The wonderful Ariel Burgess, who is responsible for the cover of "Damselle in Distress," has created new sketches from various scenes within the novel. One such scene is a small, serene little piece from the chapter called "An Excess of Youth," in which Damselle and Co. have just escaped a rather formidable foe and are on their way to save a friend. They pause to rest and Damselle takes a small venture away from her camp.
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You can read the first three chapters here, or buy the book here. 

From Chapter 11: An Excess of Youth
Kiley Kellermeyer

Feeling somewhat better, if not well-rested, Damselle stood to stretch her aching muscles. The sound of gently running water caught her ear, and she paused. She’d heard similar trickles of water throughout their travels, but never any source. Curious, she grabbed her water skin and followed the sound.

There in a bright green clearing was a small, round water basin floating in the air. It was full of water; so full, in fact, that pristine water spilled continuously over its edge and upon the grass in a puddle. Where it fell, the grass grew a brighter green. Damselle moved closer with her head cocked to the side. The bright, clear water rippled and appeared to be replacing itself.

Magic. Her skin prickled.

Here's another in the series of images I've been working on! I won't say much about her to avoid spoilers. I will say that this character is not only one of my favorites, but many readers', as well - however 'monstrous' she may be.

To learn more about "Damselle", you can read the first few chapters here and pick up a copy of the book here!

The time is drawing nearer to the release of Damselle in Distress. I'm working on last minute details now! For now, here's Chapter 3, in which Damselle meets a formidable figure on her way to the woods and something worse within them.
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You can check out Chapter 1 here, and Chapter 2 here.

Damselle in Distress
Chapter 3: The Rider
Kiley Kellermeyer
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Damselle and Ixby hurried from the center of Woodswyck. A pink glow was barely visible on the horizon, though they still traveled by laternlight. She was going to find the faery Alyas. She was going to get a new name. Then she was going to come home and live without fear some creature might descend upon her at any moment.

Damselle resituated her bag over her shoulder and headed down a narrow alley strewn with bits of trash. Her mother had said to go into The Willowwax, the enchanted forest outside town, and to do so via the lesser traveled paths. She followed this advice, but the further she walked, the more unease she felt. The tall buildings were crumbling and there were jagged cracks and holes in the dusty road. The whole place smelled like garbage left to rot. She could feel eyes watching from every window. Perhaps it was her imagination, but there seemed to be more shadows here, as if the place lent its occupants more places to skulk.

Ixby seemed to think so, too. He swallowed and said, “Perhaps we should find another way. I don’t like the looks of this place.”

“It’ll be all right,” Damselle said. She wrapped her gray cloak around her. “This is the Red Rider’s Hood. It’s a bit, well, dodgy. We should just hurry and keep our heads down... ” She walked faster.  
“The Red Rider’s what?”

“The Red Rider’s Hood. Father said the place is filled with criminals, and most of the criminals belong to the Red Riders.”

“R-Red Riders? What do they ride?”

“Nothing,” she said. “It is just a name they’ve been given. No one knows why.”

A heavy silence followed and they pressed on. Ixby took to flying around her shoulders and muttering his qualms about the area every so often. Finally, as Damselle turned a corner, she saw the town wall and sighed. “We’ve made it, Ixby. I can see the trees from here. Ixby?”

“What’s it? An Icksy?”

Damselle whirled around to see a short figure covered in a red cloak step out of the shadows, clutching a shuddering Ixby.

“Let—let him go!” Damselle said. She tried to swallow, but her mouth felt dry.

“Or what? Mummsie and daddsie will sic the knights on me?” The woman spoke in a fast, clipped accent, her voice slightly raspy. “Magical creatures fetch a good price on the Black Magic Market. I think I’ll keep the Icksy.”

The woman turned. Damselle was overcome with a dreadful feeling of helplessness. She had no sword, no shield, no flying steed. What under the Stars was she supposed to do? One Red Rider was bad enough, and what if there were more? For one small moment she wondered if Sir Leal was anywhere near. The very thought made her disgusted with herself.  Ixby had left the well because of her and helped her escape twice. She couldn’t abandon him. Damselle inhaled, then rushed the red-cloaked woman. The two grappled for an absurd moment, a tiny woman all in red wriggling away from a thin girl in a green dress.

The woman went down with an ack! but didn’t let go of Ixby. Instead, she squeezed him around the middle, and he squeaked. The Red Rider struggled to get away from Damselle, but Damselle grabbed the hem of the cloak.

“Get your ruddy hands offa me!” the woman growled. “I don’t wanna hurt you, girl, but I will!”

“Let go of Ixby,” Damselle grunted, tugging on the cape.

“Fat chance! Get yourself another creature.” The woman grabbed hold of a nearby doorframe and heaved herself away from Damselle, who tugged on the cloak. The cloak ripped across the shoulder and slid off the woman as she tumbled to the ground. Damselle hopped up and backed away with the red cloak in her hands. As she watched, it slowly knitted itself back together until it was perfectly whole. Damselle gaped at the cloak in her hands, then stared up at the woman standing in front of her. 

The Red Rider before her wore snug, deep red trousers tucked into red boots, with a black shirt and blood red belt. Her body was small and slightly stooped. In the fading moonlight and flickering lanterns, Damselle had the distinct impression the woman was both younger than she appeared and old before her time. Her face was thin and pallid. Several scars puckered her skin at the temples and chin, and thin, stringy hair grew atop her head. Her eyes were pale blue.

“Awful, eh, girl?” the Rider said. “Most horrible thing you ever did see, the monster under the bloody red ridin’ cloak. Well, now you’ve seen. You’ve had a laugh.”

“What?” Damselle said. “No, I—”

“You’ve had your fun,” snapped the woman. “Go tell all your friends.” 

“No, I don’t…” The words died on her lips. Damselle had seen far worse horrors in her life, but none had ever evoked such a sudden feeling of pity. This was no witch or spider or dragon; it was a woman. What had happened to her? 

“Give me that cloak,” the woman said. “It’s mine, and don’t you try nothin’.” Her pale eyes were fixed on the velvety cape in Damselle’s hands, obviously weighing how she might escape with both cloak and Ixby. 

Damselle felt the cloak. It was soft and warm and had a strange scent; not of sweat like she’d expected. It smelled old. “Give me Ixby,” she said, watching the woman cautiously, “and I’ll give you the cloak.”

The Rider frowned and squeezed the Ixby tighter. “Hand it over, girl, and don’t meddle in things you don’t understand. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Damselle tucked the cloak under her arms and glanced around the abandoned stone buildings. “What sort of cloak is this?”

“That’s none of your affair.” 

“It is.” Damselle tried to stand taller. “If you won’t let go of Ixby, I’ll take the cloak for myself.”

The Rider grimaced. “You won’t want to do that, girl. Bah! What do you need an Icksy for, anyway?”

“I can promise I have no other friends to tell of this. Ixby is the only friend I have, Stars help me, though I doubt he’ll want to travel with me after this.”

“Not so, Miss Damselle,” Ixby squeaked from the Rider’s fist. His voice was easily audible in the deserted alley. 

Damselle hugged the cloak to her chest. “With only an Ixby for company, I imagine an invincible cloak would come in handy on my journey.”

The Rider took a step toward Damselle. “Doubt it.” She crossed her arms across her black shirt, muffling Ixby’s objections. “Damselle, eh? Heard that name before. Bad luck, they say.” She studied Damselle for a moment, her posture shifting from anger into alert curiosity. “Stories of a girl what brings trouble wherever she goes. They say all sorts of bad stuff falls down ‘round your ears.” She didn’t look frightened; rather, she cocked her head, furrowed her wispy brow. “They say you’re cursed.”

“They say Red Riders catch children to cook upon their fires. That’s probably a lie,” Damselle said, frowning. “The story about me is true, however. You’d best hand over Ixby so we can be on our way and nothing bad falls down around your ears.’ If not, this cloak should come in very handy against all that bad luck you’ve heard of.”  

The Red Rider pressed her pale lips into a thin line. 

“Fine,” Damselle said. She flung the cloak out in front of her and made to toss it around her shoulders. At that moment, the Rider chucked Ixby into the air, threw herself at Damselle as she cried, “No!”

Damselle braced for the collision. Rather than hitting Damselle, the Rider smacked the cloak from her grasp. It fell to the ground, where it landed in a slimy puddle. Damselle froze by the side of the building, the dim light from above shining on the Rider.

“You want me looks for your own? Never don this cape,” she said. The ghostly pale skin and piercing eyes were unsettling. She reached down, picked up the cloak and flung it over her own shoulders. All the wet and filth upon the garment vanished in an instant.
 
Ixby settled, quivering, onto Damselle’s shoulder as she gaped at the woman and cloak alike. “What sort of cloak is that?” he asked. 

“All evil in velveteen, that’s what it is.” 

“Did it…is that how you…?” Damselle hesitated. 

“Yes.” The Rider crossed her arms and sneered. 

Damselle leaned back against the wall of the building. Against all her better judgment she asked, “How?”

There was a moment of silence as the Red Rider studied her again. She looked as if she were deciding whether to leave or stay and answer. Finally, she spoke. “You join the Red Riders to find camaraderie. Well, that and wealth beyond reckonin’. That’s why everyone joins. In return for your oath, they gave you this bloody red ridin’ cape.” She adjusted the thing upon her shoulders. “Got to wear them always. They won’t rip or tear. They don’t get dirty or wet.” She shivered. “You find comrades and treasure, all right. What they don’t tell you is what the cloak does to you. Oh, it’s dead useful, if that’s what you’re wonderin’. But it takes somethin’ from you. Makes you look like this.” She gestured to her herself. 

