As she walked past the bakery, she felt a soft nudge against her back.
Her hand whipped out behind her, and she grabbed hold. There was a yelp as she yanked her arm forward, and now in front of her was a mudrat of a child, whom she held by one skinny arm.
He blinked wide brown eyes at her, looking like quite the waif as he obviously prepared to give her a sad tale of parents lost and an empty belly forcing him to steal. Then something passed over his dirty face, and his eyes became glassy with fear.
“Lady Witch,” he stuttered. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know it was you! I swear it!”
She released him, but he stood rooted to the spot. Maybe one day, she would appreciate people’s fear of her, as her grandmother insisted again and again. But right now, all it did was make her feel tired, and uneasy, and very much the monster.
“Usually the long hair is a dead giveaway,” she said with a smile that she hoped was soothing.
But the child paled, and she realized her mistake. She could have kicked herself for the poor choice of words.
“I,” he said. “I. I.”
“You,” she prodded gently.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean! Here!” He thrust something at her—a small roll of bread, probably snatched just moments ago from one of the bakery shelves.
“Please,” she said, “this is not necessary…”
“Take it,” he shrieked, dropping it into her hand.
She closed her fingers around the roll and he took off, fleeing down the dirt-packed street and rounding a corner that would eventually lead toward the docks, as if he could outrun her magic had she chosen to lay a Curse on him.
She sighed. Stupid mudrat.
Breaking off a small piece of the roll, she popped the morsel into her mouth. The bread was indeed fresh, and still warm, and she enjoyed the snack as she walked on. As she chewed, she thought about turning back toward the bakery to say hello to Rusty.
She smiled wryly. Had she seen him, he would have made a joke about her bare feet, or about how he was thinner than she was, or about her hair being so long that it was practically a dress. Rusty always teased her. If it were anyone else saying such things to her, Bromwyn would have gotten angry—not that the others in the village treated her like an ordinary girl, but if they had, she was certain she would have scolded them until her tongue bled. But with Rusty, she didn’t get angry. Instead, she teased back. True, there were times when she threatened to turn him into a toad, but that was only when he was being particularly thickheaded. He couldn’t help himself; after all, he was a boy.
Lost in thoughts of the red-haired apprentice baker, Bromwyn also lost track of where she was until a clanging sound jostled her. She blinked, and her nostrils flared. The reek of charcoal overwhelmed the scent of fresh bread, and when she swallowed the last bite of her roll, the food tasted faintly of ashes.
She had arrived at the forge.
There stood Brend, soot-covered and sweaty, forcing metal to his will as he hammered some weapon or other against an anvil. He had eschewed his shirt, as usual, and beneath the leather apron that covered his chest, his muscles bulged. Brend was a strong man of eighteen, and Bromwyn had no doubt that he would become even stronger as he grew older. He cut an imposing figure, and if she had truly been concerned about her own protection, then she would have looked no further than Brend Underhill, apprentice of Nick Ironside.
But she did not want protection. She wanted love, eventually. For now, she wanted freedom.
No matter; she was not to have either.
The familiar bitterness welled up in her belly, and she forced it down. Brend had been one of the village children she had grown up with, all of them playing together and filling the streets with shouts of laughter. But once she had become apprenticed to her grandmother, those children, including Brend, looked the other way when she would walk by. Out of all of them, only Rusty had remained true; only Rusty still laughed with her and teased, not caring that she was a witch who could spell him into a toad.
Out of all of them, Brend had been the first to walk away.
At the age of ten, Bromwyn had learned how easy it was to be hurt by those she cared about, and how quickly friends could become strangers.
But none of that mattered now. Standing in the doorway of the forge, her eyes already watering from the charcoal dust riding the air, Bromwyn stretched her mouth into a proper smile. Perhaps this morning, Brend would be civil. Most of the villagers let their grudges and prejudices pass on a festival day, and today (well, tonight) was Midsummer.
