Chapter 9 #2
and sagged with the sudden weight, and Alfred held tight to the startled horse’s traces. The control she had over this magic,
much as he distrusted it, gave him an idea about her request for a bath.
“You’re a hoot, Miss Meg,” Alfred said. “This is the most fun I’ve had at this stop since Jask moved in.”
Hadn’t been aware he was supposed to entertain the carter.
She curtsied. “Happy to be of service. How often do you pass by, Alfred?”
“Every few days, minimum once per week. I cart mail, packages, and goods to town for those who can’t go themselves, then bring
back their profits. You ask around—there’s no one fairer than me.”
“I believe it,” she said.
Alfred withdrew his pipe from his shirt pocket. “Anything you all need next week besides the usual?”
“Vinegar,” Marigold said. “And house slippers? I forgot mine, and the mornings are chilly.”
Bram pressed his lips together. He’d stoke the fire harder this evening. Might mean sleeping in his braies, but it’d be worth it for her comfort.
“Anything else?” His pipe’s bowl glowed orange as he drew in the smoke.
“Do you carry letters?” she asked.
“Yes, miss, but only along my route. Any farther and you’ll need to hire a carrier. If that’s the case, I know some reasonable
fellas.”
Marigold nodded. “Thank you.”
Letters originating from Grimroot Farm were an exceptionally bad idea. Paid carriers hardly respected the sanctity of the
seal. If they opened it and could identify her by name, content, or handwriting, they’d earn far more coin alerting the palace
guard to her location than they would successfully delivering the letter. Bram would argue with her about the insecurity of
correspondence after Alfred left.
“For next week, what do you think?” Bram asked. “The same number of pumpkins? Or more? We’re getting close to the festival.”
Which happened to be his best sales of the season.
“Maybe none.” Alfred shook a few more dried dreamleaf buds into his pipe. “Rumor’s going around that the royal family’s canceling
it.”
Marigold tilted her head. “What’s the festival?”
“The Goldenmoon Festival’s our harvest celebration, Miss Meg.” He struck a match and dipped the flame into the pipe’s bowl.
“Three of the best days of the year. Corn mazes, pumpkin carving, candied apples, cider presses—the works. It’s capped off
with dancing and bonfires under the full Hunter’s Moon. The royals host it, but they say planning the prince’s wedding calls
for all the local resources and laborers.”
“Oh, that’s awful.” Marigold furrowed her brow. “Why would the prince schedule a wedding against such a popular event?”
“According to one of his knights in the Laughing Gourd, the Thornwick princess insisted on a fall wedding under a full moon.
Sounds like the prince has his hands full with that one.”
Marigold’s face reddened. “That’s the most irredeemable piece of gossip I—”
“Keep me posted, Alfred,” Bram cut in, lest she lose her grip on her secret. “You’d best be on your way before dark.”
Sunset wasn’t the drawn-out love affair they enjoyed in the height of summer. No, at this time of year, the sun’s dip below
the horizon was fast and determined, like a newlywed diving into bed.
“Agreed.” Alfred blew smoke rings over their heads, then tipped his cap. “Pleasure meeting you, Miss Meg.”
“Likewise,” she said.
As Alfred disappeared around the bend, Marigold turned to him. “You don’t own a horse.”
The sudden change of topic caused his brain to bump against his skull. “That’s correct.”
“So, is it that you can’t go into town or you won’t go into town?”
If he shared the truth—that he couldn’t leave this farm—she wouldn’t stop asking questions. Marigold was tenacious when things
didn’t add up. Easy to see she’d unravel the rest quickly. Dishonesty rankled. It ran rough against his training and the code
to which he swore an oath.
But her death would rankle more, so to protect her, he told a plausible lie.
“Won’t. I got tired of the looks from the city folk.” He picked up the egg basket.
“I know that feeling.” Marigold walked with him to the coop, her tone softened.
“Like you’re an animal in a menagerie. When I was younger, I disguised myself so I could walk among my people without notice.
Isn’t that strange? Royals are supposed to shepherd their kingdoms, and yet we’re divided from our citizens. ”
“Doesn’t have to be that way,” he said.
“I agree.” She pinched her chin and stared in the distance.
Uh-oh. That gesture meant she was about to lob an amazing and terrible idea at him. Diving from Piney Falls into Amberglen Lake,
for example. Or trying dreamleaf in the castle’s hedgerow maze and giggling like idiots looking for the very simple escape.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“I’m always thinking about something, Jask.” She blinked and was present with him again. “Are you not?”
Eventually, she’d spill it. Another Marigold habit—she couldn’t keep her amazing/terrible ideas to herself for long. He doubt
she’d last twenty-four hours before telling him all about it.
“I had an idea for your bath.” He hung the basket outside the coop. “Would you like to take one after supper?”
She clapped. “Oh, yes, please.”
His heart warmed at the sparkle in her eyes.