The Stepsister Scheme

tinged green, cast in the rough bark pattern of the hazel tree. Thin lines of wood were inlaid in the glass, spiraling around the handle for a better grip.
    The “roots” at the pommel wrapped around a sky-blue sphere of glass. Twin branches formed the crossguard. The hilt fit her hand perfectly, and the touch of the wood seemed to soothe her burns.
    She raised the sword to the sun. Deep inside, just above the guard, she thought she could make out the shape of a hazel leaf, as if it had been etched within the glass.
    The sword was just as beautiful as the gown and slippers her mother had provided. She wiped her face with her free hand, then rested the sword across her legs.
    “Now do you understand why I didn’t want you along?” Talia asked.
    Snow made a tsk sound as she swabbed ointment over Talia’s wounds. “She did kill the Chirka.”
    “She would have died if we hadn’t been here to save her.” Talia looked away as Snow threaded her needle. “No disrespect, Your Highness, but you don’t know how to protect yourself. Snow and I can find your husband. Go back to the—Dammit, that stings!”
    Danielle gently tapped the sword against a small rock in the mud. It chimed like crystal, but not a scratch marred the blade. The glass was so much lighter than steel.
    “My mother knew how much I loved my father’s work,” she said. “He could make magic with nothing but a blob of molten glass, a blow tube, and a hot fire.” She smiled, remembering. “When I was little, I used to gather up the splatters of glass after they cooled. They were like glass pebbles, smooth as water on the top, but rough beneath where they captured the imprint of the hearth. I’m sure he let the glass drip on purpose, just for me.”
    She flexed her fingers and winced. The skin felt raw and tight. She raised the sword into a guard position, smiling at the way the glass caught the sun.
    “Hold the tip lower and fix your elbow,” said Talia, her jaw clenched. “Your arm looks like a chicken wing.”
    “You don’t want to have to protect me? Teach me how to protect myself.”
    “The best way to protect yourself is to go home,” Talia muttered.
    Danielle ignored her. To Snow, she said, “My stepsisters knew nothing of magic before the wedding. Someone had to guide them.”
    “Fairies,” Talia said. “They’ve got a real thing for wolves. Always sending them out to stalk humans through the woods or sneak into houses or—” She hissed in pain as Snow tied off the final stitch.
    “The spell was cast using witchcraft,” Snow said firmly. “The signs in the attic were unmistakable. But the ingredients to summon and control a Chirka are rare. Most of them are illegal.”
    “Where would they go to get them?” Danielle asked.
    Snow folded her needle and thread into a small bundle, then rummaged through her satchel until she found a brown jar. She dabbed greenish ointment over the cuts on Talia’s stomach, rubbing it into the skin.
    “There are only two places in Lorindar. We need to visit the troll.”
    Snow took Danielle’s hand and began rubbing the ointment onto the burns. A cool, tingling feeling spread through her skin. The ointment smelled like fresh-cut hay.
    Danielle flexed her hand. “You said there were two places to find those illegal ingredients. What’s the second?”
    “My room at the palace.”

    Danielle nibbled a seed cake, barely tasting the sweetness, as she followed the others through the Holy Crossroads toward the southern gates of the city. Church bells clamored to either side, signaling noon-time worship. On the steps of Saint Thomas, a preacher in plain cotton robes shouted at the crowds, condemning the use of divine magic by mortal hands. “Magic is not meant for beings as fallible as ourselves,” he shouted.
    Normally, the preachers annoyed Danielle with their taunts and condemnations, but this time, she found herself in agreement.
    On the other side of the street, a man wearing a blue cloak edged with gold symbols pointed and jeered. “Magic is a gift of the savior,” he shouted. He drew a crucifix from inside his cloak. A winged fairy, cast from bronze, hung from the small cross. “The First Fairy, who lived and died as one of us.”
    “Idiots,” Talia said. “The only reason the people haven’t run the Followers of the Fey out of town is all the money the fairies send to push their farce of a church.”
    From the sound of things, the group gathered at the Church of the Iron