Chapter 12
For all of Marigold’s education and etiquette, “Ow” was the most cogent response she could muster to the shards of pain drifting
through her skull. She pressed her palms to her eyes to block out the sunlight suffusing the curtains.
Wait, full sun. She’d missed morning chores.
She sniffed the air, picking up a delicious scent against which her stomach rebelled. Had Jask cooked? And with his hand . . .
He was probably out there right now, working and risking further injury. She hurried into her homespun, washed her face, neck,
and under her arms, then brushed her teeth in the ewer—had Jask replaced the water while she was asleep? She hurried down
the stairs to the bench by the door.
Unbelievable. Day three and she was already acting like a spoiled princess. Abed until midmorning because of excesses the
night before, missing chores, not helping.
She yanked on a boot. Her thumbnail snagged and split to the quick. “Dammit,” she grumbled as she shook out her hand.
“Princesses curse?”
She startled and stood upright, the pressed her hand to her sternum. Jask hunched at the table tucked behind the stairs, watching
her. How long had he been there?
“You scared me,” she said.
“Mmph,” he grunted, then scraped his fork against his plate with the last of his meal.
“Not because you’re an orc,” she clarified. “Because you were silent as a ghost.”
“I’ll be louder.” Jask gestured toward her place at the table. “There’s breakfast.”
A sour taste rose to the back of her throat. She pressed her fingertips to her mouth to hold in a noxious belch. “No, thank
you.”
“Eat.” He gestured toward her place again. “You were in your cups—this’ll help. And I want to talk to you about something.”
In all of history, has any good conversation started that way? Cautiously, she approached the table. He’d set out a wedge
of savory tart, a mug, and the kettle sat on a trivet on the table.
Gingerly, she sat. Saints, it was as though her body were made of Venetian glass. One sudden move and she’d shatter. Jask
poured the kettle’s contents into her mug.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Willow bark. For your head.” He swirled in a spoonful of honey and a dash of cinnamon, as she liked it, then pushed it toward
her. “Barnaby didn’t wake you?”
“I’m as surprised as you are.” With her fingertips pressed to her temples, she asked, “What was in that cider? A curse?”
As his scowl ridged his forehead, he set his forearms on the table. “Just apples and yeast. But it’s aged—I forgot it would
be strong for a slight person such as yourself.”
She sipped the willow bark and grimaced. This was worse than the chicory. “I’m quite tall and hearty, I’ll have you know.”
“Comparatively—” he gestured between them, then pushed the plate toward her “—you are small. Eat the tart. It’ll quell your
stomach.”
“I doubt that very much, but I’m desperate.” She lifted a bite. Queasy though she might be, she sighed with appreciation.
Egg, brie, onion, and an explosion of herbs. Delicious. Flaky, buttery, with the right amount of chew to it.
Jask raised an eyebrow. “You moan when you eat. It’s troubling.”
“I only moan when the food is this good. Epic poems should be written about this tart.” She dabbed her lips with her napkin.
“Will you show me how to make it?”
“We need to talk, Princess.”
Again, suspicious phrasing. Fear swirled through her, and she set down her fork. Was he about to tell her to leave this oasis
of a farm? Something worse?
“About what?” she asked. “Tell it to me plain—I insist.”
“Farm duties. There are the normal, everyday tasks that I showed you yesterday. I milked Queen. She would have been in pain
had I not. But now I am the one in pain.”
Her chest tightened with guilt. “I’m sorry. I should’ve woken earlier and done it for you.”
“Keep your apology—I’m partly to blame. Shouldn’t have given you the cider, and I should’ve woken you. What’s done is done.
But I realized the rhythm of the work is all in my head, and you’d benefit from a list. Can you write it down?”
Relief flooded through her. “You’re not kicking me out? When I arrived, you were insistent that I leave the next day.”
“No, I’m not kicking you out. Not so long as this throbs.” He lifted his hand.
The willow bark seemed less bitter. “Do you have ink and parchment?”
He nodded, then pushed up from the table. With his back turned, she was free to admire the linen shirt’s drape over his broad
shoulders. He rustled through his desk, then returned with a quill, inkhorn, sand, and parchment. Another thing the fairy
tales got wrong—orcs were portrayed as creatures of war, not letters.
Lucky for her, as she had letters to write.
“Here.” He pushed the writing materials toward her. “We’ll draft the daily chores first, then the ones fixed to certain days of the week. Are you ready?”
She trimmed the quill with her knife and cut a fresh slit. “Yes.”
As he dictated the schedule and she transcribed, the quill scratched against the parchment. At the end of twenty minutes,
it was filled with a tidy—and extensive—schedule.
