Chapter 8
The confidence Marigold possessed in the courtyard disappeared faster than Fuzzle during a thunderstorm. From the stiff set
of his shoulders, it was clear it cost him to accept help. She couldn’t refuse Jask’s offer to teach her to cook.
But cooking . . . she was a disaster at anything that involved more than two steps.
The brie-and-blackberry sandwiches represented the extent of her culinary skill. She’d tried to learn at Thornwick Castle,
but upon burning a third loaf of bread, the cook kicked her out of the kitchens. From then on, she’d decided she was better
suited to eating meals than preparing them. But she was game to try. With a full belly he might at least consider escorting
her to Mareval before grunting a no at her.
After washing up at the pump, she asked, “What are we making?”
“Pottage. Easy, filling, flavorful. It’s a good first lesson. You’ll need this.” With his left hand, he reached for a well-worn
cutting board stacked on a shelf behind her. Her heart stuttered at the warmth radiating through his shirtsleeves.
Sweet mercy, he smelled even better than his bedsheets.
She cleared her throat. “Was pottage the first thing you learned to cook?”
“No. Egg scramble.” He slid a knife from the block. “But I don’t feel like eggs. Fetch ingredients from the root cellar, would you? Carrots, a turnip, an onion, garlic, and cabbage.”
“I will.” She raised her index finger. “One quick question. Where is the root cellar?”
He wiped his good hand down his face. “You were in it earlier. Across the yard, past the coop. Door stuck in the hill’s side.
I assume you went in there in search of breakfast?”
“No, I . . .” Might as well be honest. “I thought it might be a fairy house.”
He squinted at her. “But the door is full size.”
She shrugged as she headed toward the door. “I’ve never met a fairy. In the stories they’re small, but the stories could be
wrong.”
“The stories often are.” Jask snorted. With amusement or derision, she couldn’t tell. “Get the vegetables?”
“Bide a moment,” she called over her shoulder.
Jask was so hard to read. Because he was an orc? Possibly. Between his tusks and his permanently lowered brow, his resting
face was set to grumpy. But there were times where she was sure she amused him. Like yesterday, when he’d opened the door
to her, his lips curled in a smile before something had chased it away quickly.
Hopeful chickens clucked as she came near. “Not feeding time, ladies. Sorry.”
Not for them anyway. The root cellar door’s hinges squealed as she flung it open. Inside, the cool and dry air smelled of
the earth. She gathered the vegetables he wanted from the tidy shelves. The way Jask hid his feelings was so strange—she was
the opposite, blurting out her emotions at every turn. Much to Bess’s chagrin. Her companion endlessly coached her to keep
her upper lip stiff and expressionless.
What was the point in that?
It wasn’t as if it was a surprise that people had feelings.
He certainly had no trouble expressing the surly ones—anger, irritation, exasperation.
So why couldn’t he admit he liked her? She liked him.
She supposed she could see how some people would find him terrifying, with his growly voice and under tusks and mounds of muscle.
He could probably pick her up like she was a doll, fling her around, pin her to a wall, and—
She flared her eyes and covered her mouth.
Where had that come from? Her heart had died the day the Harvest Hollow squire arrived at Thornwick Castle with the official letter about
Bram. The gray numbness that followed convinced her she’d never feel an amorous spark again. Crispin’s offer proved her theory
when she met his proposal with nothing more than a vague pop of surprise.
With her pruning knife, she snipped a garlic bulb free from its twine.
The court had buzzed about his proposal while she simply shrugged. He was handsome, yes. Anyone with eyes could see that.
But everything about his demeanor was overly practiced, like he’d studied facial expressions and optimal angles to present
to his adoring fans.
There was nothing genuine about him.
And that was fine. Preferred because she’d never be overwrought about someone like Crispin. His contrived gestures, word choices, and overall
affect were a contrast to Bram. He never worried about projecting confidence, wit, or courage. Bram simply was those things. That was what hooked her from the start—his unabashed Bramness.
Oh, and his dreamy, gold-flecked blue eyes.
In his gaze, she felt truly seen, quirks and all, and adored. After he died, she lost the quiet confidence his love provided.
She’d allowed her parents to convince her to reduce the volume on her un-princess-like behaviors. No more sneaking out to
the marketplace or the wilds of Thornwick. Her appearances were curated, scheduled, and highly choreographed.
Again, that was fine.
Then she arrived in Harvest Hollow. Traveling to a new place, shaking off Thornwick, had, much to Bess’s chagrin, rekindled
her high-spiritedness. And all the things that had been fine were fine no longer.
