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Kindling Fire: The Witch's Book of Crystal Magic
Kindling Fire: The Witch's Book of Crystal Magic
Kindling Fire: The Witch's Book of Crystal Magic
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Kindling Fire: The Witch's Book of Crystal Magic

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From the mystical forest of Arden, armed with an ancient crystal of unknown power and a healer's touch, a young witch stumbles upon a mysterious stranger and begins her journey. Will she master her gifts? Survive the fires? Can she trust the stranger who carries her away? Will she find the courage to accept the challenge?

LanguageEnglish
Release dateSep 15, 2017
ISBN9781386842187
Kindling Fire: The Witch's Book of Crystal Magic
Author

Jodee Steffensen

Jodee Steffensen has been a writer for as long as she can remember and received her first award for writing in the 8th grade. She has written in nearly all genres including novels, short stories, plays and screen plays. History is her favorite genre and especially loves the research that goes into a good historic story. She also loved being a reading teacher and many of her teen/young adult fiction is kid approved by actual students.

Read more from Jodee Steffensen

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    Book preview

    Kindling Fire - Jodee Steffensen

    Kindling Fire

    Behold an ancient, noble land,

    in fiery spirit taught.

    Ripped apart by royal hand,

    the realm, in battle caught.

    Two daughters born of noble kin,

    one stolen in the night.

    Lost to what she might have been,

    saved to future fight.

    Then comes a stranger to the stage,

    entwined in plots most dire.

    Honor bound, he must engage,

    the ever-kindling fire.

    Kingdoms fall when kings contend.

    Intolerant hate can never mend.

    Chapter 1

    Edge of the ancient Forest of Arden,

    The Village of Addleton

    WITCH!

    At first Beatrice Vernon didn’t hear the word. She was caught up with worry in her rush to reach Lady Russell.

    Witch! The child-voices grew louder. Witch! Witch! Witch!

    The rhythmic chanting jarred Beatrice to awareness. A knot formed in her stomach and her shoulders tensed. She hunched lower as she continued forward, quickening her pace and making her way around the bend. Agatha had warned her to ignore them when this happened again. Don’t turn around. Don’t encourage them. And for heaven sake, keep your gift under control!

    Witch! Witch! Witch! they continued, as they sped to keep up with her.

    They’d never chased her before. She imagined what they might do if they caught her. At seventeen, Beatrice was a girl of average stature. The two older boys were tall for their twelve years, enough to tower over her.

    Beatrice felt her face grow hot with humiliating fear. A chilling gust caught her hood and whipped it from her face. She snatched the edges and pulled them close as the wind tugged on her dark, frayed cloak. In her haste, she nearly slipped on the muddy ice. Why don’t they stop? Why do they torment me?

    A moment later, Beatrice felt the sharp pain of impact as a stone slammed against her hip. She sucked in a breath, twisted round, and blasted her assailants with a glare. The smallest of the three panicked and stumbled into a deep rut in the road. His two companions laughed with triumph and turning to run, tripped over their fallen brother. All three scrambled to regain their footing as the ground began to shake.

    Without thinking, her hand went to the crystal dangling at her chest.

    The power that surged through Beatrice surprised her. Such charges of strength had increased lately, and she was afraid she couldn’t control it. She felt the tingling sensation begin in her chest and emanate down through her arm. She looked toward the boys, as a chant repeated in her head. Don’t use your gift, don’t use your gift....

    Two of the boys managed to reach the other side of the road, leaving behind the smallest, who couldn’t gather his feet quickly enough to lift him from the danger. His companions turned and watched in frozen horror at their small brother, who continued to slip back into the rut.

    The rumbling amplified the urgent strength that was demanding release. The carriage was coming, just as her dream had warned her. The boy would be crushed!

    She threw back her cape and grasped her crystal with one hand. She heard herself scream a high, harsh shriek that surprised both her and the fleeing boys, and then shot forth an arm releasing a ball of energy from her extended hand. 

    The sound of thunder blasted from her fingertips and propelled the youngster up, out of the rut and onto the side of the road. Beatrice stepped back into safety just as the carriage thundered past, pulled by two wide-eyed, heavily panting horses. The driver whipped the terrified animals frantically. As soon as it passed, the ground quaked again under the impact of a second set of pounding hooves. Two pursuing riders sped past.