Again, as she stood in the most dangerous part of town with a hooded criminal, Damselle felt overcome with pity. This woman was likely wanted for Stars-knew how many crimes, but for just a moment, Damselle wondered if she hadn’t already paid a heavy price. Something about her, or possibly her plight, felt familiar.

“Can you not take off the cloak and leave the Red Rider’s Hood behind?” Damselle asked. 

“Don’t you have any brains? Make it that easy to leave and no one would ever stay. We can’t take the cloaks off, silly girl. Go long without wearin’ the cloak and your life is slowly drained from your body. Remove the cloak and you got ‘bout half a day, maybe, till you die. Got to wear it, got to serve the Riders. Can’t never stop wearin’ it.”

“Spirits preserve me,” Ixby whimpered from Damselle’s shoulder.
 
Damselle stared at the woman in dismay. “It’s cursed,” Damselle whispered. “Sort of like… like…”

“You?” The Rider raised an eyebrow. 

Damselle shifted on the worn cobblestones. “Like my name.”

The woman gave a curt nod and pursed her lips, as if she had expected nothing different. The sky above was beginning to fade into pre-dawn pinkness. The Red Rider was watching her again with an inquisitive gleam in her eye.

“And there’s no way to fix it?” Damselle asked. “There has to be. Somewhere.”

“None I ever heard of. Maybe some faery magic somewhere, but I don’t meet a whole lot of faeries ‘round here to ask ‘em.”

Faery magic. The thought came to Damselle suddenly, then, and escaped her mouth before she had time to think. “I know a faery,” she said. “My faery godmother.”

The Rider snorted. “So?”

“Well.” Damselle wavered, tracing a crack in the ground with the toe of her shoe. Then she spoke quickly in one long breath: “I am on my way to find my faery godmother, and I cannot promise she’ll be welcoming, but she seems to be very powerful, and I’m going to find a way to trade with her to change my cursed name so perhaps she could do something for you, as well.”

Ixby muttered something, but the Rider only gave a disdainful cackle. “You’re a foolish girl. You don’t know a thing about me. I could have trussed you up and cooked you on a fire six times since I’ve been natterin’ on.”

Damselle swallowed, but she did not back away like she wanted to. “But you didn’t.”

“Anyway, I’m not in the habit of followin’ little girls on queer quests, chasin’ after faeries and the like.” 

“All right,” Damselle threw her hands up and turned to hurry from the neighborhood. “It was just a thought, and I’m sorry I had it.” 

The Rider spat on the ground. “Don’t need charity, either.”

Ixby sighed in relief.

“Fine. Have it your way.” Damselle shook her head. It was a foolish idea anyway, pity for a Red Rider. “Let’s go, Ixby.” 

Ixby hopped into the air and followed her toward the woods in the distance. This was a bad way to start her quest. She’d already been accosted by a criminal and Ixby nearly taken, and she hadn’t even left town yet. They made their way through the narrow alleys of the Red Rider’s Hood and toward the town’s eastern exit. The gate was little more than a ruddy, disused archway that led out of Woodswyck. It was silhouetted against the brightening sky and Damselle sped up as she saw its outline. She just had to get out of town and across the field into the woods. Then her quest would really begin. 

“Oi,” said a familiarly raspy voice, and someone jumped out in front of her.

Damselle yelped and stumbled away. “Stars above,” she breathed. “How did you get in front of us?”

The Red Rider from earlier waved her hand indifferently and lowered her hood. “Your faery godmother can get rid of me cloak?”

“I don’t know that,” Damselle said.

“What if she can’t do it? What then?”

Damselle raised an eyebrow. “Then I suppose you’ll have wasted your obviously very valuable time.”

“Hmm.” The Red Rider scrunched her wispy brow, looked over her shoulder, and then back at Damselle. “All right. I’ll come.”

Ixby moaned “Oh no!” and clutched at his tunic. 

“I reckon you’ve got as good a reason as anybody to go chasin’ after a faery,” said the Rider. “If you can do it, I can too.”

“As you know, being in my company is dangerous even at the best of times,” Damselle warned. 

“I ain’t scared of monsters, girl. I am a monster.”

“All right, then,” Damselle said, nodding at the woman. “Do you have a name?”

“’Course I have a name. What sort of fog-brained question is that? ’Fore I joined the Red Riders, I was called Blanchette. Silly ol’ name if ever I heard one,” she said. Then she shrugged her bony shoulders and added, “Everyone calls me Biddy now.”

At that, Damselle marched a very strange company out of Woodswyck and toward the enormous swaying trees of the enchanted Willowwax. The forest was huge and frightening and full of terrible things. It was the one place Damselle truly had no business. It was also the one place she had to go. 

*

Great willow trees swayed in the slight breeze. Their droopy branches reached for Damselle, beckoned her into The Willowwax, and she halted abruptly at the edge of the woods. Ixby, who had been flying behind her, crashed into the back of her head. There was a musky dampness to the air, filled with the smell of wet bark, morning dew, and green leaves. 

“Okay, I can do this.” Damselle rocked back and forth, staring at the inconceivably high tree tops.

“Are you well?” asked Ixby, extricating himself from the mass of deep red curls. 

“Of course.” That was a lie. Dreadful things were said to live in these woods. Horrors with great fangs and snatching claws were rumored to lurk within the forest, dangerous to the luckiest of wanderers.  Now she, Damselle, magnet for misfortune, led two travelers straight into the thick of it. 

“What’d she stop for?” growled Biddy. She stomped up to the forest line and stopped next to Damselle. “I ain’t left the Rider’s Hood to stand outside these ruddy trees. Never been a fan of shrubbery.” 

“Miss Damselle is worried about entering The Willowwax,” squeaked Ixby before Damselle had time to answer. 

 “Most the stuff said ‘bout them woods is a load of poppycock,” said Biddy, turning her hooded face to Damselle. 

“It is not!” said Ixby. “There are beautiful and terribly evil creatures in the woods.” 

Biddy marched closer to Ixby and jabbed a gnarled finger at him. “How’s the Icksy know what’s in the woods?” 

“Because I am a creature of magic!” With a little cough he added, “And I’ve listened to the Wood-Ixbies’ stories.” 

A long, piercing howl from deep in the forest split the air and cut off Biddy’s retort. Ixby jumped and buried himself in Damselle’s hair, shivering so hard he made her head shake. 

“I’ve read a book about The Willowwax,” Damselle said. She crossed her arms across her cloak. “The writer supposedly died of his wounds soon after emerging.”

“A bleedin’ ghost wrote the book, did he?” 

“He compiled the notes while he was in the woods.” Damselle narrowed her eyes, feeling increasingly sorry she’d asked the woman along.

“Pah! Books!” said Biddy. “I trust ’em as far as I can throw ’em.”

“Which I’m assuming would be rather far.”

Biddy sniffed.

“It’s filled with such creatures and trials as you cannot even imagine.” Damselle raised an eyebrow. “Does your cloak protect you from those? Never mind, we will have to enter sooner or later. I know of no other way to find any of the gifts we need to give to Alyas.” 

“Sooner rather than later, then. I’d not fancy seein’ one of me brothers or sisters from the Hood ‘fore we leave,” said Biddy, pointing back toward the border of Woodswyck. 

“Your siblings joined as well?” asked Ixby.

“’Course not,” snorted Biddy. “We’re all considered family in the Hood, and I’m committin’ an act of betrayal here. No, if they turned up now, they would remove me skin along with me cloak. Tempers, they have. Probably make the girl join, too, or die. Then they’d take the Icksy for sellin’ or tradin’. I suppose they’d—”

“Enough!” Damselle said. “I won’t be followed by knights and I won’t be chased by angry Red Riders.” She cast a wary eye back the way they’d come. “I’ll take my chances in the woods. Come on!” 

Damselle left her town behind with single step. The others followed her into the dark shadows of The Willowwax. After several moments of aimless walking and gaping, Ixby tugged on her hair. “Where should we go from here?"

Damselle pulled up short. It was a valid question, and she began to realize she was perhaps not as prepared as she should have been. Her nighttime flight from home had not allowed her a chance to procure a map of the woods, if such a thing existed. She wiggled her shoes around in the dark earth. The ground was soft from the morning dew. Reluctantly, she turned to Biddy. “Have you come here before?”

The Rider shrugged. “A bit, sure. All Riders do.”

“But you know the woods?”

“Not all that well.” She shrugged again. “We only just come past the border. To meet the smugglers, and we got to keep away from the bloody woodsmen that lurk about. Killjoys, the lot of ’em.”

Damselle sighed and began walking again. “I think we should look for the faery’s tale first.”

“Faery tale? Like a story?” Biddy cocked her head, allowing some of the pale light to illuminate her harsh features.

“Yes, like a story. I think we should look for it first, and perhaps the faeries can give us some guidance as to the rest.”

“Pah! Faeries!” said Biddy. “I never liked ’em.”

“Is there anyone you do like?” 

“You, if you get me to this mysterious faery godmother of yours.”

“Perfect,” Damselle rolled her eyes. “I’ll try really hard then.” She tried walking faster to keep ahead of the woman in red, but the Rider was spry and quick despite her haggard form. It had been a mistake asking her along. 

Ixby buzzed up beside her. “Faeries are hard to find if they don’t want to be found.”

Damselle looked at him, then smacked her forehead. “Of course you know where they are, Ixby. You’re a magical creature; you’ll be able to find them, surely.”

“Not exactly.” He shook his head. “There might be signs of their dwellings, but those are also hard to find. I may know one if I see one, Miss, but I cannot make any promises.”

“Then what do you suggest?” 

Ixby stared around the bright green woods with wide eyes. “We could follow that path,” he said, pointing.

“Oh, this should be great,” Biddy grumbled.

