Page 15 of The Kingdom Cursed By Iron

“She went away for a few days to see Ruth’s mother. Is this about Ruth? Did she bring it up?”

I search his face for signs of deception—some clue that he’s nervous, or hiding something, but he’s just wearing the same confused expression he does when I start talking about melting temperatures and catalysts.

“Yes, she mentioned it. I was just curious, that’s all.”

“You came back looking right as rain.”

“You didn’t find out what was wrong with me?”

He scrunches his face in concentration. “Your mom might’ve mentioned it, but I’m sorry, Nora. I don’t remember.”

He sits back, examining me. “Is it important? Do you feel sick again?”

“No, I feel fine,” I lie. Physically I’m all right, if tired. And even though I’m worried about leaving Dad again, I need to appear sure of myself. Thankfully, he seems to buy it, letting out a resigned sigh.

“I remember when you first started going to the fae market. I was so against it. Who knew what could happen to you there? But you were so determined, loading up your things and coming back with your coin; more than I could earn in a week. I could see then that you’d been right. It was worth it, even if thinking about it always made me sick with worry.”

He drops my hands, looking at the floor.

“I know better than to try to talk you out of this if you think it’s the right thing to do. But when you were taken to the castle, I thought I’d lost you. Please don’t make me go through that again.”

He must feel so helpless—as powerless as I did when first arriving in Faerie, unsure if we’d ever see each other again. I touch his shoulder.

“I won’t,” I promise, knowing he will believe me. Dad has never had trouble trusting me. It’s the world he’s wary of. And why wouldn’t he be? It’s been cruel to him so many times. I want that to change, and I know a better future can only start when we’re both safe.

Ruskin is waiting for us when I bring Dad back into our front room. My father continues to glare at him, and the stiffness in Ruskin’s posture tells me how awkward he feels. I’ve never seen him like this before. He’s usually so smooth and collected, even when in a rage. It would be funny that my disapproving dad could have such an effect on him, if I wasn’t already so tense.

“You have to make another promise,” Dad says to him sternly. “You promise me that you will bring her back.”

“I assure you, Mr. Thorn, I couldn’t keep Eleanor in Faerie against her will even if I wanted to.” His tone is clipped and calm despite his awkwardness.

“Promise,” Dad demands.

Ruskin inclines his head. “I promise I will bring her back,” he says, though I think I detect the slightest catch in his voice. He hasn’t specified when he’d do that, of course. But I won’t force him to clarify. The promise is for Dad’s benefit, not mine, and as long as his mind is set at ease, then I’m confident in knowing I can use Ruskin’s true name to make him bring me back whenever I want.

I turn to Dad. We’ve already said our goodbyes in the privacy of his room, but the separation still feels raw after so little time together. Ruskin speaks before I do.

“And I have something for you, Mr. Thorn.”

Ruskin goes to the doorframe he fixed, laying a hand on the branches until a fresh shoot sprouts from between his fingers. He snaps it off, then holds it out towards Dad. My father simply stares at it suspiciously.

Ruskin clears his throat. “Please,” he says, moving it closer.

Dad slowly takes the twig, holding it away from him as if it might bite. I watch as a glimmer of light appears to dance on its surface—then, like a spider’s web caught on a breeze, it detaches itself and settles onto Dad’s hand before disappearing. He jumps and drops the stick.

“It’s all right,” Ruskin replies. “The spell’s already taken root.”

“What spell?” Dad snaps, his eyes wide with anger and fear.

“The protection spell. It’s not potent—most magic could undo it—but it will keep you from meeting harm by human hands at least, which I should think is your main concern.”

I roll my eyes, thinking he could’ve explained that first, but nonetheless, my nervousness over leaving eases, and the words are out of my mouth before I can think about it.

“Thank you,” I say to Ruskin.

As angry and hurt as I feel towards Ruskin, I do appreciate the gesture. He’s given more than I asked for. It was kind of him, the sort of kindness most would think he wasn’t capable of. I used to think I knew differently, but now… Now, I don’t know what I know. Not when it comes to him.

“Of course,” he says, his bright, yellow-green eyes inscrutable.

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