She closed the root cellar door.
Also not like anyone in Thornwick? Jask. The orc was fascinating. Grumpy, yes. Rude, absolutely. But he didn’t eat meat, protected
her from the prince, and read more than any man she’d known, including Master Alaric Wyndox, the snooty young tutor her parents
hired from Clarus University for Rowan, Beckett, and herself.
A contented huffing signaled Paloma’s return. The pig entered her pen, circled a few times, then dropped into the hay.
“Welcome home, Paloma,” she said, then latched the gate.
Inside the cottage, she toed off her turn shoes, then delivered the basket to the chopping block in the kitchen’s center.
Jask had placed a large pot on the stove and stoked the fire underneath.
“What’s next?” she asked.
“Washing,” he said. “Then peeling and chopping.”
She pumped water into the basin, then used the rough brush to scrub the produce. “Is there any way in particular you like
them cut?”
“No. But . . . uniformity is preferred, so they cook evenly. The dense vegetables, like the carrots and turnips, should be
smaller than the onion and the cabbage. And the garlic should be finely chopped—almost a paste, really.”
“So, by ‘No’—” she giggled as she peeled the turnip “—you mean, ‘Yes, I have firm preferences.”
“It’s not a preference,” he grumbled. “It makes logical sense.”
“Okay, Mr. Bone-Cracker. But maybe don’t watch me lest I ruffle your scales.”
“I don’t have scales.” He set a pot on the stove.
Mirth lightened her tone. “I was joking.”
With his back to her, he grunted in response. She stifled another giggle. Maybe it was the lack of a full night’s sleep or
the lull in her dire circumstances, but everything he did was hilarious. Laughing at an orc was likely unwise, but she couldn’t
help it.
As she sliced, chopped, chunked, Jask drizzled oil into the pot. Once she finished, she added the hard vegetables to the pot
with a push of the blade across the cutting board. They landed with a satisfying plop and sizzle.
He added a spoonful of butter and two pinches of salt. “For flavor.”
“What about thyme?” she asked.
“Should be ready in thirty minutes.”
Oh no, an unstoppable fit was bubbling up inside her. She was powerless against it.
“Not time.” Her shoulders shook with her laughter. “Thyme.”
“I don’t get it.” He folded his arms over his chest.
Marigold fought to stand upright, but her quaking midsection stopped her. “The herb. T-h-y-m-e. Thyme.”
His rucked forehead smoothed. “Ah. I don’t have an herb garden.”
“I have some.” She exhaled and thumbed happy tears from her eyes, then opened her physic satchel. “It’s good for coughs, too.
Mind if I add some? And some rosemary? Though you can never go wrong with butter and salt, herbs add a lot to vegetables.”
Jask gestured toward the pot. “Be my guest. Give everything a stir while you’re at it, then put the lid on so the vegetables
steam as well.”
Marigold liberally shook in the seasoning, then corked the bottle and set it on the counter. She drummed her fingers. A tisane
of rosemary and honey would partner well with the meal.
As she filled the kettle, she asked. “Who taught you to cook?”
He relaxed his shoulders a bit. “My father. It was the two of us, so if he was ill or wanted a break, I needed to learn.”
Her heart cramped. Growing up without a mother’s care was a difficult wound to heal. Bram preferred not to talk about it,
but she’d often wondered if his lack of a mother figure was the root of his fierce self-sufficiency.
“Oh?” Marigold set the kettle on the stove. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to pry. Would you like to tell me about your mother?
You don’t have to.”
After Bram died, no one spoke about him. While her family’s silence was a misguided attempt not to upset her, she felt like
he’d died twice because she couldn’t remember him with anyone. Based on this, she resolved to ask fellow grievers about those they’d lost.
He slid his palm against his neck. “I don’t remember much. Only that she was kind.”
The vulnerable gesture tugged her heart strings. Almost like she could see the small version of this large-framed person.
“That’s its own tragedy.” She pulled two mugs from the open shelf above the sink. “No matter when, it’s devastating when a
loved one dies.”
“Has death touched your life?” For the first time today, his gaze was not evasive.
“Yes. My . . .” Her breath whooshed from her. “He was called Bram.”
A lump formed in her throat. Whew, okay. She’d confessed that without tears.
“You called him your true love, and yet you’re betrothed to Prince Crispin?”
She lifted a shoulder. “I’m trying very hard not to be. And you made that point earlier. Are you mocking me?”
“No, but how could you fall for another after experiencing true love?”
As if loving another was possible.
