Free The Stepsister Scheme by Jim C. Hines

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 Cross felt the same as Talia. Their taunts soon drowned out the cries of the Fey Church.
    “Come on, while everyone is busy watching the show.” said Snow, threading her way through the crowds.
    Talia pointed toward the small, gruesomely decorated Chapel of the Baptism of Blood, where a man and woman in crimson hurled epithets at the other churches. “It’s nothing but an act to rile the crowds and put gold in their coffers, the same as any actor or tumbler.”
    “You don’t believe?”