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  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.

  Month9Books and its related logo are registered trademarks of Month9Books, LLC.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For questions about this novel, or its author, you may contact us at Month9Books, LLC. 4208 Six Forks Road Suite 1000 10th Floor, Raleigh, North Carolina 27609

  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.

  But nothing had stopped the fey from coming to greet her.

  She grinned with delight. A real pixie was right there, outside the cottage! Bromwyn ran to the window and pressed her face against it.

  Separated by glass and magic, the two stared at each other. The tiny creature stroked the window as if she could touch Bromwyn’s cheek. The girl tried the window latch, but her hand was slapped away by her grandmother’s spell.

  Rubbing her sore fingers, she cried, “Let me out!”

  The pixie cocked her head. “Big ward,” she said, her voice clear even from the other side of the window. “Too big for Nala.”
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  Bromwyn uttered a very un-witchlike word.

  “Let Nala in,” the pixie said. “The Whitehair is no fun. You would be fun, yes? We could play together. Let Nala in, witch girl. Let Nala in.”

  “If you could get in,” Bromwyn said reasonably, “then I could get out. And I cannot get out.”

  “The Whitehair forces you to stay?”

  Frustrated, Bromwyn nodded.

  “Why?”

  “She says that I need boundaries, that I need protection.” She stamped her foot once again. “She thinks that I am still a baby!”

  “A babe?” Nala pursed her lips as she floated. “You still suckle milk?”

  Bromwyn wrinkled her nose. “Of course not. But Grandmother treats me like a baby. She will keep locking me up until I am as old as she is, and I will live my life without having any fun at all!”

  “But why do you need protection? Are you not a witch like the Whitehair?”

  “Thank you, yes, I am! And no, I do not need protection. But that does not matter to Grandmother. She decided that I cannot get out. And in this house,” Bromwyn said, mimicking her grandmother’s voice, “you obey Niove Whitehair’s rules!”

  “Rules.” Nala sighed mournfully. “Always there are rules.”

  “Always rules,” Bromwyn agreed with a sigh of her own. “And the most important rule is ‘Never argue with Grandmother.’”

  “We have rules, too, witch girl. Magic means rules. You and Nala, we are quite alike.” Then the pixie brightened. “But your granddam, the Whitehair, she is not here at the moment.”

  Bromwyn pouted. “No. She is with your kin in the woods, having all sorts of fun.” Then, with a touch of pride, she added, “My grandmother is the Guardian, you know.”

  “Oh, Nala knows. Often the King and Queen bespeak her name with much color and venom. Nala thinks,” she added in a whisper, “that they think the Whitehair an equal, though they never say this, and certainly not to Nala.”

  Bromwyn considered Nala’s words, then nodded. “Grandmother is the Wise One of our village. So I suppose she could be the equal of the King and Queen.”

  “Strong as she is,” Nala said, her gemstone eyes twinkling with mischief, “she is not here at the moment. You cannot argue with her if she is not here, no?”

  Bromwyn smiled in anticipation. “No.”

  “What was her rule to you tonight, witch girl? What were her exact words that are keeping you bound within the abode?”

  “Exact words … ” Bromwyn frowned as she remembered. “She said that nothing could enter the cottage without her leave, and that I could not escape.” She spread her arms wide, taking in the entire room. “And I cannot. I tried the windows, the doors, the chimney, even the trap door under the floorboard in the kitchen, the one she thinks I do not know about. Everything is stuck tight.”

  “Stuck tight,” Nala said, nodding. “Nala cannot enter: that is a rule. You cannot escape: that is another rule. But you can simply leave.”

  Bromwyn blinked. “I can?”

  Nala grinned. “Surely. She did not say you could not leave the abode. She said you could not escape the abode. So do not try to escape. Just walk out. The rule is not broken, and the ward remains intact.”

  Biting back a premature cry of hope, Bromwyn walked out of her small bedroom and into the kitchen, heading for the door that led out into the backyard. By the wooden door, Bromwyn paused, her hand hovering over the knob as Nala had hovered by her window.

  What would happen if she broke her grandmother’s ward? The name Niove Whitehair was spoken in whispers by even the bravest of souls. Her magic was powerful, and she was feared by most and respected by all. And she had no sense of humor.

  Swallowing, Bromwyn tried not to think of possible consequences. Instead, she focused on the pixie’s words.

  Aloud, she said, “Grandmother did not say I could not leave the cottage. She said I could not escape. I am not breaking her rule. I am not trying to escape. I am simply leaving.”

  Taking a deep breath, Bromwyn turned the knob and opened the door.

  With a laugh, she leapt outside. Her long hair billowed around her like a cape as she turned in circles, thrilling in the feel of the wind on her face, of the spongy grass beneath her bare feet. Her dress fanned out as she spiraled across her grandmother’s lawn, and her delighted giggles filled the air, momentarily drowning out the chortles from the Midsummer Festival deep within the woods.

  The sound of clapping brought her to a halt. Nala continued applauding as she darted by Bromwyn’s head. “You are free, witch girl!”