“That’s a lot of work,” she said.
He stretched. “That’s running a farm. Anything you want to add?”
She scanned her handiwork. Baking, both bread and pies, was on the schedule for tomorrow. Laundry was later this week, as
was splitting and stacking firewood. Though the pain was receding, a twinge forked across her temple.
“Cider,” she said.
“I would’ve thought you’d had your fill.”
Under a new column titled Other, she wrote, Pressing cider. “I have, but I’d like to press a lighter vintage so I don’t feel like this again while I’m here. Ooh, and braiding onions
and garlic. I saw them in the root cellar. Genius way to store them and save space.”
“Cider takes longer,” he said. “That’s all you want to learn?”
“For now,” she said. “I’m sure I don’t know what I don’t know, and the list may grow. But I’m not completely useless. I already
know how to sew, sweep, gather herbs. Dishes as well.” Her face lit up. “Oh, there is something else.”
She added, Carving pumpkins, Dancing.
“Those aren’t really chores. But your jack-o’-lanterns were amazing. We should replace the ones Crispin’s knights destroyed.”
“And the dancing?” The divot appeared between his scrunched brows. “A princess who doesn’t know how to dance is like a knight who can’t mount a horse in armor. I can’t believe you need me to show you the steps.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” She flapped the feathery part of the quill at him. “I know stiff courtly dances. But townsfolk
always look like they have way more fun dancing during festivals. That’s what I want you to teach me, assuming you know them?”
Jask dipped his chin. “I do, in fact. Anything else?”
“Building a gazebo, eventually.” Yes, she was adding Gazebo to the list. “You must have noticed the farm is crying out for a gazebo. Between the pumpkin patches and the meadow, near the sunflowers. It would
be perfect for reading or al fresco meals and would make a natural stage for any minstrels.”
His snort sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “You’re a constant surprise, Princess.”
She scattered fine sand across the parchment to soak up the excess ink. “While you’re in a state of surprise, I need to share
my plans for removing myself from Grimroot Farm. Once you’ve healed, of course.”
The scrunchy ridges returned to his forehead. “But you’ve been begging to stay. And it’s not safe on your own.”
“Agreed, which is why I’d planned to ask you to escort me.”
“I cannot.” The contents of his mug sloshed over the side as he slammed it on the table. If it was chicory, she’d done him
a favor. “It’s too—”
“Calm yourself.” She touched her fingers to his wrist. “After observing you these last two days, I know you can’t abandon
your animals for the two days there and back.”
“Where is there?” he asked.
She dragged her lower lip through her teeth. The plan had been her secret for weeks, held closer to her heart than her locket. Something shifted in her chest. She could trust Jask with this information. She’d been on the brink of asking him to escort her to the place, hadn’t she?
“Mareval. I’ve a contact there who will shelter me until my rescuer arrives.” She pinched a crumb of tart crust from her plate.
“Your cottage was a beacon in the night, Jask, but not my planned destination. May I use your parchment and ink to correspond
with my rescuer? He’ll be worried, and Alfred said he could find a carrier for me.”
His shoulders stiffened again. Mercy, what had she said now? He’d been quite clear he didn’t want her staying here for an
open-ended period.
“Who is he?”
“My twin brother.” She twiddled the quill. “Before my dash from Brambleton Castle, I’d sent him word—coded so only he’d understand—that
I’d wait for him in Mareval. I knew the palace guard would watch the roads betwixt Harvest Hollow and Thornwick. Less so the
roads leading south. He’d meet me at my sanctuary, then escort me home.”
“Clever.” The bench creaked as Jask shifted his weight.
“Thank you. You see? I’m not just a pretty face. But now I must send word again, both to his position on the northern front
and to Mareval in the event he’s already there. If you’re amenable, I’d like to tell him where I am. Discreetly, of course.”
Jask thumbed the divot in his chin. “Only if I read the letters to ensure they’re coded deeply enough. I must keep my farm—and
everyone in it—safe.”
This was a reasonable request.
“Yes, of course,” she said. “Now, let me tend to your hand, then we’ll get started with the day’s chores. The letters will
keep until after the animals have been tended.”
If Marigold ignored the fact a horde of knights and an angry prince were looking for her, she was happy in the easy rhythm she and Jask had fallen into over the last few.
If she wasn’t mistaken, the orc was warming to her presence.
Her clue? When they spoke, he held her gaze with his magnetic brown-and-gold-flecked eyes—a marked improvement from when she’d first arrived and he’d looked above, beyond, or through her.