Chapter 4
From her vantage point behind the darning basket, the ransacking knights looked huge. Well, they were huge. Compared to her anyway. Right after jamming her feet back into her turn shoes, she’d snapped herself down to squirrel
size. Fuzzle had wakened, and in his double-shrunken state, she was able to satisfy him with a cheese crumb she’d found next
to the chair.
This grumpy orc really could use a few housekeeping lessons.
“Shh,” she whispered to Fuzzle. “We must be patient.”
For ten minutes, she held her breath behind the collection of shirts and hose that needed to be mended while the knights thrashed
and tossed the orc’s belongings. She brought this upon him like a diseased blanket. Had she bypassed his cottage, had she
not strong-armed him into feeding her, he’d be out picking pumpkins and tending his animals. Not watching the prince’s personal
guard ransack his home.
She fisted her hands in apologetic anger.
Crispin’s sadistic and disproportionate responses were yet another reason to run away and seek sanctuary with allies. She
felt terrible about inflicting wanton destruction on an innocent person’s life.
To calm her breathing, she listed the actions she’d undertake as soon as Crispin and his poxy knights cleared out.
First, help the orc set the cottage to rights.
Second, evaluate if she’d veered off course, and if so, how far.
Third, plot her new path toward Mareval.
Fourth, beg the orc for a horse to speed her journey. Fifth, run like hell.
The smashing slowed.
Amid the flying feathers, a knight crunched through the pottery bits scattered on the floor. She ducked under the rocking
chair as he paused nearby. His shiny greaves were close enough to see her reflection from where she’d hidden in the basket.
“Oi, she’s not here,” he groused. “Clear the home.”
The ill-mannered knights left the door open as they clanged outside in their light armor. The disturbed air in the cottage
drifted back to calm. She pressed her palms to her eyes and drank a deep breath to relax her pounding pulse. Her unsatisfied
and unaware stomach growled.
Hopefully, the pies were unscathed.
Outside, Crispin’s voice rose above the din. “My guard will continue patrolling the hinterlands until my betrothed is found.
I’m sure she’s been kidnapped by blackguards. Speak to no one about this, orc.”
“Who would I talk to out here?” the orc grumbled.
She covered her mouth to mask her giggle.
“If she arrives on your doorstep, signal immediately.”
The orc grunted—neither a yes nor a no.
His preferred way of communicating, it would seem. Honestly, with Crispin? That was the only appropriate response. From her
first day at Harvest Hollow, she should’ve grunted at him instead of trying to talk. But then he’d probably would have already
shipped her off to the Sea of Red Tides to “take the air” as he had his older sister, Princess Rosamund.
His staff gossiped far too much during evening ablutions.
Hoofbeats rattled the floorboards as the company pounded away from the cottage. The orc returned and closed the door, then slowly scanned the damage. Marigold remained in her minimized state. At this size, she had the advantage. She hadn’t been able to properly look at her host.
Not without being rude anyway.
People staring at her like she was an animal in a menagerie was a professional princess hazard. She’d never wish to do that
to another person, but this was her first time meeting an orc. She’d read about his kind in the broadsheets, of course, but
she assumed the paper’s contents were at least half fiction, bait intended to hook a reader’s eyes and sell more copies. For
example, they’d said orcs were of low intelligence, and that was already provably false. And the renderings were frightening,
all jagged teeth and small red eyes.
Not so with this fellow.
He was large and green. That, they’d gotten right. Green was insufficient, however. His skin matched the dark rich tone of an emerald, like those in her father’s crown. His jet hair
fell past his shoulders and gleamed like obsidian. The pointed ears—another true thing from the stories—poked through the
strands, and two small gold hoops decorated the left lobe. As he returned the massive divan to its upright position, controlled
strength rippled his arms, broad chest, and thick thighs.
All from many hours working the land, no doubt.
“It’s safe to come out,” he called. “They’re gone.”
She skittered from behind the basket. After making sure the area was clear, she snapped herself back to full-sized Marigold.
As her stomach swam, he stumbled backward in surprise and into the butcher’s block counter.
“Blood and bones,” he exclaimed, rubbing his hip. “That’ll leave a mark.”
“Sorry.” Despite the nausea, she giggled through her fingers. That she of all people could frighten a creature like this was hilarious. The only person she’d ever intimidated in her life was Bram the first time she’d kissed him. “I should’ve warned you.”
With eyes flared, he clutched the butcher block to steady himself. “You can glimmer step?”