Nostrils crisping from the fumes and the heat, she called out, “Good morning, Sir Smith.”
Brend stiffened, then glanced over his shoulder to regard her. At least now he met her dark gaze; when they had first been betrothed a year ago, he had barely been able to glance in her direction. Either he had grown bolder regarding her, or he simply was too busy to bother with showing his unease around her. Bromwyn didn’t mind either possibility. Anything was better than being feared by the one she was supposed to marry.
Her stomach pitched from the thought of her upcoming wedding, and she ground her teeth together to keep smiling.
After an indeterminable amount of time passed, he acknowledged her and said, “Lady Witch.” As always, his tone was proper, and cold, and completely out of place with the heat of the hearth fire in its pit. He gripped his hammer tight enough to whiten his knuckles, and the set of his shoulders showed he was ready for violence. Beneath him, his anvil gleamed as it caught the firelight. Voice tight, Brend asked, “What brings you to the forge this morning?”
Bromwyn kept her smile in place. “As every morning, I simply wished to see you and bid you a good day.”
“Lady Witch is too kind.”
“My mother sends her regards.”
“Do extend my thanks.”
“She thinks highly of your master,” Bromwyn said, grasping for conversation. And it was true; Jessamin always spoke fondly of Old Nick, praising his strong arm and stoic character. That was why, she had said many a time over the past year, Jessamin had matched her daughter with his apprentice.
There was a pause, as heavy as the dusty air. Bromwyn had reached the limit of small talk; anything further would be prying.
Fire and Air, why did the man have to make this so difficult?
She asked, “Where is Master Smith this morning? Surely not preparing for Midsummer.” The thought of the village blacksmith taking part in the afternoon’s festivities was enough to make her lips twitch in a sudden smile. Old Nick was not one to do anything even remotely considered fun. He was like her grandmother in that regard.
“Off to the smelter’s for ore.”
She floundered for conversation. “And that is not something for the apprentice?”
His eyes punched a hole through her. “What Master Smith deems appropriate for his apprentice is surely no concern of yours.”
She felt a blush smack her face, the embarrassment more brutal than the forge’s heat. “I meant no disrespect. I was only curious.”
“It’s not your business,” he said abruptly, thrusting his tools into a vat of liquid. Over the hiss, he said, “As I don’t ask you about your deviltry, so you won’t ask me about my work.”
“Deviltry?” she echoed, stunned. “Surely you joke.”
He scowled at her. “Magic isn’t natural.”
“Magic is more natural than blending metals at inhuman temperatures,” she said, her voice rising, “more natural than forcing iron to your will. I never force Nature to do anything, unlike you with your hammer!”
Sparks crackled in the fire pit as the two betrothed glared at each other.
“This is a mockery,” she said at last. “Will you not speak with your mother? Why should we be thrust into a marriage neither of us wants?”
He growled, “A son does what his parents ask. Maybe a witch doesn’t bother with such things.”
“Our differences are too great,” she said through c
lenched teeth. “It cannot work.”
He shrugged, an easy roll of his massive shoulders, but his expression belied the movement. “We have no say in the matter.”
She wanted to scream, to grab his hammer and hurl it against the wall. But he was right: They had no say. They were trapped by the decisions of others. The unfairness of it ate at her heart.
Bromwyn managed a curtsey. “Until tomorrow, Sir Smith.”
He nodded, once, and then he showed her his back. It was broad, and peppered with fire scars, and unforgiving.
She fled.
Only when she was atop her mother’s shop, safe on the wooden roof and away from nervous stares and critical gazes, did she allow herself to cry, briefly and silently. Then she called herself three kinds of fool, wiped away her tears, and began to practice her spells. The first attempt fizzled and died before it left her fingertips. The second fared little better. But the third took hold, and magic sparkled as she worked through the movements.
After an hour, all that existed was Bromwyn and her magic; nothing else mattered. She was focused. Determined. She would master her emotions, even if she had to turn her heart into stone to do so.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
About the Author
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