The Pumpkin Bride

Chapter 1

Deep in the hinterlands of Harvest Hollow, Sir Bram Duncan led a lance of knights through Windfall Woods. A tang of pine clung

to the chilly night air. And . . . sniff . . . if he wasn’t mistaken, ripening pumpkins. He raised an eyebrow. A dense wood like this should be too full of shade and

roots to sustain a vine-based crop. But this was no time to worry about agricultural oddities. Not when curious glowing eyes

peeped from between the trees.

“How much farther?” Bram called back to Prince Crispin.

“Just up ahead,” Crispin said. “It’s impossible to miss.”

“How did you find this treasure tree anyway, sire?” Bram asked.

“It’s called the Lantern Oak.” Crispin grunted as they climbed over an enormous rotting log. “And I found it because I’m brilliant.”

“Obviously.” Bram clasped a thick-necked knight, Fergus, by the forearm to help him up and over the log. Kevin followed unaided.

Points to him for his strength, but Bram immediately deducted those points for his lack of stealth. The man’s brigandine clanged

like church bells on Sunday morning. How had he made such a racket when the small plates were riveted inside his padded jacket?

Lack of training, that was how.

In the years since Bram arrived in this realm to earn prestige and a plot of land, he’d concluded the education for pages, squires, and knights in Harvest Hollow was lax.

But if he was being candid, he’d call it a death sentence for the men who believed themselves prepared to square up to an invading army.

This was a boon to him, though.

Thanks to his foster father’s firm training, Bram handily won several tournaments. These victories gained Prince Crispin’s

notice, which opened the door to his royal inner circle. Crispin claimed surrounding himself with handsome champions reflected

well on him. In Bram’s experience, it also increased the number of maidens tossing their favors at his crew.

Bram, happily in a romance, declined all such favors.

He rubbed his half of a locket anchored on a silver chain that lay nestled against his chest. Princess Marigold’s portrait

had been with him during every journey, quest, and step he’d taken since departing Thornwick. After tonight’s adventure, he

would finally have enough coin to return home and make an impressive offer for his true love’s hand.

“You can do this,” he called to Crispin’s squire, young Coby.

The adolescent scrambled up and over the massive log with the agility of a squirrel. Impressive for a lad with only two years’

training, especially since he’d kept his lantern level. The squire was sharp of mind, too—he could memorize instruction and

repeat it back verbatim.

Unlike Sir Kevin over there.

“Well done,” Bram said. Crispin rarely offered positive feedback to the boy, so he tried to fill in the gaps. “Help me with

these?”

Together, they laid three thick limbs across a gurgling brook.

“How will we know the tree?” Bram asked.

Crispin tapped his foot impatiently. “By the lights. It’s called the Lantern Oak for a reason.”

Bram tested the hasty bridge. Solid.

As he crossed, he asked, “What should we know about the magic?”

The command in Bram’s voice belied the pit in his stomach. Unlike battle plans, magic provided too many opportunities for

misinterpretation. Like when he was small and his parents flipped a coin into the Whispering Well. New to the kingdom of Thornwick,

Harvest Hollow’s neighboring realm, they’d wished for their child to become a knight. Magic twisted the simple request. Instead,

his parents had disappeared and Sir Patrick Duncan stumbled upon him, alone and crying in the square, clutching his wooden

sword. The only thing he had to remember them lo these twenty years were his mother’s eyes and his father’s face, which he

saw in his reflection.

“So many questions, Sir Bram,” Crispin said warily. His blond hair gleamed silver, the moonlight marking him a sovereign.

“Where’s your sense of adventure?”

Bram wouldn’t let it go. “It’s present. And the magic? What are we facing?”

The prince walked the sturdy limbs over the brook. The longer he held his tongue, the more the pit in Bram’s stomach widened.

Crispin’s presence was unusual, so there must’ve been more to tonight’s jaunt than met the eye. Bram was game for anything

so long as the quest paid. He sought information to prepare for danger. Fortune favored him when luck met preparation and

increased his chances of returning home to his childhood sweetheart.

He ached for Princess Marigold of Thornwick.

She was his true love, his true north, his heart’s desire.

Her red curls, eyes that flashed like sapphires in firelight when he’d been particularly annoying, soft curves that tempted him like candied apples .

. . He could write epic poems about her wondrous body.

Above all, he missed their conversation, their laughter, and their understanding of each other.

Like they were in a private bubble, where nothing they said or did flowed into the cesspools of courtly intrigue.

