The Iron Witch by Karen Mahoney

long curls. I took one section at a time, working gradually and methodically until her hair shone like burnished wood.
She suffered my attentions in silence, and I wondered if she thought I was just another one of her caretakers.
But for the first time in months, it seemed as though she might actually remember who I am. As I moved to return the brush to the dresser, she clutched my hand and tried to say something—only the words wouldn’t come. At least, not at first. Not until she suddenly sat forward in her chair and stared into my eyes with such intensity that it scared the crap out of me. She sat like that for ages—it seemed like hours, though of course it was only a minute or two. Neither of us spoke, and I felt my heart beat so fast. Maybe she was remembering something.
Mom said, “We tried to save you.”
Over and over again, just those five words:
“We tried to save you.”
And then, while she was still speaking—chanting the words like a mantra—she went to her bedside table and opened the top drawer. She rummaged inside for what seemed like ages, finally pulling out a small wooden jewelry box. She flipped it open and retrieved a tiny pouch from inside, and then pressed the soft black velvet into my hands.
“We tried to save you,” she said, nodding her head firmly as though confirming it to herself. “We tried to save you.”
Eventually, a nurse came and had to sedate her because she was getting so agitated. They tried to make me leave but there was no way I was going anywhere, not if there was a chance she might say something else.
What was she talking about? Save me from what? The elves? I wish she could’ve said more—it was the closest I’ve ever come to hearing something from her that seems connected to that night.
I sat by her bed, listening to the sound of her breathing and the occasional twitches and murmurs that she made even in sleep. The pouch she’d given me held a beautiful, delicately crafted silver charm bracelet. It jingled when I held it up to the light and shook it. I pushed it into my jeans pocket, safely back inside its small pouch, and resolved to examine it properly later. I know the bracelet has to be important, but right then all I wanted to do was to sit with Mom.
I watched her beautiful, ravaged face as it slowly settled into calm lines once more.
One day I will find out what happened to her, and I will figure out a way to get her back.

Donna tried not to feel nervous as she waited for Alexander Grayson in the middle of Ironbridge Common. She had dreamed her way through the day’s classes with Alma, and the tutor had even commented on her pupil’s lack of attention. Donna didn’t think she could be blamed, though. Monday’s classes were usually made up of “regular” lessons, the things that she should be covering in high school; how was she supposed to concentrate on the Declaration of Independence when she had a sort-of date with a ridiculously gorgeous guy?
    The precise center point of the Common was a regular meeting place for friends and lovers. Donna’s eyes strayed to the old wooden bandstand as she sat down on an unoccupied bench. She felt suddenly self-conscious and scruffy in her frayed jeans, although she had added a fitted silver tunic and her favorite black velvet gloves when she changed, after class, in one of the luxurious bathrooms in Quentin Frost’s huge house. Her thick gray woolen coat and flat silver pumps completed the outfit, while her hair had been simply and hastily brushed and left loose. It was growing fast, already almost to her shoulders. Seeing her mother’s crazy-long tresses last night had made Donna want to get all her hair cut off again, as she’d done last year, much to her aunt’s horror.
    She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this nervous; she cursed her weak stomach as it flip-flopped and somersaulted. The cold November air forced her to huddle further into her coat, and she wished she’d worn boots. All of this