Chapter 6
Thick, overwhelming silence pressed on Marigold in the night-dark cottage.
Castle life meant noise. Even at its quietest, staff whispered, carts rolled, and guards’ footsteps echoed against stones.
Church bells tolled, too. In the country, however, none of the comforting sounds that signaled human company could be heard.
This was a symphony of a different sort.
Above her, the thatch shifted. Outside, dry stalks whispered in the wind as well. In the distance, a hooting, but she wasn’t
versed enough in bird calls to discern the type of owl. Fuzzle’s purring as she stroked his back was a roar in this silence.
Mystery rustling perked her ears. Over time, she might be able to pick out the different noises. But for now—
Her thoughts scattered like startled birds as a scream cut through the courtyard.
The breath left her lungs, and cold seeped through her veins. Jask hadn’t stirred on the sofa below, however. Or maybe Jask
caused the scream? But it was quiet again, save for the pounding blood in her ears. Maybe she’d imagined it? Nope, wait, there it
was again. She flicked back the covers and lit her bedside candle. Marigold of Thornwick did not sit idly by as murder sat
at the threshold.
“It’s only a fox,” Jask called, guessing her concern. “They get territorial in the fall as the young ones leave their dens. Nothing to worry about.”
She edged to the loft railing and peered at the shadowy lump on the divan. “Aren’t foxes cute and inquisitive? And not prone
to banshee shrieking?”
“No to cute, yes to inquisitive and shrieking. And it’s already gone.”
This was the most he’d spoken since their humble meal together. The afternoon had gone much like the morning. Jask tackled
chores outside while she repaired every textile and sorted everything within her reach. Then she dragged one of his big kitchen chairs around the cottage and tidied everything else. When he still hadn’t finished his
long list of outdoor work, she reorganized his books in their proper alphabetical-by-author order.
In a desperate moment, she minimized herself and dashed across the courtyard to the privy. Had he told her to stay indoors?
Yes, but she would have been mortified if he returned to an overflowing chamber pot.
At twilight, Jask popped inside to soak dried beans for the next day’s midday meal, then walked off with a stack of oatcakes,
a towel, and a change of clothes. She put together a satisfying meal of bread, cheese, dried fruit and nuts, then inspected
the contents of the bookcases’ lower cabinets. An hour later, the orc returned damp and smelling of warm pine and cloves,
the same scent that surrounded her in his large bed. It suffused the pillow, the mattress, the linens.
It was familiar to her nose, but she couldn’t place it.
“Jask? Do you wear cologne?”
“No,” he said, scoffing at the suggestion. His eyes remained closed.
In the dark of the loft, she frowned. Where had she smelled the scent before? She hated when she couldn’t place something. The missing information nibbled at her mind, but experience taught her not to force it. If she let the mystery simmer, eventually the answer would reveal itself.
The hearth fire crackled and gasped.
The flickering light played on Jask’s stretched-out shape under a quilt. She’d rather be down there, chatting face to face.
His expressions were difficult to read in full sunshine. In the dark, they were impossible.
She fiddled with a curl.
Despite brushing the twigs from her tresses and giving herself a bird bath while Jask was gone, she ached for a deep scrub.
To rid herself of grime, yes. Also to cleanse herself of the castle, Crispin, and every moment between her escape last night
and her arrival here.
Why had she agreed to marry Prince Crispin?
She wasn’t fully back to who she was before Bram’s death, but she was closer. That Marigold would’ve sussed out Crispin’s viperous intentions and flatly declined his offer, no matter what the boon to Thornwick.
She was not a jewel to be traded between thrones.
Here, in this taciturn orc’s cottage, she was finally beginning to remember who the hell she was. If she stayed out of the
prince’s clutches, her brothers were safe from his plot. She hadn’t yet worked out how to get to the sanctuary in Mareval
and then how to inform her parents of the need to break the alliance with Harvest Hollow, but the solution would come to her.
Tonight she was simply giddy about her freedom from a terrible man.
And a giddy Marigold was a chatty Marigold.
“When can you find me a bath?” she asked.
A grunt sounded in the dark. His way of closing a subject, apparently.
A draft whisked through the thatch, pebbling her skin. That wouldn’t do for a good night’s sleep. The best combination was a cool room and a cozy pile of blankets. Cool she had, cozy pile she did not, and Fuzzle was a poor substitute for a warming pan.
“Do you have another quilt? It’s chilly up here.”
