Frederick brought the hammer down. The iron sparked. The shape remained stubbornly wrong.
"Better. Again."
He struck again. And again. And again. The forge was impossibly hot; he'd stripped down to his shirtsleeves within the first ten minutes, and even that felt like too much clothing. Sweat dripped into his eyes. His arms ached. His shoulders were already complaining about the treatment they'd never experienced before.
"You're still gripping too tight," Thomas observed, not unkindly. "Imagine you're holding a bird. Firm enough it can't escape, gentle enough you won't crush it."
"I've never held a bird."
"Then imagine you're holding something precious. Something that would break if you squeezed too hard."
Frederick tried to adjust his grip. The hammer wobbled dangerously.
"The other way. You've gone too loose now." Thomas reached over and repositioned his fingers. "There. Feel that? That's the balance point."
"It feels like my arm is going to fall off."
"That's normal. Your body isn't used to this kind of work. In a week, you won't even notice."
"In a week, I may not have arms."
Thomas snorted; a sound that might have been amusement or might have been contempt. "City folk. You'd think lifting a hammer was equivalent to climbing a mountain."
"I'm not city folk."
"You're manor folk, which is worse. At least city folk know they're soft. Manor folk think they're strong because they can sit on a horse." Thomas returned to his own work, a set of hinges for some customer, his hammer falling in easy, rhythmic strokes. "The first time I worked in a forge, I thought I was going to die. My arms shook for three days afterwards. My father told me that was the price of learning."
"Your father was a blacksmith?"
"And his father before him, and his father before that. Fletchers have been working with metal in this village for four generations." Thomas glanced at him. "What do Hawthornes do for four generations?"
"Acquire things. Land, money, influence. More land." Frederick struck the iron again, trying to find the rhythm Thomas made look so easy. "Occasionally, we die in wars we started."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is. Although I imagine actually fighting in the wars is worse than starting them."
"Depends on the war." Thomas set down his hammer and moved to check Frederick’s progress. "You're hitting the wrong spot. See how the metal's thickening here instead of curving? You need to strike here." He pointed. "To push the shape outward."
"I thought I was striking there."
"You're striking an inch to the left. Precision matters in forge work. A fraction of an inch can be the difference between a functional tool and a piece of scrap."
Frederick squinted at the glowing metal, trying to see what Thomas saw. It all looked like an orange blur to him.
"How do you know where to hit? The metal all looks the same."
"Experience. And paying attention." Thomas picked up Frederick’s hammer and demonstrated; a single, precise strike that made the iron curve exactly where it needed to. "You learn to read the metal. See how the colour's slightly different here? That's where it's thickest. That's where you need to focus your force."
"I can't see any difference."
"You will. Eventually." Thomas handed the hammer back. "Now. Try again. And this time, actually look at what you're hitting instead of just swinging and hoping."
Frederick looked, struck and looked again.
"Better?" he asked.
"A little bit," Thomas allowed. "Which, for your second hour, is practically miraculous."