Damselle and Biddy walked for the better part of a day, deeper and deeper into the woods. There were no signs of faeries, according to Ixby, who flew around their shoulders squeaking things like, “What if we run into a terrible creature?” and “This path seems unsafe!” and “Maybe we are going the wrong way!”

“If you don’t stopper it, Icksy, I’ll stuff you in me pocket for safe keepin’,” Biddy told him. After that, he kept his nervous muttering to a low hum.

Eventually, the path led them to a very strange tree that grew like a leafy sentry near a large cave. The tree was unlike any Damselle had seen before. The trunk was thick, the width of several normal trees. Its mahogany roots, bowed under enormous pressure, propped the entire tree off the ground so there were several feet between the soft earth and the tree itself. The top of the tree sprouted short, stubby branches with tufts of green leaves that seemed out of proportion with the tall, thick trunk.

“That’s a Tumtum tree, that is,” said Biddy

“You’re right!” Damselle gasped. “They’re rare and have all sorts of magical properties. They are said to make great shelters, and I can see why.” She gazed up at the purpling sky. “We should stay here for the night.”

“Sleep under a tree? Don’t tell me walkin’ a few miles in the woods made you ‘one with nature’ and all that rubbish? There’s a cave a few steps away, girl,” Biddy said. “It’s not so out in the open as that tree.”

“Trees make excellent shelters,” said Ixby. 

Damselle regarded the cave. It was a dark hole in the side of a hill. It brought back an unpleasant memory of when she had become lost on her eighth birthday. 

 “I don’t think we should stay in the cave,” she said.

“Ooh, look who’s a right little woodsie-woman now. I’m sleepin’ in the cave, and don’t you two come crawlin’ in when you’re scared of the night noises.”

Damselle glowered at her. “We shouldn’t split up, Rider.”

“Comin’ along, then?”

Damselle wanted to strangle the woman with her red cloak. “No, I am not. Ixby and I are staying out here, and you should too. For…safety in numbers.” Damselle had never had luck with such a notion, but she tried to sound convincing. She strode to the Tumtum tree, ducked, and walked underneath. She could not stand straight, but only had to hunch her shoulders. Surprisingly, Biddy followed her under the tree’s roots. 

“You are staying with us?”

“Safety in numbers,” was all Biddy said.

Damselle, Biddy, and Ixby settled silently down into the soft soil beneath the tree. As it grew dark, Biddy struck a fire and muttered to herself about sleeping in the open. Damselle handed the woman an orange from her pack. She removed an apple for herself and shared a slice with Ixby, who dribbled juice down his white tunic.

As she chewed, Damselle couldn’t help but feel as if something was amiss. It was a bit like an itch between her shoulder blades she could not reach. She looked at her companions, but they seemed untroubled. She pushed the uneasiness from her mind.

An hour later, Ixby had settled his nerves and fallen asleep, curled up and snoring by the fire. Damselle attempted to fill the silence by asking Biddy more about her life before the Red Riders. She was rewarded with cold glares, so she offered her own story to ease the tension.

“I learned that to counter this curse I must travel to my faery godmother, Alyas, and bargain with her to rename myself,” she concluded.

“Hm,” Biddy said, apparently more eager to talk about someone else than herself. “Too bad. ‘Damselle’s’ not a bad name. Better than ‘Blanchette.’ Awful.”

Damselle smiled weakly. It would be strange to be called by a different name, but what choice did she have? “I have no other way to fight things like harpies and trolls and all the other sorts of things that find me. Actually, I have no way to fight at all. I don’t even have a weapon.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Biddy said. She eyed Damselle skeptically for a moment, then bent down and reached into her crimson boot. From it, she produced a small silver dagger with a red hilt. “I don’t know what we’ll face out here, girl, but I won’t come rushin’ to save you ‘cause you can’t help yourself. And I’ll not have you gettin’ me killed, got it?” She handed the dagger to Damselle.

“Won’t you need it?” asked Damselle, taking the blade.

“You think I walk around with naught but one weapon up me sleeve?” snorted Biddy. “I’d have been dead years ago.” The orange firelight reflected in her pale blue eyes.

The small tree shelter was quiet for several minutes as Damselle cut a strip of cloth off the hem of her dress and wrapped it tight around her waist, then slipped the dagger inside the new belt. Then she wrapped the blade. It wasn’t a large weapon, but she felt it likely had a history of defending its previous owner, and that made her feel more secure than the old kitchen knife had.

Damselle realized suddenly what that earlier itch had been. Nothing had attacked them. She was in a forest full of evil, untamed, magical creatures and had not been touched so far. It had been too easy. 

A wild and desperate fear spread through her body in ripples. She looked at Biddy and Ixby. Then she heard it: breathing. Heavy breathing from close by. She moved to stand and hit her head on the tree trunk above her.

“What is it?” Biddy squawked, and Damselle clamped a hand over the woman’s cloak-obscured mouth.

“There’s something out there,” Damselle whispered. 

Biddy listened and then nodded. “Ah, Dunes of Darkness. I must be gettin’old.”

Damselle felt as if her heart had crept into her throat. Her head throbbed from banging it on the tree. Not now, she thought. Please, no distress now.

“Better wake the Icksy,” said Biddy as she looked around.

“Tell him to be calm.” 

“Like that’ll happen,” muttered Biddy. Still, she crawled over to the snoring Ixby and poked him. 
Damselle couldn’t begin to guess what was out there, but one thing was for certain: it had come for her, and if she did nothing, her quest would end before it began. She crouched down and crept toward the bowed roots. The breathing grew louder. The creature did not seem able to or willing to come under the tree. Maybe it was waiting for her to come out.

It must be very large. Or very clever. Or both. 

Damselle plucked a broken branch from the ground and used the fire to light it. 

“Oh, Miss Damselle,” squealed Ixby, who flapped wildly around the shelter. “What are you doing? You’ll catch the tree on fire! You’ll bring the creature into the shelter! You’ll—”

The Rider grabbed hold of Ixby and stuffed him in some mysterious pocket where his tiny voice was muffled. Damselle held the burning branch in front of her, walked back to the Tumtum tree’s roots, and took a deep breath. In one swift motion, she threw the torch outward. It made a tall fiery arc in the air and, in the seconds before it was snuffed out, illuminated long, gleaming white teeth. She yelped and fell backward into Biddy, who whispered in a raspy voice, “Jabberwock.” 

The first proof copies are here and they are beautiful! A few minor adjustments and they will be ready for the world. 

Happy Monday!
I know, I know. That's an oxymoron. If you need a little something fun to distract you from your work today, I've got a Chapter 2 preview of Damselle in Distress posted below this BRAND NEW snippet of a mysterious hooded figure in the cover art by Ariel Burgess. 
"Damselle in Distress" is a fantasy (described by award-winning author Saladin Ahmed as a "fairy-tale skewering comedy") that weaves elements of folk tales, fairy tales, and mythology into an original story. One of my favorite things about "Damselle" is that, despite the title, it turns the typical "damsel in distress" story on its head. 
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A release date is forthcoming, but you can check out Chapter 1 here, and Chapter 2 below!

Damselle in Distress
Chapter 2: To Start a Quest
Kiley Kellermeyer

Damselle ran through town filled with the unfamiliar feeling of hope. She didn’t even throw dirty looks at the people who gaped or those who ducked inside the nearest store to keep away. They probably expected to see something tearing down the street after her, which made her grin. She knew the source of her constant distress. That was half the battle as far as she was concerned.

“Hurry up, Ixby!” she said, weaving through the streets of Woodswyck. The town was busy with people running errands. Armor-clad knights patrolled the streets. Merchants swept their doorways. Stall-vendors hawked their goods. The smell of people and horses and sweets from the bakery mingled into something Damselle willfully ignored as she sprinted down the cobblestone streets, anxious to see her parents. She nearly bowled over the owner of a tavern called The Three Brothers, then halted at a crosswalk. Carriages and horses rushed through the busy lanes.

“Ooh, there she is!” whispered a small boy.

“We shouldn’t cross here,” said his friend. “If we cross with her, we’ll be run over by a carriage.”

“Or run over by a horse!” said the first boy.

“Or eaten by a horse!”

“Or eaten by a drag—”

“Move along,” Damselle snapped at them, “or I’ll run over you myself.”

The lads scampered away to find another crossing. “Ridiculous,” Damselle said sideways to Ixby. “I’ve never been struck by a carriage. I don’t think this curse even extends to that sort of…mundane distress.”

“That is most peculiar, Miss,” squeaked Ixby as they passed store windows. “This naming is an odd thing indeed. Perhaps all creatures should be as Ixbies, with no names at all!”

Damselle swooshed past a flock of younger girls mooning over a pair of glass shoes in the window of the cobbler’s shop. Damselle spared the footwear only a passing thought. If you were going to wear clear shoes, why wear any shoes at all? What if they cracked? How under the Stars could you run in them? The girls grew very smug, whispering as she passed.

Damselle ignored the reflex to smooth her unruly curls. She started to adjust her filthy dress, then contented herself with wringing her hands.  “Do you see those girls, Ixby? Their names are normal and safe and perhaps even a little boring.”

“What odd names,” Ixby said, staring back at the girls.

Damselle sighed. “People aren’t afraid to cross the road in their presence. Their names are just names, and that’s that. A name like mine…I thought a name from a faery godmother was supposed to be special. But mine is a curse, not a gift. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Your situation is curious,” Ixby said. “I have never heard of a faery doing such a thing as this Alyas has done. It does seem out of character.”

“Why name me at all? And why ‘Damselle?’ What did I do to deserve it?”

Ixby hummed. “Do you have any ancestors who angered the Fae?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Did your family ever steal from the Fae?”

