I will be back after the Door has opened tonight. I expect to see things well under control. You are to be the Wise One of Loren. In my absence, you will act the part.
N.
“Fire and Air,” Bromwyn whispered.
She did not feel her knees give way—one moment she was standing and reading; the next, she was seated on the floor, hearing her heart beating wildly in her chest, beating the way the fey drums would be beating later that night in the dark of the forest. She thought she heard Rusty calling her name, but she could not answer him.
And if you succeed, you will keep your magic.
Her test of Witchcraft was upon her. Here, now.
And she had no idea what she was supposed to do.
SEEKING HELP
“Winnie? Winnie, what’s wrong?”
Bromwyn tried to catch her breath, but it was elusive as smoke. How could this be her test? She did not even understand what “this” was—it had been Rusty who had stolen the Key; Rusty, therefore, was the Guardian, not she. So what, exactly, was her test?
“Right, now you’re scaring me. Can you hear me?”
She blinked once, and then she turned her head to stare at her friend. Rusty was crouching next to her, waving his hand in front of her eyes.
“Winnie?” His voice sounded small and scared.
“Yes,” she said.
He breathed out a “whew,” and he grinned at her. “You scared me! You all but fainted, and then you wouldn’t answer me. I thought maybe your granny had put a spell on her house against trespassers.”
Her grandmother had, in fact, done such a thing—a particularly inventive and nasty spell at that. But Bromwyn saw no reason to mention it to Rusty. Instead she said, “Grandmother left me a note, and it … startled me.”
Rusty plucked it from her numb fingers, and as he read it, his face blanched until he was whiter than the village laundress’s fabled sheets. Finally he said, “Damn me,” and sat down hard on the floor next to Bromwyn. “This is bad.”
“Indeed.” Her voice was a bare squeak.
“So I’m stuck babysitting the fairies.”
Fire bubbled in her stomach. How could he sound so flippant? So careless? But then, he was careless, wasn’t he? Her eyes narrowed as she silently raged at her friend. It was Rusty’s carelessness that had gotten him into this situation, his mad desire to steal his way out of his birthright that had put him right here in her grandmother’s cottage.
Rusty had done this to himself—but she was tied to it.
“Yes,” she snarled. “You are the Guardian. Nature help us all.”
He ignored her bluster, which made her want to scream. Eyes on her grandmother’s note, he asked, “What’s this part about you keeping your magic?”
Her face twisted into a grimace. “None of your concern.”
“Now, Winnie—”
“Do not ‘Now, Winnie’ me!” She glared at him, and somehow she managed to lower her voice. Barely. “You do not study magic. You know nothing about the Ways of Witchcraft. It is not your concern!” She realized that she was shouting, so she clamped her mouth shut and fumed.
His gaze burned into hers, and she saw unspoken thoughts dancing behind his eyes.
“You are my concern, Bromwyn Darkeyes.” He snorted and shook his head. “You don’t want to tell me, fine. What sort of friend would I be if I didn’t at least ask about your witchy things?”
Bromwyn swallowed the lump in her throat. Rusty truly cared about her. He had no casual contempt of her way of life, no easy talk of “deviltry.” He was so very different from Brend, from the man she was bound to by a promise she had not made but was required to keep. Brend might protect her, as her mother insisted he would, from threats unknown, but he would never care about her. It would be a loveless marriage, filled only with uneasy stillness and cruel silence.
As if to mock her, Jessamin’s words echoed in her mind: Life is cruel, Daughter. And fate is crueler still.
She blinked away a sudden rush of tears.
Stop that! she scolded herself. This is not the time, not the place! Not that it ever would be. She was as trapped in her upcoming marriage as Rusty was in his upcoming role as Guardian.
Turning her head, she dabbed at her eyes.
“Oh … hey now. Don’t go and cry like that.”
She felt him put his arm over her shoulders, and now he patted her awkwardly.