    Beatrice shielded herself against the flying mud as she turned away from the deafening noise.

    As quickly as the chase was upon them, it was gone, leaving a silence as profound as the crashing hooves.

    The three boys gaped at Beatrice, who straightened to face them on the opposite side of the road. All four breathed in unison, their chests heaving as they stared at each other, sending misty puffs into the frigid air. Beatrice was sure her heart was pounding loudly enough for the three boys to hear. No one moved.

    Then the grey clouds parted and the sun warmed her face with a single ray of light. She heard melting droplets of snow drip to the ground behind her, but she dared not move her eyes from the boys, who still stood gaping at her.

    It was impossible to tell whether the terror on their faces was from the near death of being crushed under the raging carriage or the unexpected charge of the girl who stood before them.

    Beatrice looked on either side of the road, terrified that a villager had witnessed her gifts. I’ll surely be known as a witch now. But what could she have done? Beatrice never ignored a premonition. She knew the boy would surely have been crushed without her intervention. And what of the boys? Would they describe the flash of power they saw?

    The hesitation ended. The two eldest boys crawled toward the youngest, reached out and yanked him to his feet. Then all three turned and ran into the forest. Beatrice could hear their screams fade into the mist.

    Beatrice put her hand to her pounding chest, and took a deep, deliberate breath to calm her trembling. Drained beyond any previous experience, she fought to stay upright. She jumped when she heard the call. 

    Are you alright, Beatrice?

    Kathrine stood at the bend of the road. There was a pause as Beatrice tried to interpret her expression.

    Had Katherine heard the blast of energy that had propelled the boy out of harm’s way? Beatrice prayed she wouldn’t join in the accusations.

    Katherine stepped toward her. I heard the scream and barely stepped out of the way in time.

    Beatrice smiled and waved. All’s well. There’s no damage done. Her attempted laugh caught in her throat.

    We all could have been killed by such recklessness! chastened the other as she approached. Beatrice heaved a sigh of relief at the sound of concern in her dear friend’s voice. There should be a law about speeding carriages, is all I can say. And did you hear that thunder? It sounded right on top of us. Are you alright? You look very pale, Beatrice.

    I’m fine, Katherine. Beatrice shrugged and picked her way through icy patches toward her, hoisting a soggy skirt above the muddy puddles as she went. It was the Jennings boys, she said lightly. She had midwifed with Agatha at the youngest boy’s birth when she was aged twelve. Was that just five years ago? Fresh images came to her mind of cleaning bloody mucus off the squirming baby. Then she had swaddled him tightly to sooth his cries. She tried to suppress the memory of disposing of another sibling who hadn’t lived long enough to cry.

    Katherine stopped a few paces away and stood looking at her oddly.

    They’re only children, continued Beatrice, rubbing her hip gingerly. There would surely be a bruise. It’s innocent fun, no doubt.

    If word got around to the parents of the boys bullying, there might be retaliation. Best to keep it quiet.

    How did you do it?

    Beatrice looked at her questioningly. Do what?

    The carriage. I didn’t see it come ‘round the bend. How did you know?

    I felt the ground, Beatrice replied, and I heard the sound of the hooves. She couldn’t share the dream that foretold the event. Another thing to keep secret. You didn’t hear it coming?

    Katherine looked at her silently, then broke her gaze and carefully stepped around her. They’d best be home, and that’s sure, she said brusquely, helping to make ready for the journey.

    Journey?

    I heard the Jennings are evicted this week.

    They must be devastated, Beatrice mused, half to herself. Another family forced to abandon life in the village. I wonder where they’ll go.

    And aren’t we all devastated? returned Katherine without looking back as she continued her journey.

    Beatrice hesitated to answer. Why did it feel so awkward to speak with her childhood friend? She had the distinct feeling Katherine was leaving something important unsaid.

    Are you well, Kath? she asked, hoping to prolong the conversation.

    Better, answered Katherine. Thank you for asking, but I’ve chores to attend. She tossed the words off over her shoulder. Beatrice saw her hasten her stride.

