Chapter 9
Bram sat in one of his rocking chairs on the cottage’s porch. He’d fashioned the pair to enjoy the view of the pumpkin fields
and, beyond them, the sunflower patch. Who the second one was for, he had no idea. But crafting a single chair had seemed
too sad.
The breeze carried the scent of apples from the orchard, reminding him to fill a basket soon. With Marigold staying here,
he’d need more food.
Two weeks. He could make it that long.
“Drink your draught,” Marigold yelled from the side yard. “I’ll secure the chickens.”
Bram twisted his lips. From the small table between the chairs, he lifted the steaming willow bark. This was the second draught
she’d made him today. He grimaced. The liberal amounts of honey and cinnamon she’d added took the edge off the bark’s bitterness,
but it was still as pleasant as chewing chalk.
What a damned strange day this had been.
After her tears, their midday meal had been tense and silent. He was angry, but not at her. Never at her. While they cooked the pottage and she’d spoken of Bram, it was like attending his own funeral and all he could do
was offer her a fresh handkerchief. His one true love had sat across the table from him, and he could reveal nothing.
Monstrously unfair.
In truth, it had taken every ounce of his control to stop himself from sweeping her into his arms. He’d done that dozens of times in Thornwick. Here, though, she’d run screaming from the cottage if an orc attempted the same.
Fuzzle appeared around the corner.
“Go away, cat,” he said.
In two leaps, the tabby was on his lap.
Bram rolled his neck. “You have as much respect for personal boundaries as your mistress.”
She’d followed him all afternoon, stuck to him like a burr and demanded instructions for the farm’s daily chores. Once she
caught the rhythm of each job, she was surprisingly capable. Even the deeply unpleasant stuff, like mucking out Queen’s stall.
He’d thought the dung would send Marigold running, but she’d snatched the pitchfork from him and set to separating the soiled
straw from the clean.
He might have been more surprised than the cow.
In Thornwick, she’d carried a pomander of cinnamon to ward off foul stenches. In cities, they were plentiful. Out here, well
beyond the cramped buildings, the odors were less concentrated and more earthy. The constant breeze through the pines helped,
too.
He took another bittersweet sip.
The Marigold in his memory was proving to be different than the woman who’d showed up on his doorstep—saints, only two days
ago? Absorbed as he’d been in his own chrysalis, he hadn’t considered she had five years of new experiences without him.
As he set the cup down, the familiar squeak and roll of a cart perked his orc ears. He shielded his eye, then groaned. Yes,
there was Alfred, coming back this way exactly as they’d agreed yesterday.
And Bram still hadn’t harvested the pumpkins.
He rolled his neck. He couldn’t afford it, but he’d need to send the carter away with nothing. Harvesting wasn’t a one-handed job. Though Marigold was strong and likely willing, it was too much for one human.
“Shoo.” He brushed Fuzzle from his lap.
The chair creaked as he stood.
“Ho there, Alfred.” His footsteps thudded against the porch stairs. As he strolled over to the cart, he waved with his bandaged
hand.
“You’re having a rough go of it, Jask. What happened there?”
“A nail got the better of me,” he said.
“Didn’t think anything pierced orc—” Alfred’s eyes widened. “Jask, did you get a wife since yesterday?”
Shite. Sweat broke out on Bram’s forehead. Marigold had appeared on the porch. What the hell? Had they not agreed that for the
duration of her stay, she’d remain indoors when strangers were around? Alfred was a gentle soul, but he was the worst at keeping secrets.
“She’s a childhood friend.” Bram clutched the side of the cart. “She needs a place to stay. Discreetly. Her life is at risk,
Alfred. So please—keep this to yourself.”
He searched the older man’s wrinkled eyes, pleading. Trust didn’t come easily to Bram since the night Crispin betrayed him,
but he had no choice.
“Say no more.” Alfred tapped his nose to signal an agreement.
He believed Alfred, but the quiver in Bram’s stomach was hard to settle. All that stood between Marigold and discovery was
the willpower of a notorious gossip.
“Hello!” Marigold beamed and held out mugs to him and Alfred. “Care for a blackberry-leaf tisane? It’s refreshing.”
“Can’t turn down an offer like that, miss.” His smile revealed his scant collection of teeth. “Name’s Alfred. And who might you be?”
Bram held his breath as he sipped. Please let her not be so naive as to give her real name.
Without hesitation, she said, “Meg.”
He choked. Meg was the alias she used to run around Thornwick’s city center unnoticed.
“Everything okay, Jask?” she asked.
“Fine,” he wheezed.
“Never seen you discombobulated before,” Alfred said. “You must be keeping him on his toes, Miss Meg.”
“I guess I am.” She rocked on her feet.
