Peter Copperfield threw open his door and bounded into his cottage. “Riley,” he said, “I need your help.”

Riley stopped pumping his arm back and forth along the anvil. His arm seized, possibly ruining the cut of the new arming sword. He lifted his eyes to the sky. “Oh, blimey. Another one of you damn kids.” He turned to Peter Copperfield and shook his hammer at him.

Peter stopped in his tracks.

“Every day it’s one of you from that damn magic school. I’ve given sagely advice to three of you today. But every courageous outcast youth who got spelled, or’s some teacher out for ‘em, or’s losing at Pucky-Puck, or whatever it is you kids play.”

“Punikots?” Peter said.

“Whatever.” Riley shrugged. “I know I’m the softhearted confidant, but I can’t get a moment’s peace. And these swords ain’t gonna forge themselves. I don’t got anymore potions. I can’t save your griffin from spotted griffin disease. And the spiders don’t want to talk to you. Now what do you want?”

“I got a girl pregnant,” Peter said.