“No, not at all. I wasn’t invisible.” She lifted a ruined pillow from the floor and placed it on the divan. “My power is minimancy.
I can shrink things and set them back to normal size. Including myself.”
“Hmph.” He furrowed his brow. “I don’t like it.”
Neither did she, at first. “It’s immensely useful. I’m well in control, if it worries you.”
The orc pressed his lips together, then rubbed his stubbled jaw. “Is it dangerous?”
Mercy, he was nervous about her abilities. Typical in Thornwick, but she’d thought a creature rumored to have heightened abilities
might be more understanding. Ordinarily she’d playfully snap back with a jokey answer to lighten tensions. But if she wanted
to stay here—and what better place was there to stay than one that had already been searched by the palace guard?—she should
answer him sincerely.
“No. There are side effects on living things, but nothing too terrible.” Fuzzle mewled in her pocket. “Here, I’ll show you
it’s nothing to fear.”
She withdrew the mouse-sized cat and set him on the cushion.
“Stop.” The orc flashed his palm. “Is that your—”
She snapped her fingers. Fuzzle blinked back to his full size. Which, if she was being honest, was a few pounds more than
he ought to be.
“Cat!” the orc shouted.
She should not laugh, but she couldn’t help it. Her signature bray, the one that Bess fussed about and called most unladylike,
snagged his attention from Fuzzle.
“Are you afraid of cats?” she asked.
He’d hidden behind the butcher’s block, his lively brown eyes peering over the edge. “It’s well-known that orcs loathe cats.”
Marigold lifted the mewling tabby into her arms and rewarded him with a scratch below the chin. “Why?”
“I have no idea.” The orc kept his eyes trained on Fuzzle. “They’re sneaky.”
“They’re helpful. Don’t all farms have cats to keep the rodents at bay?” She stepped away from the kitchen and back toward
the cozy hearth. “We can put him to work. Do you have any pumpkin puree, perchance? It helps with his tummy upset after resizing.”
“No. And what do you know about farm life?” The mountain of green pursed his mouth as he watched Fuzzle prance through the
wreckage. The cat made it five steps before sitting to groom his paw.
“I read a lot.” She sat to adjust her laces. Revolting as it was to wear outdoor shoes in the house after pulling an all-night
run in them, there was no sense cutting her feet on pottery shards.
“Reading isn’t the same as doing, Princess.”
“Marigold, please.” She looped and knotted the laces. “And what might I call you?”
The orc stilled. “Nothing. You’re leaving. Tomorrow, after the search dies down.”
Saints, he was intractable. “Be that as it may, when the royal poets write an epic about my hero, he’ll need a name.”
Finally, he muttered, “Jask. Jask Bone-Cracker.”
He spat it out like she’d spat out the bitter chicory.
Orc naming conventions were intriguing. Imagine looking at a newborn creature and naming it something like “bone-cracker.” Although that was his surname, so perhaps they also used professions as surnames, like tradespeople such as Miller or Chandler. Was bone-cracking an orc profession?
Ah, her thoughts were running away again, as Bess would say.
She dusted her hands together. “Well, that’s a colorful name, Jask Bone-Cracker. Do you have a broom?”
“I don’t need help.” He righted the table in the kitchen.
“I can see that, but I’m heartily sorry I brought them to your door.” She surveyed the destruction. “Consider it my penance.
Anything that can be mended, we’ll put on the divan; anything that’s wrecked beyond repair goes into the bin.”
“That’ll be half of it, I’d wager.”
“Absolute thugs,” she agreed. “You tackle the kitchen; I’ll take the living room.”
“Do what you want,” he grunted.
As he tidied, something about his movements were familiar. She could not explain, for the life of her, why she was comfortable
in his presence. Tusks were not known to reassure humans, but strangely, she was at ease.
Jask, however, was not. Mostly because Fuzzle twined through the orc’s ankles like a child skating eights on a frozen pond.
“Keep the cat away from me, or I’ll turn him into slippers.” He gently shooed a meowing Fuzzle away with his boot.
She leaned the broom against the support beam and scooped the tabby into her arms. “Have you met a cat? They sense who doesn’t
like them and then lavish affection on them until they come around. I regret to inform you that he won’t give you peace until
you’re hopelessly infatuated with him.”
The orc made a sound low in his throat as he flipped the kitchen table’s bench upright as easily as she might right an errant
shoe.
They worked in silence through midmorning. Jask carted away all the broken bits in a barrow, and between them, they’d swept up three neat mounds of hay, cotton fluff, and feathers.