“There there, Winnie. It’ll be fine. You’ll see. Please don’t cry.”
“I am not crying,” she said, angrily blotting her tears. “Witches do not cry.”
“No,” he said, and she could hear the grin in his voice. “Of course not. Witches also melt in the rain, and they live in candy houses. I’ve read the stories.”
She smiled through her sniffles. “I wish the candy houses part was true.”
“But not the melting in the rain?”
“It would make bathing rather inconvenient.” She sniffled again. “Thank you. I am all right. Just … feeling overwhelmed.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “Completely understandable, as I’m feeling the same way.”
They both climbed to their feet, and Bromwyn took the note back from Rusty. As she reread it, her panic returned. Her test, here and now.
Was it as simple as her keeping her temper in check? By Nature’s grace, was that it? If she refused to get angry, would that be enough?
No, she realized, for her grandmother specifically mentioned she also had to think clearly while among the fey. Granted, that could be nothing more than good advice all around. But the last part of the note was truly problematic: Bromwyn was supposed to remember “what the fey value most.”
As far as she knew, that was a toss-up between human children and human flesh.
She crushed the note in her fist. As ludicrous as it seemed, Rusty playing Guardian was clearly part of her test to be a Wise One. Should she fail, though, it would be more than just her own magic at stake. If she and Rusty made a wrong move beneath the watchful gaze of the fey King and Queen, the results would be devastating for all of Loren. The fey would return every night for a year—and they would steal away all of the village’s children, among other things.
And who could say whether they would limit themselves to one small village?
She pressed her lips together. Rusty couldn’t fail. She wouldn’t let him.
And she would pass her test, whatever it was. Somehow.
“Come,” she said, shoving the crumpled note into the large pocket of her dress. “We have to return to the village.”
“For what?”
“To speak to the only other person I know who has had any interaction with the fey.”
“Who’s that?” He smiled hopefully. “I don’t suppose it’s Jalsa, by any chance?”
She returned the smile, showing far too many teeth. “Sorry, my boy. We need to speak to my mother.” Bromwyn was certain that Jessamin would help them.
* * *
But her mother had other ideas.
“There is nothing I can do,” Jessamin insisted.
Her mother sat at her cloth-covered table, ready to smile at anyone who entered her shop. Her cards were laid out in a pattern before her, their vivid colors winking in the candlelight. On a bright day such as today, she didn’t need the additional illumination; all the candles really did was make the shop even warmer. But Jessamin swore that her customers expected such trappings when they came to seek their fortune or her advice. Bromwyn thought it was pure foolishness; her mother might as well wear the gaudy shawls and heavy kohl liner of the gypsies if she really wanted to make such an impression. Bromwyn had no patience for such pretense.
She had even less patience for her mother’s dismissal. She said, “But you must help him. I have heard Grandmother mention in passing that you have spent time with the fey—”
“As have you, Daughter.” Jessamin narrowed her eyes at Bromwyn, and when she spoke again, her voice was sour. “You danced with the Ki
ng and even refused a gift from him, and you lived to tell the tale. You are more of an expert on such matters than am I.”
“That was years and years ago,” Bromwyn said angrily. “I do not remember the event properly.”
“Such things happen. Memories can be treacherous.” Her mother’s gaze hardened. “Besides, even if I could help you, I would not. I do not like to think of the fey.”
“If you will not help us,” Bromwyn implored, her voice low, “then Rusty will fail as Guardian tonight.” She darted a glance through the open door. Outside, Rusty was watching one of the mudrats shilling villagers in a shell game. The red-haired boy slouched against her mother’s shop wall, his large hat perched over his eyes as if he were dozing, but Bromwyn knew that he was keenly attuned to every move of the street child’s hands. Learning. Scheming. Determined to be a thief, no matter what the consequences.
Her mother sniffed and she flipped a card. “That is his problem.”
Bromwyn turned to gape at Jessamin. “This is more important than your petty hatreds, Mother!”
