In the attic of an old house on Meridian Street, under a canvas tarp that has not been moved in eleven years, there is a castle. Not a model. Not a toy. A real castle, six inches tall and perfectly detailed, with towers that cast real shadows and gates that open on real hinges and somewhere inside it, if you look at exactly the right angle in exactly the right light, something moves. Twelve-year-old Rowan inherits it from a great-uncle he never met and thinks it is the most interesting thing he has ever owned, right up until the moment the knight inside it speaks to him. After that, interesting becomes completely the wrong word.