His sigh ballooned the walls of the cottage. “Chest at the foot of the bed.”
Wax rolled down the candle and into the chamberstick’s saucer as she navigated the loft. “How long have you lived here?”
Jask wiped his hands down his face. His palms muffled his voice as he shouted, “I’m trying to sleep.”
The gesture tugged at her memory. Like before, the ghost of . . . something half-recollected . . . remained stuck below the
surface.
“Sorry.” She rested her forearms on the railing. “I don’t mean to bother you. Or maybe I do, but only because earlier you
said you don’t sleep, and I want to know you better.”
He opened his eyes and locked gazes with her. “You don’t need to know me. And I didn’t say I don’t sleep—I have trouble sleeping. Big difference, Princess.”
“Marigold.” She picked at the soft dribbles of wax. “Do you want me to hush?”
“Very much.”
She pursed her lips. “I have trouble sleeping, too. Talking helps.”
With another cottage-rattling sigh, he tucked his arm behind his head. “Three questions, then silence. Morning comes early.”
That was fair. “How long have you lived here?”
“On the farm?” His big lower teeth pointed toward her as he yawned. “Three years.”
Not long, then. Odd. Who took up pumpkin farming on new land?
“Why pumpkins?” she asked. “Like, does anyone really need pumpkins? They’re more decoration than anything else, aren’t they?”
“Your ivory tower must be nice,” he said. “Pumpkins are cheap and multipurpose. Hard on the outside, soft on the inside, they
grow fast, store well, and feed many. In a pinch, they can be used as a projectile weapon.”
He might have just described himself. Except . . . with vines that sprawl along the ground in green and gold, pumpkins flowered
and bore fruit in clusters. They don’t grow or survive alone, which is what Jask seemed to prefer.
“Where’s your family?”
He closed his eyes again. “Elsewhere. That’s three. Try not to snore.”
“That’s cheating. You didn’t fully answer that last question.”
“Devil’s in the details.” He rolled to his side. “I never agreed I’d answer to your satisfaction. A valuable lesson if you
ever enter a bargain with a sprite.”
Like she needed him to teach her about bad bargains or magical creatures. “It’s still cheating.”
“Good night, Princess.”
“Well, bad night to you, Cheater MacCheaterpants.”
His grumble vibrated the loft as she flopped back into his bedding. After kissing the picture of Bram in her pendant, she
curled around Fuzzle. In the snug embrace of the fire-warmed cottage, she offered up thanks that she’d found a soft place
to land.
Even if she hadn’t yet had a bath.
A tortured scream startled Marigold awake. Her heart slammed against her ribcage. Was it the fox again? Had she dreamed it?
Powerful, realistic night visions had haunted her before. The kind when Bram visited her, so close but untouchable.
Though she’d be thrilled if it wasn’t real and she’d imagined that noise. Why were the hinterlands so unnecessarily scary? In the dark, she listened for Jask. Company made scary noises tolerable. Nothing from him, either.
She jolted at a fresh screech.
Not the fox, but her heart settled. The rooster—what had Jask called him? Barnaby?—announced the start of a new day. She slipped
from the nest she’d made of the blankets and into the brisk morning. As her bare feet touched the cold floorboards, she flinched.
This room needed a rug. She added it to the mental list of things the cottage could use from the market the next time Jask
visited town. No, scratch that—she wouldn’t be here long enough to justify home decor. Just until the palace guard presence
died down, or . . . Wait. A key clicked in her mind. She bounced on her cold toes. Oh, brilliant.
Finally, an idea worth having.
She’d offer the orc coin to spirit her to Mareval. Given the worn state of his furniture, he was bound to accept for pay.
She’d minimize herself, and much like she’d carried Fuzzle here, Jask could pocket her and venture across the Shivering Dales
and deliver her to the sanctuary without attracting notice.
She tapped her chin. Would the revised plan require another coded letter to Rowan?
Possibly, if she tarried more than a few days. She’d need to travel to the town center to hire a messenger. Dangerous, that.
If only she had the costume she wore when visiting the markets in Thornwick. A simple dress, false nose, and a wig allowed
her to peruse wares without palace guards hovering and driving up the price. That all stopped when Papa had been crowned,
though.
As had lots of things.
She brushed her hair from her face. Or perhaps she could convince Jask to go on his own to post a message? And shop a bit while he was there. Yes, for house slippers, and she’d strongly recommend a rug. Ooh, also for the list—pomegranates. They were in season.
