Chapter 2 #3
Parting with these pages was impossible. Her father had given her the book when she’d turned eight, the same year Bram had
given her the unicorn charm. Her two greatest treasures, and one was already lost to her forever.
Marigold hugged the volume to her chest.
Grief unspooled inside her, fast and familiar. She wiped a trickle from her face. Tears were good. Better than the sludgy
numbness that had wrapped around her when Bram died, which still hadn’t relaxed its grip years later when Crispin offered
for her hand. Hence her resigned pragmatism when she accepted the offer for the good of Thornwick.
Marigold’s parents, before accepting on her behalf, asked if she might love Crispin one day, and she shrugged with a noncommittal
Perhaps. Truthfully, she wasn’t greedy enough to expect true love to visit her again.
As the time grew nearer to relocate to Harvest Hollow, much to her surprise, her frozen emotions began to thaw.
In the kingdom where Bram spent his last days, she could almost make memories with him again as she ate the cider doughnuts, drank the ale, and visited the bookshop he’d described in his letters.
Ooh, his letters.
She’d pack the tidy bundle of those, too. Rescued from their hiding place inside the leg of her riding boots, she tossed them
into the trunk, along with the book. Fuzzle, perturbed by the disturbance, hopped out. Alas, she’d need to leave the large
portrait of her family behind. Another snap, more sparks, and her trunk reduced to the size of a pot of face cream. She slipped
it into her bourse.
“I’m sorry, Fuzz.” She knelt to peep under the bed. “I can’t carry you long distances at this size.”
Yellow eyes blinked at her. She understood the cat’s resistance. Minimizing was easy, but returning to full size caused nausea,
fatigue, and a headache. Not unlike befuddlement caused by overindulging in cheap wine, so, best left to emergencies.
Which this was, of course.
“It’s the last time, I promise.” She snagged the cat by the collar, then snapped her fingers. The blue sparks rendered the
tabby the size of a mouse. An angry, hissing mouse. After scooping him up, she pocketed him.
One final thing to collect—the locket she’d shared with Bram. On Bess’s advice, she’d stopped wearing it when they’d left
for Thornwick. Wearing her dead true love’s portrait could send the wrong signal to her betrothed. She clasped it at her nape,
then dropped the now-whole pendant below her neckline.
Last step, the decoy.
From the chest at the foot of her bed, she withdrew linens, then stuffed them into a dress Crispin had given her upon her arrival.
She’d worn it once and promised herself it would never touch her body again.
The bodice was cut far too low for her taste, and the skirts were shot through with stiff gold thread.
As with most things crafted at Crispin’s behest, this was gaudy, showy, and impractical.
But the dress would make a fine dummy.
After tucking the false princess under the coverlet, she pinched her chin between her thumb and forefinger and surveyed her
work. Not bad. By the glow of the fireplace’s banked coals, the figure in her bed might fool Bess if she woke from her drugged
slumber. With luck, this would buy her an eight-hour lead.
From the atlas her parents sent with her, she tore the map of the Lunara Peninsula and its five kingdoms that formed a star—Thornwick
to the north, Harvest Hollow to the west, Mareval in the center, Rashemba to the south, and Cinderfield to the east. She measured
out the journey to the monastery in Mareval. Barring sudden storms or other interference, on foot, she’d arrive in three days’
time.
Now, escape.
With a dramatic flourish, she shrouded herself in the humble cloak. She checked her reflection in the vanity’s looking glass.
Oh, that would never do. Her wild red curls cascaded from the hood like she was bearing a standard that screamed, Marigold, Princess of Thornwick, is under here! Her nimble fingers thatched it into a braid, then twisted that into a thick bun.
This time when she looked in the glass, a giddy bubble expanded in her chest.
Now she could pass for a non-royal.
On hinges that she’d oiled with excess beauty ointments, she eased open her door.
No guards stood in the hall this evening, as though destiny itself wanted her to flee.
