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“I noticed that. I read ahead last night, and I think somebody ought to tell Drake that having an enchanted weapon doesn’t mean he can ignore every rule about handling one.”

I smiled as I adjusted the stand.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to make your objections to me, as usual. Fortunately, I’ve become quite practiced at listening to them.”

He laughed, then waited while I checked our levels.

We began with a straightforward exchange between Drake and Isadora, who had apparently settled into their own version of domestic happiness after the events of A Bond of Bark & Flame.

The sequel introduced a new magical problem involving the restoration of an ancient grove. Naturally, the solution required a remarkably complicated ritual and a great deal of intimate proximity between the two principal characters.

Hudson handled Drake’s opening lines beautifully.

He’d developed an easy, confident delivery over the past year, retaining that wonderfully deep speaking voice without exaggerating it for the microphone. I still enjoyed hearing him read, especially when he brought a little warmth or humor to a passage that might otherwise have sounded overly dramatic.

We made it through several pages without difficulty.

Then Isadora discovered the enchanted stump.

I delivered her description of the ancient clearing, allowing the appropriate wonder to enter my narration. The author had given her some lovely language about the forest recovering from its long enchantment, and I wanted that tenderness to come through.

Hudson answered with Drake’s reassuring declaration, his delivery warm and convincing.

Everything was going splendidly until we reached the ceremonial axe.

According to the manuscript, the enormous double-headed weapon could awaken the stump’s dormant magic only when Drake and Isadora held it together.

That seemed reasonable enough for a fantasy novel.

Unfortunately, the author had then attempted to describe precisely how they were supposed to accomplish this feat.

I read the passage twice.

Hudson read a little farther, then lowered his manuscript.

“We’ve already had the discussion about Drake’s elbows,” he said, turning his page toward me. “But look at this. Both blades are supposed to strike the stump at the same time.”

I stopped the take and leaned closer. “Oh, dear. I hadn’t quite appreciated that detail.”

“It’s a double-headed axe, honey. The cutting edges face opposite directions. Unless somebody’s invented a whole new kind of handle, they’re not both hitting the same stump in one swing.”

I considered the unlikely movement. “I suppose the author might be relying on the enchantment to accomplish something that wouldn’t be physically possible.”

“Then she ought to let the magic do the work instead of making Drake swing the thing like he’s never held an axe before.”

I tried to keep a straight face.

“When I recruited you for your extraordinary voice, I hadn’t anticipated quite so many forestry consultations.”

“That’s what happens when you hire a professional, honey.” Hudson tapped the offending line. “Somebody’s got to look out for the trees.”

We attempted the passage again, concentrating on the characters’ emotional connection rather than the unlikely choreography.

This time, Hudson delivered Drake’s declaration with such warmth that I managed Isadora’s response without laughing.

When we finished, I listened to the playback and marked the take for reference.

“That was wonderful,” I told him. “You gave Drake exactly the right combination of confidence and tenderness. I think the listeners are going to adore this scene.”