter than I am, but her arms are so much broader than mine. She and I quickly decide on a price for the use of supplies and her shop. I let her know everything I’ll need, and she promises to procure it for me by the beginning of next week so I can get started. I’m careful not to mention my abilities.

Talking to Wornessa isn’t like talking to anyone else. I know smithying better than anything, and it doesn’t make me uncomfortable to discuss it. I wish conversations were always like this. So effortless and enjoyable.

My anxiety recedes over the next few days as I get to know my grandmother better. She’s fond of basket weaving and cooking. She bakes Temra and me delicious cakes each day, and she shows us how to make a few meals, since we’re both hopeless cooks.

Petrik is polite, giving us space and hovering at the outskirts. He spends a lot of time in his room working on his book, questioning me in the evenings before bed about my abilities.

“Have you read any occurrences of magicked items being destroyed?” I ask casually one night, having tread so carefully to work the conversation so the question would seem natural.

“Sure,” he says without missing a beat. “If the item is simply broken, the magic often breaks with it. I’m sure you’ve come across that on your own with some of your weapons.”

“I have.” But that’s not what I meant. I try again. “What if an item was magically incapable of breaking, though? Do you know any stories about those being destroyed?”

“An item magicked not to break.” He chews on his lip while he thinks. “Why would someone want to break it?”