  “I am! Thank you, friend Nala! Thank you for your help!”

  “Rules are easy to follow,” the pixie said with a shrug, “if you are certain of the words. This is why you must always be careful of what you say. Now come! Let us play! Catch Nala if you can, witch girl!”

  So Bromwyn gave chase, laughing as she ran after Nala’s tiny flying form. They darted through the Allenswood, Nala flitting between branches heavy with green foliage and Bromwyn capering after her on foot, skirting roots and other obstacles as best she could. After tripping for a third time, Bromwyn used her magic to create globes brighter than any candle and peppered them among the trees. She did not worry about accidentally setting the leaves afire; these were merely illusions of light, giving off brightness but no heat. That was the Way of Sight, and it was Bromwyn’s path of magic.

  “The witch girl cannot see in the dark?” Nala asked, fluttering near Bromwyn’s head.

  “The witch girl is not a cat,” Bromwyn declared. “Though she is about to catch you!” She swatted at Nala, barely missing the pixie’s wings.

  Laughing, the two set off once again, Nala buzzing around trees and Bromwyn chasing after. It didn’t matter that they went deeper and deeper into the woods; where Nala went, Bromwyn would follow. She would catch the pixie, and then it would be Nala’s turn to catch her. They would spend the night playing tag, Bromwyn decided, and it would be the beginning of their own annual tradition. Let her grandmother have the rest of the fey; Bromwyn would have Nala. Soon they would become the best of friends, and over the years, they would share secrets and stories, and they would discover new things together. Bromwyn knew that she had made a lifelong friend this night.

  Magic could be lonely, but now that didn’t matter. Bromwyn had found a kindred spirit.

  Exuberant from her stolen freedom and new friendship, Bromwyn didn’t realize that she had stumbled upon the Midsummer Festival until she nearly careened into the stoic form of her grandmother.

  A WISH FOR A WITCH

  Skidding to a halt, Bromwyn stared up at Niove Whitehair.

  Taller than almost everyone, and older than anyone, her grandmother loomed like a dead tree—frightening, bent, radiating menace. Like Bromwyn’s, her hair was uncut, and it draped over her shoulders and down her back to her ankles, thicker than any cloak could be, like cold moonlight against the severity of her black shawl and dress. Her gaze bore into Bromwyn, and the young witch flinched from the combination of rage and disappointment she saw simmering there.

  “Bromwyn Elmindrea Lucinda Moon,” Niove hissed, her voice like death, “what are you doing out of the cottage?”

  Upon hearing her full name, Bromwyn knew that she was in more trouble than she could have ever imagined. In a blink, the globes she had created disappeared. Yet there was still ample light; her grandmother had seen to that. Pinpoints of luminescence twinkled in the trees, as if stars had been caught in the boughs. It was a beautiful effect, and under other circumstances, Bromwyn would have clapped her hands in pleasure.

  Instead, she bit her lip. Then she admitted, “I was playing with a pixie.”

  Now Bromwyn clearly heard the shouts and laughter and buzzing of the fey. She risked a glance past her grandmother to the clearing behind her, and her gaze fixed upon the Hill, standing with its circle of stones at the top.

  Even with the looming danger of her enraged grandmother, Bromwyn couldn’t help b
ut think: I am here! Midsummer is dancing around me, and I am here in the center of it!

  Above the stones on the Hill, the outline of a door—or, more accurately, a Door—shimmered with fey magic. The World Door was open, as it always was during the Midsummer Festival, and swarming around it were hundreds of flying creatures. Some were as small as Nala, flitting between leaves and plants, playing hide-and-go-seek with the birds. Others were human-sized, flying heavily with their thin wings. Some were frighteningly large. But no matter their size, each of them looked the same: a mop of blond hair, shockingly blue eyes, swathed in flowers instead of clothes. Some were men and some were women—and some looked rather like both—but all of them were alike. A few of them pointed at her; others waved, beckoning her to come play with them. She tried to find Nala, but it was impossible to spy one pixie amid the fey horde.

  “Bromwyn,” her grandmother snarled, “pay attention!”

  Bromwyn gasped, then looked at Niove. It was one thing to ignore her grandmother’s ire. It was another thing altogether to get caught doing so. Bromwyn’s cheeks burned with embarrassment.

  “You are not ‘playing with a pixie.’” Niove’s eyes narrowed. “What you are doing, girl, is disobeying me.”

  Disobeying. In other words, she was breaking the rules.

  Bromwyn chewed her lip as she looked down at her bare feet. Around her, she could hear the fey whispering, and they seemed to say:

  Rules. Your granddam is full of rules. You will never be free of them.

  You will never be free of her.

  Bromwyn’s nostrils flared. By Fire and Air, she was sick of all of the rules. “Do not do this.” “Never say that.” “Grandmother is always right.” Well, enough. No matter how her grandmother treated her, she was not a baby—she could make her own decisions.

  She lifted her chin boldly. “I am not disobeying. You forbade me to escape the cottage. And I did not escape. I walked out.”