    I’ll be by tomorrow, Beatrice said. Her friend pulled her shawl tight, and trudged on around the bend.

    Fare you well until then, called Beatrice, but the unheeded words faded in the crisp air. The growing knot in her stomach squeezed bile up her throat. She swallowed hard, shaking off the hurt and confusion as Katherine disappeared from sight.

    There was no time to follow her and discover what was wrong. Lady Russell needed help and the afternoon was waning. Beatrice adjusted her hood, turned back toward her destination, and began again to find her steps through the slush-crusted ruts of the road. Addleton Abbey was ahead at the edge of the forest.

    Would Lord Russell pay her today? The shilling had been accrued over months of care. Lord Russell had promised it upon the Lady’s recovery, as if payment would increase Beatrice’s concern for her friend and benefactor.

    A slight breeze brushed her cheek. She was grateful it lacked the bite of yesterday’s wind. Perhaps it would break the unexpected cold and finally loosen winter’s grip. The sun would soon begin to descend and Lady Russell would be in discomfort. Beatrice quickened her step, aggravating the sting from the stone’s blow to her hip. Winter’s desolation and the uncomfortable encounter with Katherine slipped from her mind as the huge manor loomed into view.

    A full four stories high, the house towered above the ten-foot stone wall that surrounded it. The prominent cross gables were worn with time, recalling a lost age of religious piety, before the King seized the Papish property, and handed it over to new gentry. The steep timber roof was covered over with moss, now thin and winter brown. A dozen chimneys rose to let loose the smoke from burning fires, tended by as many chambermaids to provide the wealthy with the luxury of constant heat. Many of the exterior walls gleamed with fresh white plaster.

    Sir Russell was in the fifth year of renovation, slowly reclaiming a structure of grace and grandeur. Word in the village was that he hoped it would also secure his place among Britain’s noble circles. No one dared scoff at the idea that new money could buy status. Sir Russell had proven it could, and he relished the possibility, along with the coat of arms he’d just purchased.

    The graveled lane crunched under her feet as Beatrice passed through the massive iron gate. It stood open and rusting, the need for protection long passed. Beatrice proceeded to walk by the dormant gardens until she reached the courtyard where a single servant stood ready to guide visiting horses to the stables. He yawned, waved at her, and smiled. It lifted Beatrice’s mood. Perhaps today would be the day of Lady Russell’s recovery.

    The door opened in expectation and Beatrice entered the grand hall. She no longer needed to be guided past the entry hall where Sir Russell kept his collection of swords and sabers. She climbed the stairs to the private chambers over the buttery where Lady Russell was now quartered. Though not as elaborately decorated as much of the house, the room boasted a huge window that overlooked the side gardens. Lady Russell preferred to rest in an imported Danish lounge chair and listen to the few birds chirping in the trees outside.

    But she hadn’t had the strength to sit in the chair for days. For months now, Beatrice has used her strongest power to heal the Lady. And yet each day, she returned to find Lady Russell declining.

    Beatrice entered and felt the nagging queasiness grip her insides again. Lady Russell’s maid, who rose from her vigil, avoided meeting Beatrice’s eyes. Instead, she motioned for the chamber maid, who gave the fire a final stir, then both servants slipped out of the room. The pitcher and washing bowl were already placed on the table near the bed. Beatrice curtsied quickly and set down her pouch.

    My Lady, she said softly, stroking the Lady’s placid face. I’m here.

    The Lady murmured something indiscernible, but managed a weak smile encouraging Beatrice to begin. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Beatrice carefully wiped away the white paste from the ravaged skin.

    I wish you wouldn’t paint, Lady, she said soothingly. Lady Russell winced from the pressure of her touch as Beatrice began the brutal scraping. The thick white paste, made popular by the Queen, hardened throughout the day to become a cracking mask. The devoted maid servant that applied the makeup was never present to witness the prolonged process of removal. Only Beatrice knew the damage the expensive ceruse paint caused its wearer.

    It’s expected, said Lady Russell. My Lord demands I follow fashion. She looked into Beatrice’s eyes. "I dare not let him see me

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