Greetings, Fellow Bibliophiles.

As promised, I have started reading CINDER by Marissa Meyer – the winner of my poll on Facebook (which beat SHERWOOD by Meagan Spooner soundly, if you recall).

Started, you say? Yes. Started. I haven’t completed this task yet but have decided to break my review up into two parts. I would like to review the first half of the story whilst it is freshest in my mind and also muse a bit on my theories for what might happen before it happens in the end. Because I think musing on endings is fun, and this one has some great possibilities. WARNING: I plan to get a tiny bit spoilerific in my thoughts here. I haven’t finished the book and don’t know the ending, but if you don’t like the idea of my talking about what has happened in the first half and what I think might happen, turn thine eyes away. 

CINDER is, obviously, a retelling of Rumpelstiltskin.

Okay. Fine.

CINDER is a retelling of Cinderella, which most of us probably know thanks to Disney, but which has been around since the sixth century, recorded first by Ancient Greeks (because, of course, Greece), then by Ancient China, which pre-dates the European Cinderella fables by about 1000 years! There are a couple of different myths, the oldest being the story of Ye Xian, whose father dies of a plague and who is raised by an abusive stepmother. Both versions feature the loss of a shoe, but more importantly feature reincarnation of the beautiful young girl’s biological mother. Why Disney chose to leave out the reincarnated spirit of Cinderella’s dead mother (in the body of a cow or fish), we’ll never know. (My education in these facts brought to you by the fabulous Myths and Legends Podcast) 

This Chinese connection is fascinating to me because Meyer’s CINDER actually takes place in the futuristic setting of New Beijing, capital of the Eastern Commonwealth, Planet Earth. Meyer has made the point that New Beijing still honors old architecture while building new and using advanced technology. Technology like cyborgs, of which our main character, Cinder, is one. Cyborgs are part human, part machine, and totally second-class citizens, “owned” by another human. Cinder is owned by her shallow stepmother, Adri, and two stepsisters. Interestingly, Adri, while unkind, so far hasn’t turned out to be the major villain in the book. I think this is a cool twist, since usually Cinderella’s evil stepmother is the ultimate, well, evil.

The first main villain of the story is - true to the myth of Ye Xian - a terrible plague sweeping New Beijing called Letumosis. It has no cure and a short life expectancy. Very early on, the kinder of the two stepsisters, Cinder's only human friend Peony, catches this plague and is swept to quarantine. Obviously, incurable diseases are terrifying in a way evil villains cannot be - they can't be cut down or jailed or defeated with the power of love. Only with the power science, which is very prevalent in Cinder's story. The good people of New Beijing decide it's fine to experiment on cyborgs to try to find a cure, and Adri sends Cinder away to die as a guinea pig. Except, she doesn't. She's immune. Oh, and she meets the handsome Prince Kai (there had to be a handsome prince, obvs), who is clearly attracted to our tragic mechanic. 

I'm thoroughly enjoying all the things happening to Cinder so far. They are complex and hard to deal with, but she is coping well and it's not too heavy for an easy-to-read YA novel. Meyer has a style that is exciting and keeps things moving. There is enough of the Cinderella story in it to be recognizable to this point, but it is its own world and story. 

I've also got some developing theories for what is coming. 

Cinder is a cyborg, a product of intense scientific meddling. She was altered at a very young age, though has no memory of why, but we assume it was the same horrific accident that took her parents. Sounds foreshadowy, right? 

Cinder mentions she was adopted at age 11 by a kindly man who died of the plague soon after. Why did he adopt an 11 year-old cyborg? I don't know yet. My bet is that he knew more of Cinder's past than she does. About 60 pages in, there is a small, throw-away discussion about the vicious Lunar Queen Levana who, in her bid to take the Lunar throne, killed the current queen and burned the room of the queen's small daughter, Princess Selene. Selene would be the only one able to take the throne back from Levana, but all that was found of the toddler in the ashes was pieces of skin. 

Of course, I decided at this point that if a child was terribly injured and missing pieces of skin, she could probably be patched up by becoming - oh, I don't know -  a cyborg. 

Cinder also has regular dreams about fires and burning. And her name is, well, Cinder. So.

Ah, the old Lost Princess Story. We meet again.

I'm not mad about it. And I could be wrong. It's just my theory and I'm unsure if Meyer wanted me to figure it out on page 60 or not. She could totally be fooling me, and if so, I bow to her powers of misdirection.

