To Bear an Iron Key (24 page)

“Winnie,” he said, smiling warmly, “there’s no comparison. Nothing could be better than you.”

She blinked away sudden tears. “So why did you say such a thing?”

“Well, it was either try to joke, or vomit out of sheer nerves. And that would have gotten all over my boots.”

Bromwyn giggled, and then she stared deeply into his eyes. Just looking into them made it seem like anything was possible.

“I was so worried for you,” she said, her voice full. “Rusty, if you had gone with them, I would have died.”

“Your granny does have a temper, doesn’t she?”

She clouted the back of his head again. “No, you foolish boy. I would have died of heartbreak.”

“And I’ll die from your backhand,” he said, grinning hugely. “Help me up, if you please.”

As she pulled him to his feet, twilight gave way to sunrise. The last breaths of gray evaporated into gold-tinted daylight. Over the flat stones, the stars shimmered, dazzling Bromwyn as they sparkled in all colors and none, pulsing with the magic that was the reality between all worlds. And then the clearing shook with a thunderous
BOOM!

Bromwyn couldn’t help but smile when Rusty wrapped his arms around her as if to shield her from the sound. He was such a
boy
.

And if she snuggled into his arms as the booming echoed around them, well, what of it?

After all was silent, Bromwyn gently pulled away and turned to face the World Door—or, more accurately, where the Door had been. Closed once again, all that was left were the large stones forming a circle on the Hill, their flat surfaces catching the rays of the morning sun, suggesting the faintest hint of starlight twinkling.

Holding the Key by its oval base, Bromwyn approached the stones. Slowly, walking widdershins, she bent down and tapped the Key against each stone, dead center, exactly once. After each tap, the stone’s light winked out, and at the end, Bromwyn was standing outside a ring of ordinary flat stones that once a year became an extraordinary gateway.

“That’s it?” Rusty called out. “It’s locked now?”

“Yes.” With one last look at the Hill, Bromwyn walked back to Rusty, who was now standing at the far end of the glade. His foppish hat was once again perched atop his head, the brim down at a rakish angle. Bromwyn thought he looked wonderful. She said, “Grandmother used to complain about locking the Door.”

“Why? Did she hate to see the fairies leave?”

“The bending was murder on her back.”

Rusty grinned. “No wonder she’s always in such a foul mood.”

“No,” Bromwyn said, slipping the Key into her pocket, “that is just her temperament.”

“You shouldn’t keep that in your pocket. It could fall out.”

“Or get stolen,” she said dryly.

“Oh, no worries about that. If there’s one person’s pockets I avoid, it’s yours.”

“I always suspected that you were smart.” A huge yawn cracked her jaw.

“Don’t do that,” Rusty scolded, yawning in return. “Damn me, I could sleep for a week.”

She smiled tiredly. “Saving the village is exhausting work.”

“You’re right. Let’s not do it again.” Rusty offered his hand to her. “Come on, let’s head back. Maybe there’s time for a nap before everything returns to normal.”

Normal.
The word didn’t seem a good fit for her life any longer. She had so many questions that flitted in her mind, half-formed and ticklish like will o’ the wisps. The King and Queen had said unsettling things, disturbing things that made Bromwyn’s skin turn cold just thinking about them.

Fey magic courses through your veins.

The fey lied, but they also told the truth. The problem was determining which was which.

And then there was the small matter of being in love with a boy who was decidedly not the man to whom she was promised to marry in a few months’ time.

The only saving grace was that she was too tired to think properly, let alone fret. At the moment, the only concern she had was getting home before she fell asleep standing up.

So she entwined her fingers around Rusty’s, and the two of them slowly made their way back to the village.

TO FAIL A TEST

Bromwyn slept fitfully. Dreams plagued her, causing her to twitch and mutter, and when she awoke a bare few hours after she had returned home, she felt as if she’d been run down by one of Master Tiller’s oxen. Her head throbbed mercilessly, and it was much too heavy for her neck. With a groan, she swung her legs off of her straw-filled mattress, fighting the blankets that had tangled around her limbs. When she pulled herself to her feet, the room began to sway.

If there was no rest for the wicked, as she’d heard it said, then those of good intent fared little better.

She didn’t understand why she felt as if she were still wrestling with her sheets until she looked down, and nearly lost her balance from the effort. Fire and Air, her head really
was
too heavy! As she steadied herself, she realized that she was still wearing her mother’s blue dress, and she vaguely recalled being too exhausted to strip out of it. The garment was rumpled, possibly even ruined, and the girdle that had done such interesting (and rather embarrassing) things to her bosom had loosened and now was slung around her hips. When she raised her hand to brush away a snarl of hair, it felt as if a wet cat had taken up residence atop her head, and she moaned as she recalled all of the pins and combs and nameless things that had been glued into her thick tresses.

At least she’d had enough sense to kick off her shoes before she’d fallen into her bed.

Eyes stinging, head pounding, she pushed aside the curtain that separated her room from the main part of the dwelling. Her mother had not yet set up shop for the day—no fine cloth covered the large table in the center of the floor, and no candles had yet been lit. Indeed, Jessamin’s cards were nowhere in sight.

Bromwyn could not recall the last time her mother did not have the shop that was their home ready for a customer’s visit.

