To Bear an Iron Key

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by Jackie Morse Kessler.

TO BEAR AN IRON KEY by Jackie Morse Kessler

All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Month9Books, LLC.

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Edited by Georgia McBride

Cover Design by Georgina Gibson

Cover copyright © 2014 by Month9Books

“
Jackie Morse Kessler is one of the most talented authors I know
.” – Richelle Mead, New York Times bestselling author of Vampire Academy

“
I loved this book. Hope there’s another real soon
.” – Kim Tory

“
I love Jackie Kessler’s writing and To Bear and Iron Key is no exception. I think she has a hit on her hands with this one
.” – Alyssa Adams-Jones

“
To Bear an Iron Key was an unexpected delight. This is my first time reading a book from Jackie Morse Kessler, but it won't be my last. Shared it with my eleven-year-old daughter and we both adored it. Highly recommended
.” – Cameron Ford-Irish

For the incredible Renée Barr, who’s read everything I’ve ever written: This one’s for you!

A KINDRED SPIRIT

She sat alone in the small room, like a storybook princess trapped inside a witch’s cottage. But the girl with curly black hair, which draped down to her thighs when she stood, was no princess. Bromwyn, called Darkeyes, was herself a witch, and she was quite certain that one day she would be able to perform magical feats that none had ever seen before. Her power would dazzle and astound, and everyone in the village, from her mother to the mayor, would bow their heads and murmur, “Wise One” as she walked past, and they would all love her forever and let her do whatever she wished.

Yes, Bromwyn was a witch. But she was also an eleven-year-old girl who had been grounded by her grandmother, and she was indeed trapped inside a witch’s cottage. Her grandmother had cast a spell on the small house to keep Bromwyn tucked safely inside. Try as she might, the girl could not escape.

So she sat in her bedroom, and she sulked, and she thought rather evil things about her grandmother—most of which were true, but even so, she had no business thinking them.

Her grandmother’s spell, strong as it was, couldn’t muffle the raucous laughter coming from the forest. The cottage rested on the outskirts of the Allenswood, and Bromwyn usually enjoyed hearing the birdsong and tree-chatter as she performed her daily chores as her grandmother’s apprentice. But now, every bit of noise from the woods felt like a blow to her heart. From the sounds of it, the fey seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely. They were probably dancing and telling riddles and playing tag. And flying. Bromwyn sighed wistfully as she imagined what it would be like to spin in the air, held aloft by fey magic. Witches might be powerful, but none of them could fly, not even her grandmother.

She closed her eyes and smiled as she pictured herself aloft, her bare feet far above the ground as she moved to the music of the moon and the stars. She could almost pretend that she was dancing across the sky …

… but then she opened her eyes and saw that she was still trapped in her grandmother’s small house, and her smile vanished. She should be at her grandmother’s side, taking part in the Midsummer Festival! She should be dancing and laughing with the fey!

But no. She was stuck inside the cottage, all because she had spoken her mind. It wasn’t as if she’d been rude. She had merely insisted, quite politely, that she deserved to know why she wasn’t allowed to greet the fey.

“What you deserve,” Niove Whitehair had replied, “is to be so sore that you would not sit for a week. In this house, you obey my rules. I said you cannot go, and that is the rule.”

“Rules, rules, rules,” Bromwyn had said—again, politely. “You always give me rules and never give me reasons!”

“The only reason you need is this: If you are to continue as my apprentice, you will obey my rules. Without question. You need boundaries, girl. You need protection.” And then Niove had spelled the cottage.

Thinking about her grandmother’s words now, Bromwyn scowled. Protection—what utter nonsense. She was a witch! Her grandmother, of all people, should have known that witches didn’t need protection from anything. Therefore, Bromwyn decided, “protection” was just an excuse for her grandmother to spoil all of her fun.

Outside the cottage, Midsummer rolled on.

When Bromwyn grew bored of sulking, she practiced her magic, creating cantrips that lit the small room in fitful bursts. Full of spark and spice, shreds of light whirled in the air, swirling with summer colors: fiery yellows and bright greens, velvety blues and haughty purples, all blooming lushly. But as vibrant as these lights were, as proud and full of life as they tried to be, they were merely cantrips, not meant to last. They died, gracefully and joyfully, burning themselves out within moments—never truly alive, never knowing that their brief existence was just a taste, a sip, a tease.

This did nothing for Bromwyn’s mood.

Finally, full of longing and impotent rage, Bromwyn stamped her foot and declared, “I want out!”

“Nala wants in,” a tiny voice answered.

Startled, Bromwyn turned to the window.

There, floating on the other side of the glass, was a creature barely the length of Bromwyn’s little finger. The figure pressed against the window, peering in. A shock of blond hair crowned her head, and from beneath her choppy bangs, two piercingly blue eyes regarded Bromwyn. Dressed in a gown of miniscule flowers, she hovered, her gossamer wings flitting like a hummingbird’s.

A pixie.

Bromwyn had been schooled by her grandmother about much of the fey; most she could name by rote, and she was familiar with many of their ways—you never called them “fairies,” for one thing, and you never took anything from them without giving them something in return. But for all of her knowledge, she had never actually seen any of the fey, other than as illustrations in books. Only once a year did those magical creatures step into the world, and only to take part in the Midsummer Festival: Her grandmother witnessed their entrance at dusk, watched to ensure they didn’t do anything terrible (or at least nothing too permanent) throughout the night, and then made them take their leave by dawn, locking the World Door behind them. Only her grandmother could decide when Bromwyn would be ready to greet the fey—which, the girl was starting to think, would be far closer to “never” than to “today.” When Niove Whitehair decided something, that was that. Bromwyn couldn’t go to greet the fey.