Oh, and I’m also wondering if Meyer will slip in a nod to the old Ye Xian tale somehow and have some form of reincarnation. Like, Cinder’s droid Iko is really her mother’s soul or something… But that sounds a bit much, so maybe not.

Either way, I am enjoying it. Sometimes it's nice to read something and have a little bit of a theory in your mind. It's satisfying to be right. And if you're wrong, it's still satisfying to be surprised. 

Mostly, I'm looking forward to the imminent arrival of Queen Levana on Earth. Kai and Cinder's flirting is all well and good, but this lady sounds terrifying and I am excited to see what she is like. There are definite shades of "Snow White" in her story - an Evil Queen who has a thing with mirrors, disfigured her own kin because the girl was more beautiful than she, and handily dispatched her rivals to the throne. 
​
GIMME. 

Happy (mid) April! The month is, unbelievably, more than half over and I'm preparing for JordanCon, the Wheel of Time convention in Atlanta, GA while also attempting to squeeze in some writing time. I've been working on a semi-secret project and finally got to write a scene I'd been envisioning for years. I can't tell you how exciting it was to write, and hopefully it will be just as exciting to read one day. After a lot of editing, 'cause first drafts.

Anyway, it's official: The winner of the poll for which fairy tale retelling I should read and review first is CINDER by Marissa Meyer. CINDER took the lead over SHERWOOD by Meagan Spooner pretty quickly, and poor Maid Marian just never could quite catch up. That's fine, though. I'm sure we'll get to her in good time. 

CINDER is an older book, the first in a series called THE LUNAR CHRONICLES, originally published in 2012. Many of you have probably left me in the dust and already read it, so my review might be old news, but I love to see what others think of my favorites stories and to compare thoughts. So as I'm reading and reviewing, please feel free to comment along. If you'd like to read CINDER with me, follow the links to buy it for yourself and we can be reading frens. 

The description is as follows:
Humans and androids crowd the raucous streets of New Beijing. A deadly plague ravages the population. From space, a ruthless lunar people watch, waiting to make their move. No one knows that Earth's fate hinges on one girl. . . .

Cinder, a gifted mechanic, is a cyborg. She's a second-class citizen with a mysterious past, reviled by her stepmother and blamed for her stepsister's illness. But when her life becomes intertwined with the handsome Prince Kai's, she suddenly finds herself at the center of an intergalactic struggle, and a forbidden attraction. Caught between duty and freedom, loyalty and betrayal, she must uncover secrets about her past in order to protect her world's future.

I am pretty excited about what I've been assured is a fun read, but I'll judge for myself when I start reading sometime after the crazy that is JordanCon!

A Ballad of Bards
A poem by Kiley Kellermeyer
 
Years ago, you might have heard,
were four bards, rash but sly.
Around the kingdom did they spin
their tales from low to high.
 
Jin, she was a gold-haired thing, like
her brother Julien.
They sang the legends of fair folk
and other flights of whim.
 
With them traveled man and wife
named Loy and Izabelle.
They told stories of epic beasts
and creatures spawned in Hell.
 
All four of them could write and play.
Loy had quills, Jin her flute.
Julien’s voice joined with his harp.
Izzy mastered the lute.
 
But speak of magic you know not,
like one who’s most naïve,
and you may find yourself inside
a tale like those you weave.
 
One night they strode ‘neath waxing moon,
four chroniclers of lore.
Their path gave way to mystery,
and here they saw a door.
 
If caution here you would prescribe,
the lesser fool are you.
But this troupe found the door unlocked
and they strode brashly through.
 
Upon their entry did they see,
where once was a way out,
the door had vanished. Poof! Was gone!
The needed a new route.
 
“Go onward!” cried brave Julien.
“To what end?” came Loy’s voice.
And then Jin looked at Izabelle,
who said, “We have no choice.”
 
The four bards walked through dimmest light.
On stone their footsteps fell.
Loy pushed Jin who trod upon the
gray cloak of Izabelle.
 
Julien lurched, then down they went,
and when their falling ceased,
they stood as one and gazed in fear
upon a wretched beast.
 
T’was hard to see inside the room
where here a monster dwelled.
And who could say through murky light
what shape this creature held?
 
“Friends,” Loy cried. “Run and save yourselves!
I’ll lure his scorching fire.”
“Her spells are strong,” said Julien.
“You run, I’ll draw her ire.”
 