“I’m sure they didn’t.”

Ixby shrugged. “It is hard to say, Miss. Faeries can be odd even at the best of times.”

Damselle sniffed. “That’s for certain. Well, my mother and father will know more. They’re the ones who spoke with the faery, after all.”

“Pardon my asking,” Ixby puffed as he zipped along beside her, “but are you sure your parents will have the answers you seek? The faery godmother was not forthcoming. Even if they did, would they tell you?”

“No,” Damselle said. “And yes.”

Ixby scrunched his brow and dodged a lamppost.

“I don’t know if they have the answers, but if they do, I am sure they’ll tell me. Turn here.” She beckoned him around a corner. “They’ve seen the awful life I’ve led. They’ll understand.”

Damselle’s home was a two-level, dark wooden house in which she had lived most of her life. Her father was a merchant in Woodswyck, a buyer and seller of antiquities, and quite good at his job. She supposed now it was no coincidence they lived in the same city as the Swords of Valor. Perhaps her father had moved them there after the incident with Alyas. She felt silly never to have wondered about it before now.

“Ah, Miss, will your family mind my intrusion into your home?”

“Of course not. You’re my, ah, friend.”

Ixby’s cheeks’ darkened. He followed her as she charged through the door and into the house. Candles flickered in the inner hallway as she passed them and hurried into the main room. Her mother, a small, delicate woman, sat curled in a chair by the fire, reading a book and sipping from a cup of tea. Her father, tall and lanky, knelt under a table, jiggling one of its legs and grimacing.
Damselle paused and watched them. She wondered briefly if she should have made a plan. What would she say? How should she start? What would they say?

“Mother? Father?”

“Knights found you, did they?” grunted her father, George, without coming out from under the table. “Good.”

Norah, her mother, looked up. Her sea-green eyes—exact replicas of Damselle’s own—widened as she almost spilled tea on her plain lavender dress. “What happened this time?” She eyed her daughter from head to toe and grimaced. “Is that a spiderweb on your dress? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” Her expression turned from worry to curiosity. “What is that thing buzzing around your head?”

“This is Ixby.”

“Hello.” Ixby waved politely.

Damselle shrugged. “He’s an…Ixby.”

“Bless you,” her father said absently. The table leg fell off and he cursed.

“I need to talk with you both about something.” Damselle sucked on her lower lip for a moment, shifting her weight on the wooden floor. “I know about Alyas.”  

There was a thump as George smacked his head on the underside of the table. Norah closed her eyes for a moment and the worry lines on her face seemed more prevalent. She did not seem surprised that her daughter knew. Rather, Damselle thought she had been waiting for this moment a long time.

George stood up, dark eyes watering, and rubbed his graying head. “What do you know?” he snapped. “Who told you?” He eyed Ixby. “What is that thing?”

Damselle rolled her eyes. “No one told me. I know my faery godmother gave me my name. What I don’t know is why you didn’t tell me before. Who was Alyas? Why did she come here?” She watched them stare at one another, entire conversations passing between them in mere expressions.

Norah stood. “Damselle,” she said, glancing for a moment out the window before she went on. “Your father and I. We were afraid that if you found out you might—” she paused, “you might do something rash.”

“Norah, don’t.” George stepped over the fallen table leg.

“Rash? What would I do that was—” Damselle froze. “You learned something! What do you know? You have to tell me!”

A frightened expression came across Norah’s face and she pressed her lips into a thin line.

Damselle’s father answered for her. “We learned nothing.”

But Damselle could tell when her father was lying. The corner of his thin lips twitched. It happened every time he said, “I knew the knights would get you out of that scrape.”

“You know something,” Damselle said. “I deserve to know what it is.” She turned to her mother. “Please. I am tired of being captured. Of being scared, terrified that the next time I won’t get away. I’m tired of having to rely on those arrogant louts to save me. And most of all, I am tired of being an outsider. I have no friends. No one will stay anywhere near me. You have no idea what that is like. If you know something, if there is the smallest chance of a way to fix this, I need to know. Please.”

Ixby cleared his throat and fluttered onto Damselle’s shoulder in the silence that followed.

“Now look,” her father said. “What we know is useless. There’s nothing you can do with the information.”

“She has a right to know, George,” Norah said.

“She can’t know!” He was angry. Very angry. Underneath his temper, however, Damselle thought she saw a hint of desperation. She felt both frustrated and guilty.

“She should hear,” Norah said, “but she won’t act on it. Not until she understands and knows more.” She turned to face Damselle. “You can’t rush into something like this. You won’t, will you, Damselle? You must not, even if you know.”

Damselle did not answer. She didn’t know how to. She watched the fire across the room crackle in the hearth as she thought. If there was a chance to change her life, she couldn’t promise not to take it. She leaned against the grainy wall, tucked her long hair behind her ears, and said, “Please. Tell me.”

“Fine!” George threw up his hands. “Fine. Tell her, but I won’t be a part of this, not after we’ve done all we could to keep her safe for sixteen years.” With that, he stormed out the back door, leaving a short but tense silence in his wake. Damselle could see him pacing near the window, but she turned her attention to her mother.

“We thought it was hopeless,” her mother began. She, too, pulled back long, red locks as if preparing for a difficult task. “At first, we were sure there was no way to fix what had been done. Then we remembered Alyas herself had seemed uncertain that night. She hesitated when we asked her if your name could be changed. We began researching very quickly after the first… distressing event. And through the second, third and fourth. We read and read and spoke to anyone learned in such things. Your father traveled leagues to speak with some old scholar.”

“And?” Damselle said. “What did you find?”

“Understand that in every instance we heard of, it is a very great gift to be named by a faery godmother or to have one at all. Most people are not named this way, as you know. Very important people frequently are, and others in some instances, though in most cases no one but the faery godmother understands her choice. The circumstances of your naming were odd, and the faery Alyas even more so. She did not seem like other faeries. I don’t know what that means.”

 “What did you find?”

“No one on either side of the family has had a faery godmother in years.”

“What about Great Aunt Melody?” Damselle asked, distracted momentarily. “She was named by a faery, wasn’t she? She had the most beautiful voice.”

“She was your great aunt. She was named a long time ago.”

“Right,” Damselle said. “Well, what did you find?”

Norah hesitated, worry plain on her face. “We found a way. It is a very old way.”

Excitement pulsed through Damselle. There is a way to change my name. She felt Ixby quiver on her shoulder.

“Damselle, please,” Norah said, “You must do nothing. It is too dangerous.” 

“I don’t care!” Damselle cried. “What does it matter if I am in danger as I travel or if I am here? I won’t sit around waiting for disaster to strike, and I won’t be stared at and talked about.”

“All right, calm down.” Norah held up her hands and glanced again out the window at George as he paced. “There is one way to change a name bestowed by faery magic. It is a process that can be done only by the one who bears the name.”

“Good. I’ll do it.”

“Do not be so quick to act. Such tasks cannot be set upon so rashly. To ask for this change requires clever bargaining with the faery involved. You’ve read about faeries. You know what they are like: They can help you in one breath and curse you in another. Bargaining with one is difficult at best. You must trade three magical items of, I can only assume, great power.”

Damselle furrowed her brow. “What are they?”

Norah paused again, running fingers through her red hair. “They…they are…”

“That’s enough!” George burst back into the house.

“Tell me what they are, Mother,” Damselle said, flashing an angry look at her father. “I will find them and I will take them to Alyas.”

“You know enough.” Her father slammed his hand on the three-legged table and the whole thing nearly buckled. “I’m sorry you feel lonely, but the important thing is that you are alive to feel that way. You don’t need to know all the minute details. It will get you in trouble.”

“Minute details? I need to know everything possible. I am going to find that faery and I am going to change my name.”

“You are not leaving this house.”

“I am going on a quest.” Damselle barely suppressed a scream. Her blood felt hot and her heart pounded. “I am not a child.”

“You are just a girl. A girl who gets in enough trouble as is without asking for more,” George said. “You have no business undertaking a so-called quest.”

“No business?” Damselle shouted. “It is my business and no one else’s.”

“Is that so? Who do you think has kept you safe and alive all these years?”

“The tin-can wearing ninnies in the order. What have you done?”

George recoiled, brows furrowed. “I hand over the coin that keeps those ninnies happy,” he said. “They are the ones qualified to protect you, Damselle. You cannot protect yourself. You cannot. Do you have any idea what horrors are out there?”

“I have a better idea than most.” She sucked in a deep breath. “And I can protect myself.” She could.

“Damselle, please,” Norah interjected. “Please don’t push this. I know how you get. You are prone to make emotional decisions. Think about this. Sleep on it. Please don’t rush into things.”

Damselle locked gazes with her mother, who seemed on the verge of tears. She had not wanted this to happen. The last thing she had intended was to upset either of them. They had dedicated their lives to making sure she was as safe as possible—no small task. Still, they were supposed to understand. They of all people saw the distress she bore, the agony of loneliness.

“I’ll sleep on it,” she finally said to pacify her mother.

Norah nodded and looked at George. He watched them both with a look of stubbornness. Damselle thought this was probably mirrored on her own face. She could pretend to “sleep on it” for their sake. But she wasn’t letting this go. Not when an answer was so close at hand.

“Come on, Ixby,” she mumbled. She trudged away from the kitchen and up the stairs, where she flung open the door to her small room and slammed it shut again. The action was childish, but she didn’t care.

“Are you sure I should not leave?” Ixby hovered by the door and watched as she rifled through various drawers. “I could, perhaps, go back to the well. Or find a similar job. Or no job. Oh my.”

“No,” Damselle said, pulling clothes into her arms. “I’m not giving up on my quest, and neither are you. Stay here. Just turn around. I need to change.”