Although . . .
She hadn’t seen a horse. Harvest Hollow proper was a fair distance from here. How did he go to the markets? After pulling
on her green kirtle and cursing the difficult-to-reach lacings, she rubbed her teeth with a piece of frayed sage twig from
her herbal remedy kit, then rinsed with cold water from the jug. She attached her pruning knife to her belt, then glanced
in her looking glass. The small mirror was sufficient for face only, but it would have to do. His room held none larger.
“Good morning,” she trilled as she leaned over the railing.
To no one, apparently. Only a divot remained where Jask had slept, along with the quilt. She descended the stairs and ventured
into the kitchen. The cooking hearth was lit, but there was no food upon it. From the nearby window, she peered into the yard.
Ah, there he was, feeding the clucking bundles of feathers.
His coarse linen shirt hugged his back, his sleeves pushed up for a day’s work. No cloak, though, which meant the weather
was fine. She pulled on her gardening turn shoes, then swung open the door to the cool air. The earth was fresh, and the sky
held a fragile quality, a pale dove gray met by a growing pink.
“Morning!” she called.
Jask startled. “Blood and bones! Where did you come from?”
“The house?” She gestured toward the feed pail. “Let me help with that.”
“No.” He turned and scattered more grain for the pecking birds.
She curled her fists and glowered at his broad back. Stubborn orc. She’d inundate him with bubbly helpfulness. He’d rue the day he rebuffed her.
“I’m sure you don’t need my help.” She wrapped her fingers around the pail’s handle, dangerously close to his, and beamed
her most brilliant smile. “But I insist. Have you eaten?”
He flinched and let go of the handle like she’d thrown fire at him.
Disconcerting, but she’d take the win.
He lifted the latch on the chicken-yard gate, then let himself out into the courtyard. “I tend the animals before I break
my fast.”
“What else does ‘tending the animals’ entail?” she asked.
He disappeared into the dairy. Fantastic. She loved when someone left a conversation. The last scoop of feed plinked against
the patches of dirt amid the straw. A beautiful brown hen beat its wings and hopped over the others to gobble up the feed.
Marigold respected her ambition.
Jask returned with a large milk pail, then headed toward the byre.
Marigold exited the coop, then held the pail high like a lantern. “Where does this go?”
“Hook above the feed barrel, next to the kitchen door.”
The metallic scrape of the pail’s handle on the hook sent a shiver down her spine. Feed dust covered her hands, and she brushed
them together. “What about the horses?” she asked. “Or donkeys? Anything to do for them?”
“I have neither.” He opened the byre door.
She squished her eyebrows together. “No beasts of burden?”
“I am the beast of burden.” His hand, flattened over his heart, covered a third of his chest. “Easier for me to push the plow than
to harness creatures.”
“Oh, I—oh.” She stared at his thick shoulders, imagining them straining with effort. Which was not a welcome or necessary thought at daybreak. He was her unwilling host for mercy’s sake, not an object. He had a soul. An irritating
grumpy one, but a soul nonetheless.
“I’ll . . .” The word stuck. She cleared her throat. “I’ll handle the eggs?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Was that a question or an offer?”
Must he make everything so difficult? She wasn’t amused by his needling. Far from it. Flustered was more like it.
“An offer.” She let herself back into the chicken yard. The birds’ excited clucking made her raise her voice. “I’m capable
of collecting eggs.”
He twirled the pail on his index finger. “If you insist.”
“I do. Go.” She shooed him. “Cow. Milk.”
He cocked his head and continued twirling. “You surprise me.”
She popped her fist on her hip. “Why, because princesses don’t do chores?”
“No, because you used to—” His pail slipped his finger and spiraled over the fence and into the pig’s sty.
“I used to what?” she asked.
He palmed his neck. “Hand out chores to servants. But that’s an assumption, and I hate it when people make assumptions about
me. I shouldn’t have made them about you.”
She narrowed her eyes. All she knew of this orc was built upon the last twenty-four hours. But something in what he’d said—or,
more accurately, hadn’t said—was the shape and weight of a lie. This was not a time to challenge, however. This was a time to build bridges, so he’d
allow her to stay or, better yet, help her get to Mareval.
“I may surprise you yet, Jask Bone-Cracker.”
He’d headed back to the dairy for a fresh pail. She wasn’t sure, but she swore he muttered that she already had.