A Field of Keys

CHAPTER ONE

A/N: Welcome to the world of AFOK! I would like to begin by saying I have been mulling over this idea for months and I am so happy to be finally writing it! That being said, by no means is the writing perfect but I just want it to be something that brings people joy and acts as something to look forward to. Thank you so much for the love and support! Please check out my tiktok @kennaslibrary that will have updates, character cosplays, and Q&As about the book! Happy reading!
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CHAPTER ONE

SITTING ON THE SPLINTERING WOOD FLOOR OF THE old cabin, my father stared at me from across the room, a stitching hoop perched on top of my knees in an attempt to keep my hands busy. He gazes at me first with a look of content and then shifts into one of amusement. The silence surrounding us comes to a screeching halt as he utters a grumbled sentence after almost two hours of glaring down at the parchment he was studying.
   
"Briar, I don't understand how you can do that. Both you and your mother both have such a knack for picking up the most tedious hobbies." He said with a small grin. It was boyish, as if he wasn't only fifty years of age. My father retained such an heir of boyhood to him, yet the only thing that gave away his old age was the wrinkles surrounding his eyes and smile, and the dark brown hairline that was basically non-existent. On the tip of his nose perched a set of lenses, cut into half circles to help his sight as he read old scripts.
   
I barked out a laugh at him and my body slowly drifted back to stillness. My mother and I had been a lot alike. She had been the only person that knew me through and through. But when she had passed during childbirth to my younger sister, that sentiment faded and my father was left to know next to nothing about me.
   
"Had, papa," I corrected him gently, my hand fluttering around the stitches on the cloth before me, the soft fabric a comfort at that moment. His bright grey eyes shot to my two-toned irises. One that danced with a bright, glowing silver - one a muddled brown color. I could feel him taking in my features, of which matched that of my mothers, his eyes like a hot iron poker on my tan flesh. Kissed by the sun, my mother once said to me, her own skin pale and colorless compared to my own. From my narrow face that housed plump lips and an upturned nose, fluttering down towards my long neck that sat upon frail shoulders. He cleared his throat, suddenly turning away from my gaze.
   
I kept my eyes on him, taking in his rugged appearance. The king had been working his hand day and night to an extreme extent, where I would awaken and he'd still be scribbling away on parchment decorated with words of warfare. His calloused dark brown hands were stark in contrast with the white flesh of the paper. I watched his face go from light and peaceful to deflated - full of despair.

    "Yes, my dear," he said hoarsely. "I apologize."
   
All I could manage was a curt nod in his direction before gathering the skirts of my thin dress, bundling it at my knees to get up. I swept myself up to stand and waltzed over to my father with ease around the short table that sat in front of the sofa. I placed a hand onto his shoulder and brushed a quick peck against his leathery brown cheek.
   
I couldn't blame him for the mistake. Sometimes, if I stood in certain places in the cottage I could still feel her presence, as well. In the corner of the kitchen where she'd made loaf after loaf of bread; in the middle of the sofa, hunched over a new stitching project; in the garden in front my home spending days picking weeds and plucking overgrown bushes. In those places I could have sworn I felt her. The gentleness of her touch on my shoulder, a whisper of wind across my cheek as if she were telling me a secret. And perhaps even when I stood next to the crib, now collecting dust from disuse, I could almost hear my sisters' bleating cries.
   
With a short shake of my head I pulled myself from my thoughts and stepped over to the kitchen, my fingers curling around the cool brass handle of the cupboard, flinging it open to expose loaves of bread, jam jars, and a limited number of other food items. Throwing my head to look back at my father, I gave him a hesitant grin and quickly turned back to the open storage space.
   
"Would you like something to eat? We've got bread to make toast. But I'll have to run to the market square to gather groceries if you'd like something else." I murmured in a rush of words, turning around to face him, my hands finding a home perched on my hips. They were slim, save for tiny dips in the flesh there. I wasn't built like my father. He had strong arms and a hard chest. I was weak and my body had always been petite, skinny from the lack of constant nurishment. 
   
My father quickly dismissed my words with a wave. "No, dear girl. The king has requested a company with us. So prepare yourself and let's be on our way." He held up a scroll with large lettering on it.