The little creature pressed his eyes shut and spun so fast he almost ran into the dark wooden door frame. Damselle shrugged out of her cobweb-covered navy dress. She pulled on a thick green one, the best she had for traveling. She tugged stockings onto her feet and stepped into the sturdiest shoes she had. They were dark red, and looked absurd with her dress. She told Ixby to turn back around, then took a leather bag from under her bed.

Despite what she had told her parents, her mind was made up. She would leave, though she had no idea where to start. Her mother had told her a little, but not enough. She needed three items to bargain with Alyas. What items? Where was she supposed to find her faery godmother?

Damselle paced around the room eyeing candles set on books, quills and ink on her bedside table, and tiny sketches of various monsters. She rummaged through a box of items she’d collected over the years: Useless good luck charms, glittering rocks, an oversized talon, and a pendant shaped like the North Star. She muttered to herself as she threw things to the ground.

Ixby hovered above her. “W-what are you doing, Miss?”

“Trying to decide what to bring,” Damselle said with a sigh. She had never been on a quest and had no idea what she needed. She began grabbing whatever she could think of that made sense.
She packed her clothes and an extra cloak and dug out all the money she had, which wasn’t much. She thought about sneaking another knife from the kitchen, but decided against it. It had done her no good, and she thought her mother would be upset if the silverware kept disappearing. Besides, who fought with kitchen utensils anyway?

Damselle made her way to the wooden trunk at the foot of her bed. It was wide and polished, and had “Damselle” carved across the front. Despite what she now knew about her name, she liked that it was etched across that trunk in which she kept some of her favorite things.

Damselle opened the trunk lid and rummaged for a few moments. She picked up a tattered, leather-bound book whose title had long since faded away. The smell of aged parchment wafted across the air. “You know, I borrowed this from the bookshop owner once. It’s a history of our region. I was on my way to return it when a harpy—or was that the goblin?—came for me and I had to run home. The shop owner wrote to tell me to keep it rather than come back. Cowardly old wart.”

She skimmed the volumes in the trunk for a while before placing Magical Monstrosities in her bag. She leafed through a book someone had given her called Miss Fortune: Using the “damsel in distress” routine to capture the knight of your dreams! She snorted and tossed it on the ground in disgust. She avoided a gargantuan green tome that crushed several other volumes beneath it; The Complete Creature Compendium would need its own bag, and someone else to carry it for her. She did, however, push an old book called Of Fire and Water: Elemental Creatures of the East into the bag before she shut the trunk and collapsed onto her bed.

“I’ll have to get food and water,” she said, staring up at the beams that ran across the ceiling. Would her parents let her take it from their home? Surely they wouldn’t deny her such a thing. What if she had to steal it? Sneaking around her own kitchen seemed a ridiculous way to start her journey.

Damselle sighed. “I’m sorry about this, Ixby. I thought my parents would be more supportive.” She punched the pillow and sank back against it, staring at the wood beams across the ceiling. She could hear her parents talking, their voices muffled. Outside, crickets had begun to chirp in the fading daylight.

Ixby shifted his tunic and landed on her bedpost. “Your parents seem eager to protect you, Miss. I suppose it is a bit like my mother suggesting I work in the wishing well. She thought it was the best place for me, even though it was not what I wanted. Perhaps she was right, although I do wish to be a Wood-Ixby.”

“I’m not safer here than anywhere else,” Damselle said, stifling a yawn. She had not realized how tired she was until she had laid down. In the course of the day, she had been captured and almost eaten by a spider and rescued by a knight. She had fallen down a well, discovered the origin of her curse, devastated her mother, and infuriated her father. “If I have to run away, I might as well run in the direction of Alyas, wherever she may be, don’t you think?”

“Ah, well…”

“What do you know of faeries?” Damselle yawned again. “More than I do, I’m sure.”

“I don’t know, Miss Damselle. You seem to know a great deal already. There is not much I could add.”

Damselle flipped onto her side and shook her head. “Tell me what you know. I’m sure it is more than I have read.”

“Well,” he said. “The Fae are…complicated.” Ixby settled onto the post. “Their idea of right and wrong can differ from other creatures. They are serious beings, and very powerful. They are beautiful and vain, and must live according to three basic rules…”
​
Damselle tried to listen to him as he talked. She really tried. His squeaky little voice was far from hypnotic, but her eyelids began to droop and the room started to blur. She opened her mouth to say something to him but a long, deep yawn escaped. The last thing she heard Ixby say was, “…never met one myself, Miss, though I should like to,” before sleep overcame her.
 
*
 
Consciousness returned to Damselle in brief snatches. She drifted in and out in the now-dark room. In between periods of sleep, she could hear sounds from other parts of the house: A raised voice. A chair scraping across the floor. A whisper. A door shutting. Heavy boots upon the floor.

When she finally awoke it was sometime before dawn, in the early hours of the morning. The moonlight shone through her window, casting shadows across the floor. She swung her feet onto the floor to stand. Something popped up in front of her nose.

“Ixby!” she gasped.

“I-I am sorry to startle you, Miss Damselle, but I am glad you are awake.” He threw a nervous glance at the door with his enormous eyes.

Damselle followed his gaze. “Why? What’s wrong?” she asked. Stars, all I need is for something to go wrong right now. There was a bad feeling somewhere in the pit of her stomach.

 “While you slept, ah, your father, he…” Ixby wrung his hands.

“He what?”

“He thought you might try to sneak out, so he posted a knight outside your door. So that you would not leave.”

“He what?” Damselle cried.

Floorboards creaked in the hallway. Damselle stood abruptly, stomped to the door, and pulled it open. There, silhouetted by the hallway candlelight, stood a knight. If you could call him a knight. The man outside her bedroom door was tall and scrawny. His armor was a bit shoddy, though it bore the same dragon-piercing sword crest Banton’s had. He wore no helm and had fluffy, light brown hair. He also had a short beard, and his nose was too large for his face. Only his big, dark eyes, which gave him the look of a sad puppy, seemed to suit him.

“Good morning, Lady!” he said when he saw her.

“Not really,” Damselle said. “Who are you?”

“Ah yes!” He flourished and bowed dramatically. “I am Sir Leal, a knight of the order of the Swords of Valor.”

The lowest ranking knight in the order, Damselle decided. “What are you doing here?”

“I have been appointed to stand guard by your door, my lady. Never fear, for while I am here no harm shall come to you.” He thrust his arms out and knocked a small painting of her grandmother off the wall. Damselle watched, frowning, as he fixed it crookedly back in place. 

“You can’t keep me locked in my own room.” Damselle crossed her arms. “That’s not what knights do.”

“My mission is to keep you safe in your quarters,” he said. “Safe you shall be, my lady, while I am here.” He stuck out his chest as far as it would go and smiled at her.

Damselle stared at him, then attempted to walk past him. He shuffled in front of her and blocked her way. Damselle tried to hurry back around him, but he gamboled in front of her again as if they were doing an ungainly dance.

“As I have said, Miss….uh, Miss. I have been instructed to see that you remain within your sleeping chamber. Fear not, I shall—”

Damselle pulled her door shut with a bang! that made Ixby squeak from somewhere behind her. How could her father set a knight to keep her in? And it wasn’t even a good knight! What self-respecting knight would voluntarily take guard duty for a mischievous girl? Well, that didn’t matter. She was not a child. She wanted—no, she needed—to go on this quest. It was her right, and no one would do it for her; not Sir Banton or Sir Leal, not her parents. It had to be her. But she was stuck in her room, and short of leaping from a second-story window or wrestling a knight, she wasn’t quite sure how to get out. It was infuriating.

Damselle kicked something hard as she strode across the dark room and yelped.

“Are you okay, Miss?” asked Ixby.

“No. Yes. I’m fine,” she snapped, hobbling to a table where she finally lit several candles. She turned and saw the Miss Fortune book she had tossed on the floor splayed open and dog-eared from her kick.

Damselle sighed. “You could fly out the window, if you’d like to leave now. I understand.”

“I cannot travel alone,” Ixby said, floating over to the light. “Well, I could, but I would rather not. Could you climb from the window?”

Damselle shook her head. “I think the door is going to be the best way, unfortunately, and I’m not sure how to... how to…” Her eyes fell again upon the book lying on the floor.

 “How to what?”

“Capture the knight of your dreams…” Damselle whispered.

“Ah, capture what?”

“…by being a damsel in distress.” Damsel. Stars, she hated that word. But it gave her an idea. It wasn’t a very good one, but it was all she had.
 
*
 
Damselle stared into the mirror. She’d attempted to comb her fluffy curls, and the candlelight made her green eyes dance. The effect was rather ruined by the heavy green dress and thick shoes she wore, so she prodded her hair a few more times and nodded. “Ready, Ixby?”

“Yes, Miss,” Ixby said.

Damselle took a deep breath and screeched, “Help! Help me!”

The door burst open and Sir Leal fell over himself to get into the room. “Fear not, for I am…” He looked around the room. “Here. Is there a problem?”

“Yes,” Damselle said, running to the knight. “Oh, I am so glad you are here!”

Sir Leal cleared his throat, looking torn between grinning and trying to remain professional.

“There’s something under my bed. Maybe more than one. They came in through the window, didn’t they, Ixby?”

Ixby quivered and nodded his head, mouthing soundlessly as he stared at Leal. Damselle grimaced. “Please, please look for them, Sir Leal. I am ever so frightened.” She tried to bat her eyelashes like Miss Fortune had instructed. It made her feel a little dizzy.

Sir Leal cast a curious look at the dark space under her bed, then stood tall. “Indeed, I shall search for these creatures,” he said.

“Oh, ah, thank you, Brave Knight!”