She thwacked the knife through the cabbage head. “I didn’t.”
Jask’s grunt drew her attention. With his thumb pressed to his chin, his eyes searched hers. For what, she did not know, and
she was too tired to attempt to sleuth it out.
“Does that surprise you?” she asked.
“No. The prince is a loathsome twit. Tell me about Bram, then.” Jask lifted the pot’s lid. “And add the cabbage and water,
then give it all a stir.”
“There’s too much to say.” She slid the chopped cabbage into the mix, then firmly shifted the vegetables.
As Jask sidled next to her with the small pitcher, her back flared with awareness at his proximity. Mere inches separated
them. Heat pumped from his body, reaching her through her kirtle. He was warmer than the steam that billowed as he poured
the water.
Orcs really did run hot.
He fitted the lid back on the pot. “Then sum him up? I’d like to learn about what made him special to you.”
Tears pricked her eyes. She could pretend she was blinking from the steam, but why bother? Jask was a stranger. Talking to
him was like telling her troubles to the sea—he’d soak them up, and then she’d sail away, leaving them behind.
“Fair warning—if I talk about him, I’ll cry.”
Which made people uncomfortable. Mama tolerated the tears, but Papa, Rowan, and Beckett coughed and left the room. Bess, as
expected, told her to buck up. To be fair, they all thought Bram was merely her best friend, nothing more. But hugs would’ve
been nice.
“Tears don’t bother orcs, Princess. Cats, yes, but never tears.”
Marigold laughed despite her breath juddering in her chest. “Okay, but remember you asked for it. I loved him so deeply that I don’t .
. . I don’t work without him. He was tender but never let me take myself too seriously.
He’d bring me small tokens and treats, things to let me know he was thinking of me when we weren’t together.
A sunflower, a vanilla cake, an exquisite lace kerchief.
Nothing that would reveal our relationship to those who’d frown upon it. But it was enough for me.”
The lump that swelled in her throat choked off her words.
Jask handed her a fresh linen handkerchief. “He sounds like he was constant.”
“He was.” She sniffled as she gripped the cloth. “The thing I ache for is having a shared language, someone to whom I can
tell all my thoughts, brilliant and silly. He knew I loved him, so I have no regrets on that front, but . . . my world is
dim without him in it.”
“Did he die recently?” Jask asked.
“Depends on what you mean by recent. Three years, and I’m not sure I want to stop grieving. Missing him means he’s still here
in some way. Does that make sense?”
“Some,” he says.
She blew her nose. “When his squire brought the news to us, I didn’t believe it, because they didn’t bring home a body. So,
I thought the knights of Harvest Hollow must have had it wrong—that he was missing and they were pessimists. When the guard
held a modest funeral, I was angry. I thought if we kept faith and hope, he’d return to us. To me.”
“What changed?” he said.
She’d never confessed this before. Not even to the clerics.
“Eventually, Prince Crispin paid us a visit. In a private meeting, he gave me Bram’s half of our locket.
” She withdrew the necklace she kept close to her heart.
“He hadn’t sent it with the squire because he guessed I wanted our affection to remain discreet.
Bram would’ve throttled anyone who attempted to take it from him. There could be no doubt he was gone.”
She dropped the pendant back under her kirtle.
Jask started to speak, then stopped and thinned his lips. The fact that he spoke few words made her eager to hear whatever
he was fighting to say. Would an orc, reputed to be creatures of low empathy, offer her comfort?
“He could . . .” Jask’s jaw bulged with clenched teeth until he cleared his throat. “He could yet be alive, Princess. You
said it yourself. There was no body.”
No, there was no comfort in that.
Marigold held up her hand. “Please don’t. Hope hurts. If I accept his death, at least I can function and find some muted joy
in life. If I thought he was out there somewhere and waiting for me . . . that would be torture.”
Jask’s shoulders tensed. His face clouded, then cleared. He turned his back to her, then lifted the lid on the pot. “So, we’ll
agree your true love is dead and dusted, then.” The lid clattered where he dropped it onto the counter. “Add the barley and
the beans. Should be ready in a half hour.”
Marigold blew out her lips. She’d annoyed him again. By talking about Bram, though he’d asked her to? Or in refusing Jask’s
suggestion that Bram’s alive? That made no sense at all. They were not friends—why would he care about Bram or how she grieved?
No, pain from his injury was the likely culprit for his temper.
The shrieking kettle inspired her. Instead of rosemary and honey, she’d fashion something stronger. “I’ll make a willow-bark
draught. After you drink it, your hand will feel much better.”
She hoped she was right.