Bewitched By the Pumpkin Queen (The Bewitching Hour #10)

Chapter 1

Delia

It’s always the second before sunrise that feels the most electric, as if the whole world’s holding its breath for the drama of dawn. I’m awake in it, standing in my kitchen in a state of pre-caffeinated chaos, letting the autumn air pour in through the screen door.

The morning light squeezes through our kitchen window, catching dust motes that dance above the worn wooden floor like tiny constellations.

I lift my fingers, feeling the familiar tingle of magic coursing through my veins as the kettle of warmed milk floats from the stove to the counter.

It tilts with deliberate grace, pouring a creamy stream into my waiting mug of espresso and pumpkin puree.

Another flick of my wrist, and cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves dance through the air in a fragrant spiral, swirling down to meet the frothy pumpkin-infused surface.

Just another ordinary morning in the Nightshade household.

Our kitchen sprawls beneath cathedral-high ceilings, the exposed steel beams and original oak timbers creating a marriage of gothic grandeur and farmhouse charm.

Bundles of herbs hang from wrought iron hooks, their scent mingling with pumpkin spice and the faint ozone of magic.

The cabinets stretch to meet the ceiling—sleek matte black with silver moon handles that glow faintly in the dark.

A grandfather clock towers in the alcove, its Victorian face framed by modern metalwork, chiming off-key when human visitors approach.

On the massive bay window overlooking our land, three crystal bottles catch morning light through the floor-to-ceiling glass; one holds eclipse rainwater, another banshee tears, and the third toad wart.

I hum to myself, directing a wooden spoon to stir my latte while the pumpkin flesh I'd scooped earlier this morning simmers in a copper pot.

The sweet, earthy scent fills the kitchen as I mentally check off festival preparations.

We need at least fifty more pumpkins carved by tomorrow, more cauldrons for the cider booth and apple bobbing, and I still haven't finished enchanting the corn maze for the hayride.

The festival committee expects our farm to be the crown jewel of Pennington Falls' Halloween festivities, as it has been for the past five years running.

The back door swings open with a creak, and Jasper strides in, carrying three enormous pumpkins under each arm as effortlessly as most men might carry a few apples.

His platinum hair is tousled from the morning breeze, a few leaves caught in it like deliberate decorations.

He hefts the massive pumpkins with the casual ease of someone carrying empty cardboard boxes, each movement betraying the inhuman power beneath his flannel shirt.

His brown eyes meet mine, and despite the early hour, my heart still does that silly little flutter it's been doing since we were teenagers.

"Morning, witch," he says with a wink, his voice gruff but warm.

He sets the pumpkins down with a gentleness that belies his strength.

"Found these beauties hiding under the vines on the north side.

They've been soaking up extra moonlight, so they should make for some spectacular jack-o'-lanterns for the haunted trail. "

I float a mug of coffee toward him, watching as he catches it without looking. “You spoil me, Mr. Nightshade.”

“Only the best for my favorite pumpkin queen,” Jasper smiles, taking a long sip from his mug.

"We're still fifty pumpkins short for the children's carving station."

His eyebrow raises in challenge. "Fifty? I counted last night, and we were twenty-three short. Unless you promised the Mayor another display without telling me?"

My guilty smile gives me away; he knows me too well. "The town square need a little something extra this year.”

I can see the sermon on his tongue, but he swallows it, just ruffles my hair as he passes behind me. "I've already picked another thirty. They're in the trailer outside."

A white blur streaks across the counter, knocking over the sugar bowl before skidding to a stop. Whiskers, my ferret familiar, stands on his hind legs, red eyes gleaming with mischief and black crescent moon marking prominent on his forehead.

His nose twitches as he fixes his attention on Jasper, "Did the scarecrows finally reject you as their king?

Or is that new leafy crown a fashion statement?

" He dips a paw into the spilled sugar and licks it, his gaze never leaving Jasper’s face.

"Your hair has more foliage than the trees themselves. "

Jasper narrows his eyes as he plucks a yellow leaf from his hair and flicks it at the ferret. "Bold words from someone who sleeps in a sock drawer," he retorts. "At least I don't spend half my day licking my own—"

"Children, please," I interrupt, though I can't suppress my affectionate eye roll. I wave my hand, and the spilled sugar rises from the counter, swirling in the air before depositing itself back in the bowl. "It's too early for your bickering."