In her well-worn gardening turn shoes, Marigold tiptoed twenty paces, then slipped down the servants’ stairs to the kitchen.
At this time of night, the only person present was the dozing scullery maid.
Marigold smiled at the sweet-faced young lady.
She’d always been more comfortable around regular folk than royalty.
How could she not? Her father had been the third son of a king and entertained zero expectations that he’d take the throne.
She and her brothers were allowed to play with the children of their noble house’s servants. Then, death and abdication eliminated
first Thornwick’s heir, then the spare, and Papa ascended in a surprise twist after Bram left.
More food would make for a more pleasant journey, but Marigold left the loaf of bread untouched. This young one would catch
the blame for any stolen food. On fleet feet, the princess escaped through the kitchen door to the service yard, then through
the postern and toward the garden exit.
That was both many hours and a lifetime ago.
Fuzzle meowed another complaint. Nothing that couldn’t be cured with a snack. Luckily, she carried a treat container in her
bourse. From her cloak’s inner pocket, he raised his kitten-sized head. As she fed him small cut of cubed chicken, she booped
his pink triangle of a nose.
The cat narrowed its eyes, then retreated to her pocket.
She laughed at his annoyance. “Don’t be such a sourpuss, Fuzz.”
Marigold glanced skyward. The North Star winked like they had a secret between them. According to the overall star pattern,
she was headed southeast, toward the border where she’d cross the Shivering Dales and into Mareval, where she’d shelter with
her cousin until Rowan arrived to escort her home to inform her family of Crispin’s plot.
Surely, she was almost through the Windfall Woods?
On the map they’d seemed small and contained, but the scale might have been off.
Or her skill at quickly crossing vast territory on foot had dulled with disuse?
The reason didn’t matter—she had no choice but to press on.
To cross a bubbling brook, she hopped on large lichen-coated stones, then pushed through a scrim of willow branches.
She gasped.
A gorgeous, stout oak stood in front of her. This must have been what she’d mistaken for fireflies in the distance. Floating
amber orbs glowed among its limbs, illuminating its immense size. Families could make a home in each of its larger branches.
Given the width of its trunk, it must’ve been ancient. What must this tree have seen in all its years? Battles, deaths, weddings,
births. And now at least one runaway princess.
She pressed her hands to the rough trunk. “You’re a special one, aren’t you?”
Goose bumps slid along Marigold’s nape as the tree’s energy hummed through her. Saints, she was tired. She’d sit here, in
the crook of this tree’s roots for a quick minute. Gnarled as they were, the crenelated pockets were cozier than a hammock
in the springtime. Five minutes of resting her feet and eyes. That was all she needed to tackle the rest of the journey back
to Thornwick.
She drew her knees to her chest, then rested her forehead against them.
Five minutes.
Hunting dogs’ howls startled her awake.
Oh, shite, the sky had pinked. That five minutes might have been five hours. Every damned mile she’d gained between Brambleton
and here was lost. Those must’ve been Crispin’s stag hounds. Except they were not foxing, no—they were looking for a russet
creature of a different sort.
The air screamed in her lungs as she ran.
She would not be caught, not by a man like him, and not when her brothers’ lives were at risk. The longer she stayed out of Crispin’s grasp,
the better.
Abruptly, the woods ended in a meadow. She picked up her skirts and sprinted across the flat green field bordered by a blaze
of sunflowers. Beyond those tall happy yellow blossoms lay a collection of tidy pumpkin fields. In the cool morning air, the
rich scent of the gourds and . . . apples, maybe? . . . graced the wind.
Were she not the subject of a hunt, she’d stop to appreciate the adorable farm.
Instead, Marigold focused her attention on the cottage beyond the fields. Its windows glowed with cozy firelight. Whoever
lived there was home and hopefully awake enough to answer the door.
“Please be sympathetic to a damsel in distress,” she whispered.
With the dogs wilding in the distance, Marigold ran toward her salvation.