“He could use it.” Alfred drained his mug, then handed it back to Marigold. “That is refreshing, Miss Meg. Thank you. Jask, if you can load up the pumpkins for the market, I’ll be on my way.”
“About that.” Bram palmed his neck. “I still haven’t had a chance to harvest them.”
Alfred twisted his lips. “Ah. Too bad—market’s tomorrow. You’ll miss out this week.”
Too bad was an understatement. When he’d tumbled to the earth as Jask, he’d retained the gold acorns stuffed in his pocket. The cottage
and outbuildings had been here, but he’d since acquired everything else—the animals, the materials to expand, the seeds—courtesy
of that cursed harvest. Only a morsel of gold remained. Pumpkin and apple sales were supposed to keep him afloat through the
winter, but it would be hard to make up for a week’s lost income.
Tension banded around his forehead. “Blood and bones.”
“Can’t we harvest them now?” Marigold asked. “I’ll help.”
Bram held up his bandaged hand. “This’ll slow me down.”
“And I can’t wait long, Miss Meg. Sundown’s around the corner, and the forest’s not fit for nighttime travel. I don’t want to mix it up with the autumn sprite.”
She cast her eyes toward the trees down the road. “There’s really an autumn sprite? I thought that was a fairy tale to keep
the children out of the woods.”
“Indeed,” Alfred said. “Any soul that crosses his path is changed for the worse.”
Bram could confirm that but held his tongue.
Marigold eyed the empty cart. “How many pumpkins does your cart hold, Alfred?”
The old fellow glanced over his shoulder. “Forty, give or take?”
“We can make that work.” She touched Jask’s arm, and a sizzle jolted through him. “Get the egg basket,” she said to him quietly.
“I’ll shrink the pumpkins, we’ll gather, then I’ll resize them. Easy peasy.”
That . . . would work. He didn’t love the casual use of magic but had little choice.
“Alfred, give us ten minutes, and don’t tell anyone what you’re about to see.”
Alfred shielded his eyes to glance at the sun, nodded, then leaned back in his seat. “Deal, as long as I can get another one
of those blackberry-leaf whatnots?”
“Oh, I’m so glad you like it!” Marigold took his emptied mug. “I’ll get you a refill, and Jask, you get the basket?”
By the time Bram returned from the coop Marigold stood at the edge of the field. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
With both hands held aloft, she snapped three times. Blue sparks rained on a quarter of the tidy furrowed patch, and the pumpkins
shrank to the size of plums.
“Sweet mercy,” Alfred muttered.
“Yes! I’ve never done so many at once before.” Marigold bounced on her toes, then twisted toward Bram. “I’ll use the apron; you use the basket. First one back with twenty pumpkins wins. Go!”
She arrowed into the field, bending, plucking, and moving down the furrow. With the basket looped over the elbow of right
hand, he awkwardly gathered the adorable pumpkins with his left. As a farmer, he always competed against fading sunlight,
squeezing in work before the night closed in. This was much more fun. He’d forgotten the joy of trying to outrun, outwit,
or outlast an opponent. Once his basket was full, he raced back to the cart where Marigold was already emptying her apron.
“I win!” she crowed as she pumped her fists in the air.
He’d also forgotten how much he disliked losing.
“I wasn’t ready,” he complained.
“Too bad.” She grinned. “Luck favors the sharpened blade.”
He leaned against the cart as grief and nostalgia rolled through him. His foster father, Sir Patrick, had barked that phrase
a million times while training up Bram alongside the Marigold’s brothers, Rowan and Beckett. Sir Patrick alternated that nugget
of wisdom with For a future king, you need more spine. That last one was only directed to the princes. Bram had heard neither since Sir Patrick died.
“You all right there, Jask?” Alfred asked. “You’re looking a little green. A different green, I mean.”
Jask shook it off. “Fine.”
“Don’t worry, Jask. The pumpkins will enlarge with no trouble.” Marigold touched his biceps, and saints, the fire caused by
her touch whipped through him.
This was intolerable.
“I’m not worried,” he ground out.
She popped her hand on her hip. “You look worried.”
“How can you tell?” Alfred joked. “He always looks like a vulture shat on his breakfast to me. If you’ll pardon my language, Miss Meg.”
As though she was the one he insulted?
“Pardoned. And if you really want to know how I can tell he’s worried, look there—” she pointed to the bridge of Bram’s nose
“—a crease that could hold an acorn between his eyebrows.”
Bram snort-hmphed. Hard. He’d like to tell Marigold she couldn’t possibly know what a worried orc looked like because she
barely knew him. But then that would contradict what he’d told Alfred about her being a childhood friend. Now he wasn’t worried, he was mad.
“Can you restore the pumpkins?” he asked impatiently.
She snapped thrice, and the pumpkins swelled to their full size with another impressive display of blue sparks. The cart lurched