Whiskers scampers onto my shoulder, his weight comforting against my neck. "He started it," he whispers, not quietly enough.

I ignore him and with a circular motion of my index finger, I animate the broom leaning in the corner.

It gives a little shake, as if waking from a nap, then sweeps across the kitchen floor and continues outside to clean the porch.

Through the window, I watch it work, brushing away fallen leaves and the occasional toad that had wandered too close to the house.

Jasper comes to stand behind me, pressing a kiss to the top of my head, his arms encircling my waist as we both look out at our land.

The pumpkin patch stretches toward the tree line, orange globes nestled among twisted vines.

A band of crows hops from fence post to fence post, testing the scarecrows for weak spots, the big bad city birds thinking themselves cleverer than straw and sewing pins.

But my scarecrows are no fools.

To the north, our corn maze twists in on itself, and the tangled woodland behind it homes the haunted trail, though only part of it is actually haunted.

Even now, after all these years, the sight takes my breath away.

We bought the farm the year we married, a forgotten crumbling Victorian mansion on thirty acres of overgrown fields.

It once belonged to a man named Jekyll who supposedly went mad after his wife and daughter died of scarlet fever in the early 1900s.

“Is something burning?” Jasper asks, lifting his head to sniff the air.

Oh, no!

I completely forgot about the apple tarts baking in the oven.

I yelp, grabbing a dish towel and rip open the oven door just in time hear the small hand sized pies hissing in protest at my neglect.

Waving away a cloud of cinnamon-laced steam, I throw myself between the tarts and certain cremation, pulling out the tray and set it on a cooling rack on the counter.

The tarts are slightly scorched around the edges, but not too the extreme that it can’t be waved off as a little caramelized sugar.

Jasper, hovering behind me, steals one before I can stop him. He takes an experimental bite—flinching at molten apple—and then, with a dramatic frosty cough, fans his mouth. “Ten points for flavor, minus two for third degree burns. Total score is an A minus.”

Whiskers, emboldened by the distraction, darts to the tray and snatches a hot tart for himself. “I’ll be the judge of that.” He drags the tart across the marble like a crocodile with a gazelle, leaving a drizzling, sticky comet trail of cinnamon sugar behind.

I sigh dramatically, but I can't maintain the charade of annoyance when my heart swells with such fondness for these two impossible creatures in my kitchen.

I turn toward Jasper my hands finding the solid warmth of his chest through his worn flannel shirt as I tip up on my toes to kiss his cheek. “Third degree burns or not, don’t go thinking this gets you out of carving duty. We need to make sure everything is ready before the festival.”

He surrenders with a hands-up gesture, smirking. “You drive a hard bargain, Mrs. Nightshade. But I accept my fate.”

“Good man,” I say, snuggling into his side for a rare, brief slice of stillness.

It’s these quiet, messy, love-stained moments I wish I could bottle and keep forever, but even I don’t possess that kind of magic.

The morning is already swelling with To-Do’s and Should-Already-Be-Done’s, so I don’t let myself bask in the domestic glow for long.

I step away from Jasper's warmth with a sigh, then twirl my index finger in a lazy spiral.

The apple tarts rise from the cooling rack, performing a cinnamon-scented conga line across the countertop before diving one after another into the paper boxes I found at that whimsical little crafts shop on Newbury Street last month.

“No rest for the wicked.” Jasper chides, buzzing around me as he swipes two more tarts from the box with a wink.

I flick his hand away from the box with a laugh. "If you keep eating the merchandise, we'll have nothing left for the festival."

"Consider it quality control," he says, taking an exaggerated bite. “Can’t have my wife’s reputation tarnished by subpar pastries."

"Right, because you're so selfless." I roll my eyes, trying not to smile as I continue packing. The familiar rhythm of our banter feels as comforting as my favorite sweater. "I still need to enchant the miniature pumpkins to dance along the fence line. Care to join me?"

"You know I can't resist watching you work your magic," he says, and the genuine warmth in his voice makes my cheeks flush despite myself.

“Gross.” Whiskers comments as he hops onto my shoulder, his tiny paws still covered in sticky melted sugar.

“Shut it, rat.” Jasper warns.

“I’ll have you know I am technically a weasel.” Whiskers snaps, tail flicking indignantly.