“You flatter me, Miss,” Leal said. He dropped to his hands and knees and began to crawl toward the bed.

“Oh, my hero!” She looked at Ixby, who was eyeing her, and she shrugged. Damselle backed away slowly. “Be careful Sir Leal! Who knows what they are? They could be all over the room, right Ixby?”

“R-right, Miss. Anywhere. Everywhere, in fact.”

“I don’t hear anything,” Leal said. “Are you sure they are still there?”

Damselle reached for her bag. “Oh yes, they are there. I think they must be afraid of the light. Ixby, blow out the candles.”

“But—” said Sir Leal, but Ixby had already complied with several small puffs, and the room fell into near-darkness. There was a sound of metal scraping on wood and a thud. Something heavy, probably Leal’s sword, clattered to the ground.

Damselle shouldered her pack and seized the chance to dart through the cracked door into the hallway. She closed the door quietly behind her. Then she pulled out a length of ribbon she’d found in her dresser and tied one end to the door handle of her room, another to that of the room across the hall. As she hurried away, she heard Ixby squeak, “P-perhaps they crawled under this t-table, Sir Knight, or m-maybe into the washbasin!”

The house was quiet and still. Her parents were asleep, and Damselle slowed for a moment at the thought of leaving without saying goodbye. Was she really leaving? She’d never been safe here—she wasn’t safe anywhere. She was loved here, though. Her parents protected her in the best way they knew how. Damselle knew that could not have been easy. How many sleepless nights had they spent worrying? Could she really throw it all in their faces now? I could die and never see them again, she thought. It would be a poor way to repay sixteen years of love and care, but... Damselle swallowed a lump in her throat as she pushed open the front door and tip-toed onto the lane.

Moonlight and lanterns lit the road. Damselle wished she could shrink into the shadows. How long could Ixby stall the knight? Her little trick with the ribbon wouldn’t hold for very long.

Someone stepped out from the bushes and Damselle nearly screamed.

“I knew you would get out.” Her mother’s face peeked out from underneath a dark cloak. She carried a small sack. “You don’t always need help in your escapes, and I thought you would have an easy time escaping that knight.”

Damselle blinked. “What are you doing out here?”

Her mother sighed. “I heard you with that knight. I knew you would make it past him, so I listened and I waited. This way.” She motioned for Damselle to follow her down the road, which Damselle did with a feeling of overwhelming curiosity. “I’m sure the knight will follow you, at least for a short time, so I will tell you what you need so you can be on your way.”

Damselle almost stopped short. “You’re going to let me go?”

Norah took her hand and pulled her into a side road. “Dearest One, you are going to go whether your father and I let your or not. I thought about it all evening. This way I know you are prepared and…” she paused. “I can say goodbye. Now.” She handed Damselle the small bag she’d been carrying. “Food and a waterskin. It won’t go far, but it will be better than nothing.”

Damselle felt such enormous gratitude for her mother she did not think she could adequately express it.

Norah continued, “What you need from me is information, so listen carefully. The three items you need to give to Alyas cannot be substituted and must come from you. You understand, that is why we have not done this ourselves. They must be perfect and whole. This is important.” She reached into her pocket and handed Damselle a small list. By the light from the nearest flickering lantern she could just make out:
1. A faery’s tale
2. A witch’s veil
3. A dragon’s scale

With each line she read, Damselle felt as if her heart pumped harder, her lungs grew tighter. Where would she find such things? “What do they do?”

“I don’t know. We never learned. Even finding this list was extremely difficult.”

“Where am I supposed to find them?” Damselle asked.

“Alyas was north, last I heard, through the woods and beyond. Faeries dwell within the woods, so the first item should be the easiest to find, but that is not saying much. Dragons often live in hills and mountains when they are not guarding something. As for a witch, I’m not certain. You will have to work that one out on your own. The Willowwax might be…” she paused again, as if saying the words took every ounce of strength she had. “Might be the best place to start.” She shut her eyes and looked down at the cobblestones. Even in the dim light Damselle could see tears running down her pale cheeks.

Damselle blinked away her own tears. Part of her, a very small part, wished her mother would convince her to stay home. Dragons, witches and faeries. And the Willowwax! She wasn’t ready for this. But she couldn’t live with herself—literally, perhaps—if she didn’t try.

“Mother, I have to do it. I don’t have a choice. I’m sorry.”

Norah reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair from Damselle’s face before pulling her into a tight embrace. “I know, but that doesn’t make it any easier. At some point, though, we have to let you go.”

“Oh, Miss Damselle, there you are!”

Damselle looked up to see Ixby floating overhead. She had forgotten about him, so absorbed had she been in her mother’s words.

“I think the knight realized I was stalling. I believe he is attempting to break down your door.”

Norah sighed. “He may follow, at least until morning. Go around the edge of town and take the lesser traveled pathways.”

Damselle hugged her again. “What about Father?”

“I’ll speak with him. He’ll understand. Be careful, Damselle, and stay safe.”

“Safe? Me?” Damselle said, smiling at her mother one last time. “You must be thinking of somebody else.”

With that, Damselle and Ixby hurried off into the dark to begin their quest. 
​

Want a sneak peek inside the distressing world of Damselle? You can read Chapter 1 from my upcoming fantasy/comedy, Damselle in Distress just below this rather spectacular image. What is this rather spectacular image? I'm glad you asked. This is a work-in-progress preview of the cover art by Ariel Burgess. You'll have to wait to see the whole thing, but trust me (you can always trust fantasy novelists) when I say it is going to be amazing.

Damselle in Distress
Chapter 1: Trouble
Kiley Kellermeyer

Once upon a time a girl named Damselle was about to die.

It was at least the third time that week.

That didn’t make it any better. There are some things that don’t get easier over time and staring into the face of death—or of a giant spider—is one of them.

Damselle was currently sprawled high in a sticky spider web. The small kitchen knife she’d taken to carrying, for all the good it had done, lay on the forest floor among tiny bones. She struggled in vain to free her herself as the enormous spider crept toward her. Its clicking pincers dripped with venom.

Scream, common sense said. Call for help.

“I’ll get myself out,” she growled, but the more she squirmed, the tighter the web held. Determined to liberate herself without aid, Damselle gave one final lurch. She ripped herself free and fell forward. A moment of satisfaction swept across her before she landed face first into a web below. Now she couldn’t even see the creature, but she could hear legs rustling. Feel the web swaying. Damselle writhed and fought. She could not move. She could not get away. “Oh, Stars,” she whispered. “Not again.”

There was only one thing she could do. She hated to do it. She was sick of doing it. But she was desperate now. Useless and helpless and desperate. Damselle grunted and then cried, “Help! Somebody help me!” She took a breath and listened. And listened.

Then… hoof beats. The clanking of metal armor and a deep voice: “Leave the maiden be, foul creature, and turn your sights this way! It is I, Sir Banton, and I shall bring an end to your reign of terror!”

Damselle just rolled her eyes.
 
*
 
Sir Banton the knight slowed his mount as they approached the town. “Next time, you will want to avoid the nesting grounds.”

“I did,” Damselle said flatly, staring at the back of his armor. Her sea-green eyes and cobweb-crusted red hair were distorted in the metallic reflection. 

“They are very dangerous creatures.”

“Are they really?” She wondered what would happen if she rapped on the back of his helmet.

The knight grunted and shook his head as they passed through the metal gates of the burgeoning town of Woodswyck. Remote as it was from the rest of the world, Woodswyck had grown up around the headquarters of an order of knights called the Swords of Valor. People flocked to the protection of the knights, building their small wooden homes and squat stone shops in the shadow of the order’s fortress. Their governor, the cobblers, innkeepers, bakers, butchers and all the rest slept peacefully at night knowing a contingent of armored men guarded their town. It was a sentiment Damselle did not share.

The horse clip-clopped down the cobblestone street and Damselle fixed her eyes on the knight’s back to avoid looking at the crowds. Her normally fair cheeks felt as red as her hair. Sir Banton had spent the trip advising her how to keep out of trouble. Every knight who rescued her—and there’d been a lot—tried this. It must have been part of their training.

The problem, however, was that she could not stay out of trouble. Of course, she didn’t try to get into trouble. She avoided strange people and places. She spent a lot of time at home, and when she did not, well…she always tried to steer clear of things like trolls, wicked witches and giant spiders.

These things never steered clear of her. If she didn’t go looking for trouble, it surely came looking for her. Damselle’s first clear memory was not of pony rides or dolls. If she tried very hard, she could remember a hairy face with an evil smile. She could recollect shrill voices, maniacal laughter, and other nightmarish things. When she was five, she had been playing kick-the-ball by the gorge when someone knocked the ball over the edge. A wyvern in a cave plucked Damselle—out of all the children—off the ledge and stowed her away in a little cavern until a knight came to rescue her. At twelve, she had been minding her own business when an ugly woman on a broomstick appeared. The witch snatched her up and locked her away. Damselle managed to get a bit of reading done during her imprisonment before another knight showed up on a winged stallion. Those knights were more expensive, her father had later explained, due to the dietary restrictions of flying mounts.

Distressful events like these had occurred at alarming intervals—often several times a week—throughout Damselle’s entire life. In her sixteen years of existence she had been captured and chased, then had escaped or been rescued what felt like thousands of times. Even when other people were around, horrors chose Damselle.

Naturally, she couldn’t explain all this to Sir Banton. She had tried explanations years ago with Sir…whoever he was. Brave as the knights might be, most had not mastered the ability to listen to anyone besides themselves. So Damselle silently picked at the spiderwebs on her dress. She tried not to pay attention as people stared. Some even shuffled farther away from her, the girl who had needed to be rescued again.

The strange girl to whom bad things always happen, she thought.

