Chapter 2
Three years later
Princess Marigold Ashford of Thornwick ducked under a low-hanging branch. Pthht. She spit out the pine needles that rained down on her and brushed away a speckling of sap.
Saints, she hated it out here.
Conceptually, forests were lovely. In practice they were riddled with bugs, monsters, and mud. She was more of an herb garden and hedgerow maze kind of naturalist. Horticulture was a refined, nature-adjacent activity which she vastly preferred to tramping through the
deep forest on a moonless night.
The ghost of a cobweb slithered over her face.
“Ew, ew, ew,” escaped her as she raked it away.
Revulsion pooled at the back of her throat. She refused to ponder the size of the spider that spun this drawbridge-sized trap.
With clenched teeth, she bit back the shriek bubbling in her chest. Letting it rip would give away her location. The sound
of nearby crackling meant she wasn’t alone. She stilled, and the crunching grew quieter as whatever it was moved away.
The pounding of her heart threatened her ribs, but she walked on.
At least there were no thunderstorms, which meant no death by lightning.
Still, there was a chance she’d die out here.
But she’d rather risk a fight with Windfall Woods’ wildest creatures on her journey to the sanctuary in Mareval than march down the Briarveil Cathedral’s aisle in three weeks’ time.
Where Prince Crispin of Harvest Hollow would wait at the altar.
No, thank you. She liked him . . . not.
Despite her better instincts, she’d talked herself into accepting his proposal for the sake of her home kingdom of Thornwick.
For three years after Bram died, she’d withdrawn from public life and immersed in the comfort of books. Until the day in the
library where she, tucked in a quiet nook, overheard her parents’ frustration that she wasn’t doing her part to serve Thornwick.
The mountain sprites were gaining northern territory, and both her brothers, Rowan and Beckett, were battling them on the
frontier. The once-wealthy kingdom of Thornwick was hobbled as it devoted resources to the expensive war on the northern borders.
Then Crispin made his offer of marriage.
A union between them would be more than a familial alliance—it would be political, too. Crispin pledged defense support as
well as food security and reserves. Harvest Hollow, known as the breadbasket for the five kingdoms of the Lunara Peninsula,
could protect and feed Thornwick as it defended itself against the mountain sprites.
So, with one simple yes, she’d finally done her part to protect the kingdom.
During Prince Crispin’s brief visit to Thornwick to finalize the financial and political terms of their marriage with her
advisors, Marigold granted him a private audience.
Not too private, mind. Her former nursemaid, now companion, Bess, waited outside the door.
While their representatives negotiated the remaining details of the dower, succession rights of any children they produced, and her responsibilities once she joined his household, they commenced their first private conversation.
All very pleasant and polite. Lacking sizzle, but tolerable.
Until, over a glass of claret, he said, “There’s a rumor you possess a magical gift.”
A rumor, if acknowledged, would land her in an oubliette. Though her hand trembled, her training kept a smile on her face.
Thornwick banned magic fifty years ago, after a collective of wielders banded together in a secret plot to usurp her grandfather’s
crown. So it was most inconvenient when she, second in line to the throne, manifested a magical ability five years ago. In all the Lunara Peninsula,
two people knew her secret—Bess, who’d never betray her, and Vera, the cunning woman who’d taught her to control the magic.
Unless . . . were spies in Thornwick Castle?
“Rumors are often false,” she said. “Tell me more about your last hunt.”
He set his empty glass on the table between them, then moved his king on the chessboard. The game was his suggestion, not
hers. She much preferred Tables as there was an element of chance. Chess was all strategy, deep thought, and zero fun. Entertainment
should not leave you with a tension headache.
“Let’s not be coy, Marigold,” he said smoothly. “The contracts are signed, and the wedding will proceed regardless. Harvest
Hollow has a more progressive attitude toward magic than Thornwick. Truly, along with your stature, I hope my future children
are charmed.”
As though she were a broodmare, selected to contribute height and magic?
The firelight flickered in Crispin’s beautiful eyes.
Had she never met Bram, she might have been held in thrall by the prince’s green gaze, his boyish grin, or the dimple that punctured his left cheek.
But she had met Bram and knew all too well what sincere interest and admiration looked like. They were absent from Crispin’s face.