Jessamin stood by the fire pit in the corner, filling a teapot with water from the cauldron. She glanced over at Bromwyn as the curtain settled back into place, and she smiled fondly at her daughter.

“Good morning!” she said brightly. “Yes, it is still morning, albeit barely. Today I would have let you sleep until tonight. You deserve to sleep in, after your activities overnight. Why are you up so soon? You have barely been abed for four hours!”

Bromwyn opened her mouth to reply, but her mother continued:

“Poor girl. Last night’s finery is this morning’s misery. Let me help you get untangled. Just as well, for the tea needs time to steep. There are three things that simply cannot be rushed: childbirth, cooking, and steeping tea.”

Bromwyn could barely keep up with her mother’s words. She blinked sleepily and said, “What—?”

But Jessamin had already set the teapot onto the table and hurried over to her daughter, clucking over the state of her dress. “The girdle may be saved, but the gown is fit only for burning. The shoes—please tell me you brought back the shoes? Yes? Good—clearly, the shoes left their marks on your feet, if there are indeed feet somewhere beneath all the dirt. By Nature’s grace, Daughter, how do you get yourself so filthy? Is it some innate talent of yours, or do you practice at it? And your hair—well. Let us start with that, shall we?”

It took the better part of an hour for her mother to loosen the thick tresses of hair from their prison. Then she helped her daughter free herself from her clothing and filled the large tub for her to bathe, being sure to include herbs to soften the skin and perfume the air. When Bromwyn protested that she would simply get dirty again when she helped the villagers clean up after the destructive Midsummer night, Jessamin threatened to scrub her like a baby.

So Bromwyn bathed. And she pondered.

When the water cooled, she stepped out of the tub and dried herself, first her body, which was quick, and then her hair, which was not. Soon she was dressed and once again in the large room. Her mother offered her a cup of tea, which she gratefully accepted. It tasted like wildflowers and sugar, and for a moment, she remembered the overwhelming scent of honeysuckle after a spring rain.

Do you think,
the Queen had asked idly,
that she will follow in her mother’s footsteps?

Bromwyn sipped her tea and looked at her mother, who sat across from her. Fine lines had been etched upon Jessamin’s brow, and deeper ones crinkled at the corners of her eyes. Her black hair, pulled into its numerous braids that didn’t quite reached her shoulders, was peppered with white.

It had begun to turn two years ago, right after Bromwyn had used her magic in anger.

Shadows bruised the skin beneath Jessamin’s eyes, and though she was smiling, Bromwyn saw that her smile was just a pantomime of happiness. Beneath it, her pain was all too clear. The years without her magic and her love had left their mark upon her.

“I am afraid I have lost your books,” Bromwyn said sheepishly. “As everything happened last night, I accidentally left them in the Allenswood. By dawn, they were gone. I am truly sorry.”

Jessamin waved off the apology. “Pish-tosh. I do not care to think of the fey, so their absence does me a favor. So, you have passed your test.” She smiled proudly, though there was a touch of sadness at the corners. “I knew you would pass. You are a better witch than I ever was.”

Embarrassed, Bromwyn murmured, “Thank you.”

“Well.” Jessamin clapped her hands once. “You must speak with your grandmother as soon as your tea is finished. She will tell you what is to happen next with your studies.”

“But the village needs to be cleaned up after what happened overnight.”

“That has been under way for hours. Let the others do what they can to help the village return to normal. You have already played your part.” She reached over and gently brushed aside an errant lock of hair from Bromwyn’s forehead. “Besides, your grandmother is expecting you.”

Bromwyn nodded and sipped her tea, and she regretted what she needed to do next.

Life could be cruel, her mother had said yesterday, and fate could be crueler still. But truth, Bromwyn decided, could be the cruelest of all.

It was time for her to be cruel.

She set her cup upon the table. “The King and Queen spoke of you,” she said slowly. “They spoke terrible things. I must ask you, Mother, if they were true things.”

Something dark passed over Jessamin’s face. “Have you learned nothing from your grandmother? The fey lie. That is what they do: They lie and trick and steal.”

“They said I had fey blood in my veins.”

Her mother hissed a startled breath, and then she closed her eyes.

“Please,” Bromwyn implored. “Do not leave me with their vague accusations. Tell me what they meant.”

Jessamin bowed her head so that her short braids hid her face. When she finally spoke, she didn’t look at her daughter.

“It started with a boy,” she said, her voice thick. “A beautiful boy from Mooreston. He was the weaver’s apprentice there. I saw him time and again, when your grandmother and I would meet with Old Gilla and her apprentice to parley and share castings.”

In all of Bromwyn’s years as an apprentice, she had never been invited to travel with Niove to meet other witches. She pretended that her mother’s words did not sting.

“I was a poor student,” Jessamin admitted, “and tended to steal away the first chance I could. Oh, how that vexed your grandmother. She had many words for me after I would do such a thing. And yet, she always brought me to Mooreston, and I would always sneak away to the brook and dip my feet into the cold water. The fish would come close and nibble like quick kisses upon my toes. That is where he found me one afternoon. Oren.”

Bromwyn stirred. That was her father’s name.

“We talked. We laughed. He, too, enjoyed the feeling of the fish tickling his toes, and we sat with our bare feet splashing in the brook. When I returned home, my thoughts were full of the weaver’s apprentice.” Her mother paused. “Have you ever worked a casting from the Way of the Heart, Daughter?”