Damselle supposed she should be happy she hadn’t been eaten like a big fly. It was just that today had been going unusually well. It had been warm and sunny. There had been a feast in town last night, leaving a lingering air of celebration and congeniality. When Damselle had come upon a small group of girls earlier that day—ones who usually avoided her—they had not run. They had held their ground, watching her from their picnic in the meadow.

“Aren’t you afraid?” said one.

​Damselle nearly tripped. No one ever spoke to her. “Afraid?”

They looked at each other and back at her. “Of your bad luck,” the girl said. “We’ve been talking, and we wondered if you’re frightened.”

Damselle approached. The girls shifted on their blanket. Damselle thought about the question for a moment, four sets of eyes fixed upon her. “Yes. But not as much as I used to be.”

The girls nodded and looked at each other again. Their leader, a plump girl in a pretty green dress, cocked her head. “It cannot be all that bad,” she said.

Damselle gaped at her. Not all that bad? She couldn’t explain how bad it was. They were curious enough about her that they didn’t run away, though. That was new, and she began to feel a sense of hope in spite of herself. “It’s, um…” Say something interesting or clever, she told herself.

The girl in green spoke first. “You get to meet so many knights.”

“I—”

“Do you know them all?” asked another.

“Well—”

“Which is your favorite?”

Damselle was out of her element. She didn’t particularly like any of the knights. However, the girl in the green gown gazed around the meadow and said, “You can sit down if you’d like.”

Small jolts of excitement coursed through Damselle. There was an empty spot on their red blanket. Several small loaves of bread and a wheel of cheese had been spread out. The sweet smell of wildflowers swirled past. The nearby trees swayed in the breeze. It was perfect. She took a seat, attempting to rifle through all the knights in her mind. She couldn’t seem to remember names, so she made up “Sir Donal.”

“And he saved you from something terrible?” They leaned in, watching her.

“Oh, yes. Terrible,” Damselle said. “An, um, giant…bird. Thing.”

“What was it like?” asked one of the girls, wide-eyed.

“Well, giant.” Damselle floundered a bit. “With beady eyes and a sharp beak. And horrible talons.”

Then the girls screamed.

Damselle hadn’t thought her description had been all that good. The four girls hopped to their feet. They pointed and ran and screeched “Call the knights!” as a giant spider scuttled up to the picnic…

Now Damselle sat on Sir Banton’s horse. She glowered at two ladies pointing shamelessly at her and could take it no more. “Leave me here,” she said. “I can walk the rest of the way.”

“Nonsense.” Banton flashed a grin at the women. “I shall escort you to your home.”

“No.” Damselle ground her teeth. “Thanks. I can take care of myself.”

Sir Banton brought his horse to a stop by a wiry hedge. He jumped down and then lifted her off the horse, watching her with an air of haughty superiority. Damselle avoided his eyes, staring instead at the sigil upon his breast, a sword upon a dragon. “I have known people like you before, ah… Damsel, is it?”

“Dam-selle. It rhymes with bell,” she said. “What do you mean, ‘people like me’?” She crossed her arms across her chest.

​“Adventure-seekers. People who look for trouble and think they can best it.”

“Look for trouble?” She felt tempted to hit him, except people were still watching. She doubted it would hurt through his armor anyway.

The knight mounted his horse. “It is altogether unwise to continue searching for danger. Carrying a weapon does not make you a knight, whatever you may wish.” He looked at the small knife she’d retrieved. “There may come a day when a knight cannot save you. Then what will you do?”
 
“I…I don’t search for…I only…”

​“Good day, Miss Damsel.” Sir Banton urged the horse to motion.

“My name is Dam-SELLE!” she yelled after him. Several more people turned to look at her.

Damselle watched the wary townsfolk a moment longer, then turned and plunged through the hedge, seething with anger. She strode off down a dirt path covered in fallen leaves and twigs that crunched under her slippered feet.

Too much. It had been too much for one day. She had been so close to having one normal moment in her otherwise horrible life when distress had struck again. Just when she thought she might have made some headway, she’d nearly been eaten. And rescued—again.

She never sought out danger, but still everyone pointed and whispered. She was a joke. Worse, she was bad luck. She would never have any friends. Who would want to be around the girl misfortune followed like a shadow? Her parents had tried to raise her as normally as possible, but keeping her safe had become more difficult each year.  Damselle was an outsider in the town. When she went out, people gawked at her as if she had sprouted a horn upon her forehead, or avoided her as though her bad luck were contagious. The pointing and whispering did not stop her from going out, not any more than the inevitable danger, but she thought it might hurt more than all the fangs and talons in the world.

She pulled the knife from her belt and flung it toward a tree on the side of the path. It struck the bark with its handle and fell to the grass and she sniffed. Why shouldn’t she be prepared? She was tired of waiting around for someone to come find her. Tired of waiting for the next bad thing to happen. There had to be some reason why she was a target for trouble. If there was a reason, there was a way to find it.

And to stop it.

Damselle spotted a disused well and stalked toward it. It was wide—unnaturally so—and chipped at the edges. The handle once used to lift buckets of water was missing. She paused to lean against the lip, breathing hard. Her mind whirled with thoughts nearly as dark as the shaft before her. She needed to be rid of all the creatures. She needed to be rid of the knights. She would find a way.

She nodded once to herself. Narrowing her green eyes determinedly, she pressed her lips into a line. Then the stone beneath her hands gave way, and she fell into the well.  
 
*
 
Damselle tumbled, screaming.

When she finally landed on something soft and velvety, she opened her eyes to a faint, golden light lingering in the air. “Oh no,” she groaned. “This is perfect.”

She wobbled to her feet on a purple cushion in what appeared to be a massive wooden bucket suspended from the top of the well. Damselle started to walk across the cushion and the bucket swayed. She took a breath, then stepped toward the edge until she could peer over the side.

The bucket hung several feet above black water that shimmered with a golden aura. Damselle could not have said what made the water glimmer, but it dazzled her eyes and lit up the bottom of the well. She tore her eyes away from the glow and looked up, attempting to see the top of the well. It was very high up.

Damselle gave an exasperated shriek and then sank down to the bottom of the barrel. “Distress. Always distress,” she sighed, aware she was talking to herself. “Why? That is all I want to know. I just wish I knew why bad things always happen to me.”

A bald, gnomish creature appeared with a sudden pop! above Damselle’s head, making her yelp. He was the size of a man’s hand, with thin, blue-veined wings. His wrinkly skin was the brown of a potato. He looked at her with large black eyes, held up a piece of parchment, and read in a squeaky voice:

“Say the word, we’ll tell you true.
We’ll do what you’ve asked us to.
What you most want we shall provide
if by these rules you do abide.
Of messenger you must not tell
once you leave this wishing well.
Of how we gave our little gift
you must not speak once bucket lifts.
Fall in again you’ll get no wish.
Just icy depths and hungry fish.”

Damselle gaped at the little flying thing. “Wish?” she said. “Then… I’m not a prisoner here or anything?”

The creature alighted on the bucket’s edge and said, “Prisoner? What would give you that idea?” He shifted the little plain tunic he wore.

“Long story,” she said, staring at the creature for a moment more. “What are you?”

“Ixby.”

“Bless you.”

“No, Miss. I’m an Ixby. A Well-Ixby, Giver of... ah, hang on.” From a hidden pocket in his little white tunic, he pulled a thin white card and read it aloud: “Granter of Wishes Requested Within the Well.” The Ixby stuffed the card back in his pocket. “Sorry. It’s—it’s my first day. I didn’t know I’d have to read a poem. I’m not very good at it yet.”

Damselle eyed him. “I’ve never read of Ixbies before. You’re not dark creatures, are you?”

The little creature looked surprised. “D-dark, Miss? Most certainly not, though we do tend to live in dark places; that is, places with little light. Not…evil. Is that what you mean? The population of Ixbies is not what it once was. Perhaps that is the reason you have not encountered us. But, we’d best be getting on with it, Miss.”

“Getting on with what?”

The Ixby cocked his head. “Getting on with granting your wish, Miss, of course. Your official file states an expressed wish to know ‘why bad things always happen to you’.”

Damselle sat up straight. “You can grant wishes?”

The Ixby folded the edges of his parchment anxiously. “I can grant one wish, Miss. The wish you made upon falling in the well, which was an expressed wish to know—”

“Yes, all right,” Damselle interrupted. “I know I said that, but I’d only just fallen in. I need to make a different wish.” This was how she could end it. She wouldn’t have to find any reason for the distress at all.

“A different wish?” The Ixby wrinkled his brow.

“I wish for the distress to end. For all of the monsters and evil, the chases and captures, the escapes and rescues to go away.” Damselle’s heart thudded against her chest. “That is what I wish for.”

“Ah,” said the creature. “Apologies, but you have already made your wish. It was the expressed wish t—”

“I know,” Damselle said. “But I need this distress to end.”

“I am sorry, Miss. You do still want the answer?”

Damselle stared at the cushion beneath her feet, heart beating fast. Did she really want to know? “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I want it.”

The Ixby turned his back to her, balancing delicately on the bucket’s rim, and faced the stoney well walls. “If you’ll lean your head over and gaze into the water, you will have the answer to your question.”

Damselle peered over the edge and watched as the black water began to churn. It bubbled and hissed. The golden glow sank into the waves. The dark liquid became as still and smooth as glass, and a scene—distorted slightly by a sheen of mist—appeared upon the water’s surface.

“Listen close, Miss,” the Ixby said. “The answer comes but once.”

​*

​A cloaked and hooded figure strode down a hallway with purpose, as if there was something very important to be done and little time to do it in.

Two more people appeared—a woman with long red locks and a tall man with dark hair—and Damselle goggled. Her parents, younger by many years. They scurried to keep up with the stranger.