“That’s wonderfully tolerant of you, but I have no magic.” She circled her gaze around the board to avoid his inspection and
evaluated her gameplay options. Ah—there. With a fluid motion, she moved her queen into position. “Checkmate.”
Satisfaction coiled through her. She might not love the game, but saints, she loved to win.
Crispin’s gaze dropped to the board. “I haven’t lost in years. Are you a master?”
“Hardly.” Marigold lifted a shoulder. “My brothers like to play.”
His laugh didn’t reach his eyes. “My wife-to-be is clever, then. Good to know. At the risk of sounding indelicate, there’s
another rumor to discuss.”
Another thing she missed about Bram—he’d always said what he meant, plainly. No hints or dramatic half statements. Innuendo
especially prickled her skin, and she’d taken to bluntness to avoid misunderstandings.
“Oh?” She sorted the pieces into their appropriate places in the velvet-lined chess box, starting with the pawns. “And what
might that be?”
From inside his jerkin, he withdrew a silver chain. “This. Found at the Lantern Oak, deep in the forest. A knight who died
in my service several years ago wore it. Your knight, I believe? He spoke highly of your beauty, wit, and faithfulness. His
worshipful adoration is what drew my attention to you, Princess. When my squire brought word of his demise, I did not send
this with him. I thought to keep the affection a secret, to protect your modesty.”
He dribbled the links onto the chessboard. As her younger face smiled up at her from the open locket, Marigold’s chest pinched. With much difficulty, she schooled her features. She shouldn’t appear too eager to gather the necklace in front of her fiancé.
With the queen clenched in her fist, she said, “Thank you.”
“I’ve said nothing about it. So, you see, I can keep a secret, if you can learn to trust me.” The normally well-mannered prince shoved back abruptly from the gaming table.
“Rest well, Princess Marigold. I enjoyed our match and look forward to your arrival at Brambleton Castle.”
Wordlessly, she nodded.
Was he showing kindness? Or dominance?
A thought she’d pondered often as they’d packed her trousseau for her move to his home, where she’d learn the management of
Brambleton Castle as their wedding date approached. During these last few weeks in Harvest Hollow, however, it became clearer
than the waters of Amberglen Lake that Prince Crispin was obsessed with perfection, beauty, and her family’s holdings—especially
Thornwick’s mineral-rich northern territories.
Missing from that list?
Her.
Opportunity abounded for Crispin to learn about her. Despite his endless talking, he asked her few questions. At first, she
was grateful he let the topic of her rumored magical ability rest. Then, as their conversations droned on, she realized he
asked her nothing about her upbringing, her thoughts on current affairs, her philosophies on life. No, his questions centered
on when the dowry might arrive and if she needed a more fashionable hairdresser.
Clearly, his woo-pitching game needed work.
One of many examples—upon her arrival, he’d invited her to a candlelight supper.
A good start, she’d thought. But as the evening wore on, it became clear his idea of conversation was enumerating his accomplishments as regent and pausing at the appropriate moments to allow her to swoon.
Instead, she was tempted to swallow thorns to keep herself awake.
“It’s as though he’s never had to earn someone’s interest,” she’d complained to her companion, Bess. The older woman had initially
served as her nursemaid but had become more of a chaperone since Marigold came of age.
“Give it time,” Bess counseled as she turned down Marigold’s bed. “He’s a handsome fellow, isn’t he? All those gold curls?”
“Yes,” she’d agreed. Bram had been fair as well, but his flaxen hair had been long and thick, with the most enviable swoop
at the ends. “But there’s something vacant in his eyes. When he’s looking at me, it’s as though he’s appraising me.”
“You ponder much, child.” Bess had blown out the bedside candle. “Tomorrow’s another day to find common ground and learn to
love him. You’ll get there.”
Bess could not have been more wrong, and what Marigold had overheard last evening proved it.
Which was why she was in the forest at the equinox’s witching hour.
Spiders and mysterious cracklings aside, Windfall Woods possessed an ethereal beauty she hadn’t appreciated in the first hours
of her mad scramble. Fragmented moonlight scattered on the forest’s floor like wish coins, and the trees’ silvered bark served
as signposts. In the distance, though it was not the right season for fireflies, golden orbs bobbed, beckoning to her as though
the forest itself was determined to guide her through to safety.
Onward.