Then said Jin, “He is much too sly.
We’ll none of us escape!
I’ve read of Folk like these before.
Our minds and souls he’ll take.”
 
“Don’t be so daft,” called Izabelle.
She raised her bold, strong chin.
“That thing was spawned in hellish depths.
Together we must win!”
 
And now, you’d think, this story ends.
For how could they prevail?
They’ve harps and pens, not swords, you know.
Just rugged cloaks, not maille.
 
“As one we fight,” said Izabelle.
She raised her shining lute.
Loy drew his quills. “You’re right, my love!
Get back you fiendish brute!”
 
The monster lunged for each of them.
All cried out as they dove.
Julien raised his harp to shield
Jin from the mighty blow.
 
“Quick! The crone is stuck within my
harp’s chords good and fast.”
“I’ll bind the faery’s hands,” Jin said.
“So no spells it may cast.”
 
Loy barreled in from somewhere near
and glanced at them with doubt.
Then sprang upon a scaly hide
to grab the creature’s snout.
 
He hugged the muzzle as he cried,
 “Don’t let it reach the sky!”
Izzy shook her head and thought,
‘Why, such things cannot fly.”   
 
The creature screamed and flailed about,
strength none of them could hold.
Our heroes four would not last long,
however true and bold.
 
In the black of the mystic ruins
Izabelle, she raised her lute
to crash upon the creature’s skull.
But then… she heard the flute.
 
The room was filled with melody;
A haunting, honeyed trill.
Jin’s music swirled ‘round beast and bards
and each of them grew still.
 
Izabelle withdrew her lute and
instead began to play.
Julien joined with just his voice.
The beast began to sway.
 
And finally Loy weaved in his voice:
A soothing baritone.
Bardic ballad beguiling a beast
that crashed with a great groan.
 
Just like that, poof! It disappeared.
The players blinked and stared.
They were once more beneath the moon.
No door, beast, or despair.
 
Said good Loy, “That dragon was a
fearsome sight to see.”
“A dragon?” said brave Julien.
“It t’was a witch to me.”
 
Jin said, “I saw a being filled
with magic from the Fae.”
“I saw,” said Izabelle at last,
“a demon in the fray.”
 
In ghostly light of moon above,
all now a promise gave.
Story of doorway, beast, and song
would follow to the grave.
 
So if you travel Fae-touched woods
may this tale keep you strong.
But if you follow in their path
You better have a song!

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.
​
You can check out Chapter 1 here, and Chapter 2 here.

Damselle in Distress
Chapter 3: The Rider
Kiley Kellermeyer
​
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.” 

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. 
​
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. 
​

A poem
By Kiley Kellermeyer

In the cold, murky wood, 
Against good advice, 
Rode a charming young prince 
Through grim wind and ice. 

The night shrouded the path, 
An ebony cloak. 
The snow blew around him
Like billowing smoke

A thick branch struck his brow.
From his steed he fell.
The white horse carried on
Through the frigid hell. 

After five dreamless hours
He made nary a cry.
Inside a bright cabin
He slowly revived.

As his pale eyes opened,
And he came awake,
He breathed in the richness
Of what smelled like cake.

He shook hard as he rose.
And with fear he said,
“Oh, I need save the girl,
The lass I must wed!”

“Can you not stay right here?”
Asked a sweet voice.
“Must you now marry her?
Or have you a choice?”

He followed the voice
That flowed smooth as silk
To a maid with red lips 
And skin white as milk.

His mind was ensnared in
Her calm and clear tone.
“I stay with thee,” he said.
“I shall never go.”

“Aye, then take a warm bath,
It will feel grand, sire.”
She pointed one lovely hand
Toward a tub on the fire.

“When you are done,
And feel fully baked,
I shall get to my work 
And make you a cake.”

The prince smiled widely
And hopped in the pot,
Not knowing he was close
To the end of his lot.

The beautiful young girl
Came after an hour.
In the prince’s pot she
Dumped sugar and flour. 

“What are you doing?”
asked the prince with a wince.
And with horror found he
Could not budge and inch.

“I’m making you a cake,”
she said with a smile.
“Mix prince, eggs, and sugar
and stir for a while.”

Two lessons to study
In a story profound.
Do no fall in love fast 
Based on how one sounds.

The second lesson’s odd
But so very true:
In the woods never take
a cake offered to you.