“Wait,” Damselle’s mother said. “I don’t understand.”

“Stop!” her father ordered.  

Despite this, the cloaked stranger heeded neither of them. Before her father could finish his sentence, the stranger pushed open the nearest door and swept inside. Damselle’s parents ran to the doorway and practically stumbled into the room. Rose-colored curtains and rugs indicated its tenant—a baby girl. Inside, the stranger bent over a cradle, hood drawn, cloak billowing on a breeze that touched no one else.

Damselle’s mother tried again. “Who are you? What do you want?”

The stranger lingered for a moment more and then straightened and pulled back the hood to reveal dark hair and eyes that shone lavender in certain light. She seemed old, and at the same time ageless. Not beautiful, but certainly not ugly. “I am your daughter’s faery godmother,” she said, unfastening the dark cloak. “I have come to name her.”

In the bucket, Damselle gasped.

“Name her?” Damselle’s father said. His eyes darted between the faery godmother and the cradle. “We have heard nothing of this until now.”

Her mother added, “No one in our family has been named by a faery godmother for a long time.” 

​The faery spread her arms and smiled. “It is a lucky day. Your daughter shall become something special. Become a part of something special.” Before anyone could stop her, she swooped down upon the cradle and picked up a sleeping baby with red hair.

“Please, wait!” Damselle’s mother said.

“I will not wait any longer,” the faery said. She cradled baby-Damselle closer to her face. “Be silent and leave me to my work.”

The faery’s eyes flashed violet as she looked at the baby in her arms.

Damselle’s father reached for his child, but her mother stopped him. The faery godmother lifted the baby and gently pressed her lips to the girl’s forehead. She uttered something Damselle could not hear. The very space around them warped. It bent and twisted, and soft, ethereal whispers lingered in the air. The faery smiled at the baby, not as a mother would her child, but rather as a collector might a prize jewel. She put the baby back in her cradle. “It is done.”

Damselle’s parents wavered by the doorway, obviously unsure if this was an honor or a tragedy. “And?” her father asked. “What is her name?”

The faery fastened her cloak again and said, “Damselle.”

A tense silence filled the room as the faery pulled her hood on.

Her mother’s eyes were wide. “Damselle sounds like…like…”

“Damsel,” her father whispered.

“But why? She will live a life of distress because of this,” her mother said. “You have doomed her! You must change it.”

“It is done. There is no way to change it.” The faery paused. “Perhaps… No, it is done.” She pushed past them and swept from the room, cloak trailing behind her.

“Please,” Damselle’s mother said again as they moved through the house.

The godmother ignored the pleas as she arrived at the door. “I take my leave. Good-bye.”

“What is your name?” her mother asked. “What if she asks one day, when she is older?”

The faery considered this for a moment and nodded. “Alyas. You may tell her that her faery godmother is Alyas.”

The water in the well faded to shimmering black. The Ixby cleared his throat. Damselle continued to stare for a few moments before she slid to the bucket floor, thoughts racing through her head. “Stars! I never knew I had been named by a faery godmother. They never said…and why didn’t they mention…why didn’t they stop her? I can’t fix something like this! How am I to compete with a force as powerful as my name? Ixby, what am I supposed to do?”

The little creature looked uncomfortable at being asked his advice. “Ah, well, Miss.” His cheeks darkened and he shuffled through his notes. “I don’t know much about names. We Ixbies don’t have them.”

Damselle sighed. “I wish I didn’t have a name.”

“We can grant but one wish, Miss.”

“Yes, I got that. It was just an expression.” She tilted her head back and stared upwards. “How do people get out of this well? Is it supposed to lift me out now?”

“Er, well, Miss…Damselle,” the Ixby hesitated. “From what I hear, most people wish to get out of the bucket. They fall into the well and stew for a while and say something like, ‘I wish I could get out!’ That is their wish, once they fall into the well. They wish to get out. Though not many people fall down the well these days, sadly.”

Damselle stared at him and then burst out laughing. “I would be the one to ask why I fell in instead of how to get out.”

The Ixby looked around, big eyes shifting as he trembled nervously. Clearly, he had not been trained to deal with such things.

“Where must you go now?” Damselle asked. “Will you leave me here to die?”

“Actually, Miss,” the Ixby said. “We have to stay with our Wishers until they have left the well. Or died. This is very unfortunate. It is my first day on the job.”

Damselle stared up to the top of the well again. How far had she walked without watching her path? No one had seen her plummet into the well, and she had told Sir Banton she was going home. After all she had been through, dying at the bottom of a wishing well seemed almost laughable. She chewed her lip and watched the Ixby, who looked miserable now that he was stuck waiting in the well with Damselle. “Couldn’t you help me escape?”

“Oh, but we are not allowed, Miss,” the Ixby said. “If you did not wish to escape, I cannot help you to do so.” The tiny creature’s wings drooped. “I am sorry, though, Miss. I don’t want to stay down here, either. I didn’t want to work here in the first place. It is damp and cold and so very lonely.”

“Then why are you here?” Damselle asked.

“My mother, Spirits preserve her soul, thought I should work here. It is a reliable job. Very good, really, except you are stuck in the well and cannot see the trees. I love to see the trees, but Mother always said I should work here where it is quiet and safe.” He adjusted the collar on his tunic and stared at his feet.

“But you are only working here because someone else has told you to.” Damselle pulled her knees to her chest. “What do Ixbies usually do?”

“Ixbies most often grant wishes, from wells and trees and other places. A few go to other places, but wish-granting is what we do, Miss.”

“Do all Ixbies work where they are told?”

The Ixby hesitated. “It was what my mother wished. Well, not wished. Ixbies are not granted wishes of their own.”

Damselle wrinkled her brow. “You mean you must grant other peoples’ wishes all your life and never have one granted in return? That doesn’t seem fair.”

“It is not so bad, Miss,” the Ixby said, still staring at the floor.

“Well, then,” Damselle said, “what do you want to do? If you had the choice?”

He looked up. “You really want to know?”

Damselle shrugged. “Sure.”

“I…I have always wanted to be a Wood-Ixby, the kind that dwells in Wishing-Trees. All of the other Ixbies said I was too small, and my mother said even if I was big enough, I’ve never lived deep in the woods, so I don’t know anything about the woods and I’d get eaten by a larger creature, but I’d love to be a Wood-Ixby because…”

Damselle twisted a ringlet of hair around her finger as she listened to him babble, her mind working faster and faster. “Ixby,” Damselle interrupted.

He paused. “Miss?”

“May I just call you Ixby?”

He nodded.

She took a breath. “When I got my answer from the well, you saw what I saw. I was given a wretched name as a baby. It’s ruined my life. For sixteen years I have done nothing but fight to stay alive, to stay safe.” She crawled across the bucket toward him. “Now I know we have something in common. You could have been—could still be—a Wood-Ixby. You gave up on that to work in this dreary well. For safety.”

The little creature’s eyes were wide, and he nodded ever-so-slightly.

“If there is a way to make my life better, I have to take it. I have to do something. You can, too, Ixby.” Another nod. “But I can’t die here in the bottom of this well. That means you have to help me because you know what it is like to want something so much. You want to be a Wood-Ixby. You need it, because it is your dream. And I want to find my faery godmother.”

Find my faery godmother? Damselle had not realized that was what she wanted until she’d spoken the words. The idea seemed absurd. There was no way to change her name. Hadn’t the faery godmother just said so? Still, it felt right. She couldn’t explain it, but tracking down Alyas seemed, at the least, a good start. Damselle was so deep in her thoughts she hadn’t noticed Ixby toss his notes to the bottom of the bucket and begin talking again.

“…Wood-Ixbies are very brave,” Ixby was saying. “And I, well, I’m not really…I mean, I’m… I don’t know if it’s a good idea, Miss Damselle, though I would love to travel and learn more of the world.”
Damselle was sure she had nearly talked Ixby into getting her out. She grinned and got to her knees just as he said, “No, I really cannot travel alone.” He smiled sadly and hung his head. “It is much too dangerous.”

“You could come with me.” The words left her mouth before she had time to think.

“W-with you, Miss?” Ixby eyed her curiously.

You cobble-head, Damselle. A stuttering, anxious creature from the bottom of a wishing well was the last thing she needed following her around, but there was really only one thing to do now. She forced a weak, lop-sided grin. “Like you said, it’s dangerous to travel alone. Together, though, we can look out for each other.” Damselle was unsure how such a small creature would be of much help, but she said nothing.

“You will search for your faery godmother and I will learn more of the world?”

Damselle nodded.

“Then I may become a Wood-Ixby.” He stared at the water. Then, he gave Damselle a wide-eyed smile. “Oh, I’ll be in such trouble. But… all right. We cannot start our journeys if you are trapped here. Hold tight to the bucket, Miss. It will move quite fast.”

Move fast it did.

Damselle flew up the wishing well, hair whipping around her. The bucket slowed and hit the lip of the well, and Damselle scrambled out, worried it would plummet back down the shaft.

“Ixby?” she said. She looked around and found the little creature on the well’s edge, clutching his chest. “A mistake. Mother would never have approved.”

“Maybe not,” Damselle said, “but if you get a job with the Wood-Ixbies, what would she say then?”

This seemed to boost Ixby’s spirits, for he flapped his wings and hovered up to her eye level. “Ah, Miss, what will you do? I couldn’t help but overhear that your name may be unchangeable.”

Damselle frowned. “That may be so, but I’m not giving up yet. I have a lot of questions for my parents.” 

​Damselle smoothed her dress and they started for town. Earlier that morning she had been scared, weak, and useless. She still was, but in the last hour she had already traveled very far.