Letters had kept them in contact, but it was no replacement for holding each other. Another of her cherished missives had

arrived this morning, bearing news that her beloved uncle, the king of Thornwick, had fallen ill with the posy fever. While

she was an optimist, the fever was almost always a death sentence. Her sadness had leaked into some of her words as well as

the uncertainty about what this meant for her branch of the royal family tree.

After tonight, he’d return to the kingdom of Thornwick to comfort her.

“There’s nothing special about it.” Crispin hopped over the muddy bank and onto solid grass. “The acorns at the top of the

Lantern Oak turn to gold between midnight and dawn. Once plucked, they remain in their precious state.”

Bram turned the information over in his brain. His muscles tensed, the same way they did while walking home late after a night

at the Laughing Gourd. If collecting a fortune was that simple, Crispin would’ve stripped this tree bare. The prince had held

something back.

“Where’s the barb on this lance?” Bram asked.

“Well asked, Sir Bram. A sprite guards the Lantern Oak’s riches. If you wake him, he’ll ask you a riddle. A minor roadblock,

but I don’t doubt our success.”

“A sprite?” Bram groaned as he crossed the brook.

Much as he distrusted magic, a party his size should be able to contend with a lone tree sprite.

Unlike the situation at Thornwick’s northern borders.

Marigold had written with news of mountain-sprite incursions at the foothills of the Gildfall Mountains.

Her twin brother and Bram’s best friend, Rowan, had been dispatched to protect their northern villages.

Her younger brother, Beckett, was in training but expected to join the fray soon.

Yet another incentive for Bram to end his service here and return to his home realm.

At Crispin’s side, he murmured, “You should’ve told me about the sprite before now.”

The prince arched an eyebrow. “Careful, Knight. You assume too much familiarity.”

Indignation tangled with his need to remain in Crispin’s favor. The prince was correct—a knight should not question his sovereign.

But if he was to serve Crispin well, Bram needed to work with a full understanding of potential dangers. He swallowed the

rough words he was tempted to say and turned his attention to the squire crossing the makeshift bridge.

Even with the load Coby bore on his back, the limbs barely bounced under his slight frame as he followed. The lad whispered

to him, “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s fearsome about a sprite?”

Bram hushed the remaining members of their party. He, Coby, and Crispin were light-footed, but saints, Kevin and Fergus might

as well have beat a drum with the noise they made. He’d never met knights so determined to give away their advantage.

“Size-wise, nothing,” Bram said in a low voice. “Wits-wise, their riddles are notoriously confusing. If you succeed, they

often twist the terms of the agreement. But most interactions end with a curse. Sprites aren’t merciless—every curse comes

with a loophole. But overall, it’s best to avoid them. They aren’t trustworthy.”

“But not to worry, Squire. Neither am I,” Crispin said, overhearing them.

He pointed to a scrim of willows undulating in the sharp fall wind.

“Our destination should be through those trees. Hurry. Tonight is the last night we can harvest—tomorrow’s the full Hunter’s Moon.

Upon the next day’s sunrise the sprite and his gold acorns disappear until next year’s equinox. ”

Papery leaves scraped against his wool brigandine as Bram pushed through the switches. In the mossy meadow beyond, he stopped,

awed by the Lantern Oak.

Ancient and massive, Bram could not see its top. The broad, knotted trunk was the size of a respectable cottage, and the sprawling

limbs spread out in all directions. He did not doubt it could carry the weight of the world if asked. Dozens of glowing amber

orbs dotted the tree as though it was decorated for Yule.

“Whoa.” Fergus gasped. “Look at the size of that thing.”

Obviously, Bram traveled with poets.

“Are we supposed to cut it down or something?” Kevin asked. The knight was five years Bram’s senior, but his voice had aged

faster. Low and slightly strangled, it sounded like his thick neck muscles fought the words.

Crispin clearly had favored brawn over wits when he assembled this quest.

“What? Why would you . . .” Bram pinched the bridge of his nose. “Clearly not, Kevin. We didn’t bring saws. I’d wager we climb

and gather the gold acorns, right, sir?”

“Mostly correct.” The prince snapped his fingers at Coby for the haversack, then tossed it to Bram. “Not we. You.”

The buttery leather was smooth in his hands. “It would be faster with more of us harvesting the nuts.”

“And more opportunity to tangle with the sprite. With speed and stealth, we may escape his notice, so this must be a solo