“Petty.” Jessamin spat the word. “You do not know that of which you speak.”
“Of course I do!” Bromwyn said, stomping her foot. “If he fails, all of Loren will suffer! And for what? To appease your wounded pride? To soothe your own hurts of long ago, whatever they were?”
Jessamin slammed her hand on her table, and her cards scattered.
Bromwyn did not flinch, nor did she tear her gaze away from her mother’s brooding eyes. They stared at each other, the air between them thick with unspoken words and emotions too complex to properly name.
It was Bromwyn who broke the silence first. “You must help us,” she said plainly. “You simply must, no matter how you feel about it.”
“I must do nothing of the sort,” her mother said, expertly gathering her cards. “This is your test, Daughter. Not mine.”
Bromwyn stiffened.
“So you thought I had no idea, is that it? You thought you could just leave that part out of the problem, did you?” Jessamin laughed, and her eyes shone darkly. “Your grandmother spoke of it to me, before she set off to Mooreston this morning. Your test is upon you. You must fend for yourself, Daughter.”
“That is just stupid,” Bromwyn growled. “It was not even I who stole the Key!”
“No matter. Your test has come.”
“Why? It makes no sense!”
Jessamin watched her for a moment, seemed to weigh something in her mind before she began to shuffle her cards.
“It does,” she replied softly. “Eighteen years ago, I was the Guardian during Midsummer. I was tested. And I failed.”
“You … ” Bromwyn closed her mouth, uncertain of what to say.
“Failed. Only your grandmother’s quick thinking kept the fey from overrunning the village. And I … ” Jessamin glanced down at her hands, which were trembling. She set down her cards in a neat pile, then folded her hands across her lap. “And I lost my magic.”
“Mother,” Bromwyn said softly, her voice more tender than it had been in a long, long time. “Please tell me—what happened?”
Jessamin lifted her chin. “I failed, and your grandmother tricked the fey and so kept them in line. That is all you need to know.”
Neither mother nor daughter said anything for a long moment. As the silence grew, Bromwyn felt sorry for Jessamin, for the girl her mother had once been and the woman she had never become. Jessamin had lost her magic, and too few years later, she had lost her husband.
The very least Bromwyn could do was make sure she did not lose her dignity as well. So Bromwyn bowed her head and murmured her apology for causing such distress.
Hasty words, she thought as she turned away. Again, I spoke hasty words.
Lately, it seemed all she did was shout or want to shout at her mother. Perhaps her curse would come again. Perhaps it already had, and that was why her test was upon her now, at the worst possible time she could imagine.
It is so unfair, she thought bitterly. But as she was realizing more and more, even when things were unfair, life continued on. Nature had other concerns than the complaints of one witch.
She was halfway out the door before her mother cleared her throat and spoke.
“Your grandmother mentioned that you should teach your friend what you can about the fey. Take my books and help him study. I am certain that with you by his side, your friend will do quite well.”
Bromwyn turned to face her mother, dipping her head in acknowledgement of Jessamin’s offer. “Thank you,” she said sincerely. The books wouldn’t solve their problems, but they would at least be helpful—a handful of them would provide Rusty with the primer he needed to handle himself around the fey.
“And Daughter? You will do better at your test than I.”
Her voice a strangled whisper, Bromwyn said, “How can you know?”
Jessamin smiled, and her entire face softened as her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “Because you are my daughter, and I know what you are capable of. My girl, you can do marvelous things. Believe in yourself, for I believe in you.”
Then Bromwyn forgot about being sixteen and almost married, and she ran to her mother’s side and bent down to hug her tightly, as if that simple act of love could banish all her fears. When Jessamin hugged her just as tightly, everything was right with the world.
Then the moment passed, and the two broke away.
“Go, take what you need,” her mother said. “And take my blessing. And know that I love you.” Then she arched an eyebrow. “And know that it would not kill you to wash your feet before tonight.”