With her hands on her hips, Marigold surveyed the size of the piles. “I’d guess your mattress and pillows are no more.”
She hadn’t ventured up the stairs and into the loft where she presumed he slept. Everything else about this cottage suggested
he kept the same habits as humans. Did orcs sleep in night clothes? An image of him without a shirt flashed in her mind, and
she shoved it away.
“I never should’ve opened the door to you,” he snarled. “This is your fault.”
That stung, but he was right. Alas, regret was wisdom that arrived fashionably late. In his cottage, the damage was literally
already done. All she could do now was help fix it. The orc scowled as he swiveled his gaze, as though he was stuck deciding
his next move. Fortunately for him, her royal training featured many a lesson on soothing prickly egos, which mostly involved
suggestions and compliments delivered with more sparkling bubbles than mountain water.
“Go assess the damage.” She shooed him toward the stairs. “If anything else needs to be mended, use your considerable strength
to toss it down.”
He rolled his large shoulders, then stomped up the stairs. Once the rattling stopped, Jask let loose a scorching stream of
curses. If she hadn’t been permitted to gallivant with lads as a child, her ears might have burned.
“Is it bad?” she called.
“It’s not great,” he huffed.
Feathers rained down from the loft, then Jask returned with a bundle of torn linens. After depositing them atop the pile on
the divan, he frowned at the size of the mending pile.
“We should repair these first,” she said. “So you have something to sleep upon.”
“Half the day’s gone.” He ran his hand down his face. “I don’t have time for this. I’ve chickens to feed, a cow to milk, and fields to plow.”
She dusted her hands together. “I’ll help with the animals.”
“No, Princess. You’ve done enough.” He opened the back door, revealing a charming courtyard situated among a byre, a chicken
coop, a pig pen, and a few other things she couldn’t name. “Stay inside. The last thing I need is for Crispin and his men
to come back this way, find you and toss me into Dreadmoor.”
As much as she wanted to feel the sun on her face, his caution was wise.
“Still, I’d like to be useful.” She pushed back curls that had slipped from her braid. “Where’s your sewing kit?”
The first casualty atop the pile was a pillow bleeding fluff. One of the knights had run it through with a sword. Kevin, if
she remembered correctly. Why murder a pillow? She shook her head. Wisdom often chased Kevin, but he was faster.
“In the darning basket.” Jask hovered at the open door. “But I don’t need any favors.”
“Not a favor—an apology.” She held up a hand to stop him from protesting. “I’d like to earn my keep. Should I prepare anything
for our midday meal? I imagine we’ll both work up an appetite.”
He paused. “A princess who cooks?”
“Earning my keep, remember?” She lifted a shoulder. “To be truthful, I can’t cook much, but I can make a sandwich.”
“I don’t care what you do. Just stay inside.” Jask’s mouth rippled as though words tried to escape him, then blew out a breath.
“I must go while the weather holds.”
She raised her eyebrow. Was the weather likely to turn?
Beyond the door, the sky was a perfect cornflower blue.
A glorious fall day, in fact. Chirping birds, buzzing bees visiting their final flowers for the season, and temperatures warm enough to leave her cloak on the hook.
But maybe the climate was different in the hinterlands?
More likely, he wanted to escape her company. But another skill she’d learned in her princess training—for some, candor formed
alliances better than flattery. She’d wager the orc fell into that category.
“Thank you for helping me,” she said. “I am not your princess, nor a friend. You have no reason to risk your safety on my
behalf. I am grateful.”
His hand tensed around the doorknob. “You’re wrong, Princess. It’s everyone’s duty to help someone in a difficult situation.
Even if we’re repulsed by them.”
Not exactly a sonnet, but she’d take it if it meant he wasn’t flinging her in front of Crispin. What was it about the prince
that had changed the orc’s mind? Before her betrothed darkened the orc’s doorstep, he’d threatened to turn her out. When they
were better friends, she might dare to ask. For now, she’d be content with light teasing.
With the sewing kit in hand, she settled herself on the divan. “For someone who denied being a knight, that’s a courtly thing
to say, Jask Bone-Cracker. Aside from the repulsion bit.”
He crossed the threshold. “Tonight only, Princess. Tomorrow, you’re gone.”
The door rattled in its frame. Add that to the pile of things the broadsheets and books got wrong about orcs—they possessed
integrity. Deftly, she threaded a needle from the kit, then stitched the split pillow closed. Soothing, this kind of work.
Rewarding, too, making order from chaos.
And as for leaving tomorrow?
She thought not.