To Bear an Iron Key Read Online Free PDF Page B

powdered sugar to turn his hair pink.
    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