Bromwyn blushed and grinned in equal parts as she strode over to the bookshelf. She rummaged for books about the fey—legend and lore, true accounts and mysteries, poems and songs. As she gathered dusty tomes, she decided right then and there that Rusty, with her help, would be the perfect Guardian. And once Midsummer was done, and the fey were back in their land, and the World Door was once again closed and locked—and Bromwyn passed her test—they would have an entire year to convince Niove to take back the Key.
She nodded to herself. Really, it was quite simple. All she had to do was teach Rusty everything she knew about the fair folk, in roughly eight hours.
And no matter what, she would keep her temper.
Really she would.
MAKING READY
When the sun was an hour’s drop away from nightfall, Bromwyn and Rusty met on the outskirts of Master Tiller’s spelt fields. Some farming tools lay forgotten on the ground—hoes and sickles and spades, probably dropped in people’s haste to get to the center of Loren to take part in the village’s Midsummer Festival. If Master Tiller was like most adults, tomorrow he would have strong words with his workers, assuming that he himself wouldn’t drink so much ale today that he slept clear through tomorrow evening. Midsummer brews tended to be potent, or so Bromwyn had always heard.
The smell of wheat tickling her nostrils, she hefted her large pack and slung it over her shoulder. Then she grimaced. Fire and Air, the sack was heavy! And that was only with five books stuffed inside. Why did the truly important tomes have to be thick enough to crush bugs?
Well, no matter, she told herself. Far more important than her sore back was the chance to review everything one final time before the World Door opened. Still, her back and shoulder ached miserably. She sighed, resigned. She had tried to spell the books to seemingly make them small enough to fit inside a closed fist, but her back had known the difference. No illusion would be strong enough to counter the weight of words. If only she were able to transport the books by using her magic …
But no, only those of fey blood could fold the air itself and push an object from one place to another by magic alone. The thought made Bromwyn mope.
Her voice curt, she asked Rusty, “You have the blanket?”
“Yes.”
“And the bread?”
“Yes.”
“And the cheese? And the berries? A
nd the nuts? And the—”
“Yes,” Rusty said. “And everything you asked for, I’ve got. My mam even threw in some of those sticky buns you love so much.” He lowered his voice to mock-whisper: “I think she likes you!”
More likely, Mistress Baker was terrified of her, based on how the woman paled whenever Bromwyn visited the bakery. Before Bromwyn had been apprenticed to her grandmother, Rusty’s mother used to give her a packet of sugar cookies for no reason other than to make her smile. “You have a lovely smile, you do,” she’d say, handing Bromwyn the treats. But once the cartomancer’s daughter had become Lady Witch, the sugar cookies disappeared, as if by magic.
But Bromwyn didn’t want to think about how Mistress Baker feared her. “You did not get in trouble for stealing away during the Midsummer rush?”
“Well, yes,” he admitted. “Da’s threatened to do me in with his rolling pin after the big cleanup tomorrow, but I’m more than half certain he isn’t serious. Mam, though—she cried. Said I’ve broken her heart.” He sighed sadly, and then he perked up. “But once I told her of the things I needed, she was happy to help.”
Bromwyn frowned at him. “She did not ask any questions?”
Rusty’s teeth gleamed as he grinned. “Of course she did. She’s a woman, isn’t she? Questions are as natural to a woman as curiosity is to a cat.”
“Is that so?” she said dryly.
“Indeed. And it’s not like I could say to her, ‘Mam, I have to impress a bunch of fairy lords and ladies, so can you please fill my basket with any leftovers from this afternoon’s trays.’ What with fairies not being real, of course.”
“Of course.”
“So I did the only thing I could to get out of cleanup after the big Midsummer Festival and still get us what we needed.” He smiled, and Bromwyn saw a dimple in his right cheek.
Her face warmed as she stared at the tiny flaw. How had she never noticed it before? By Nature’s grace, he looked adorable when he smiled so …
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