Chapter 13
Bram sipped Marigold’s latest tisane—apple and rosemary—as he watched her through the windows. From the moment he’d injured
himself, she’d dived into the routine chores of the small farm. After a week, it was as though she’d been born in the countryside
instead of a castle. No hesitant opening of gates, wincing at splinters or the sudden puffs of steam from pots. She’d always
been a confident woman, but the way she wore it here was more resplendent than any crown.
After finishing in the coop, she found him inside. “What else for today? Everything went quickly this morning.”
“How do you feel about apple picking?”
She grabbed his forearm. “Yes, please. I’ve been desperate to know what the rest of Grimroot Farm looks like. Is it far?”
“Not very. A half hour’s ramble.”
He’d intentionally stalled, suspicious that Crispin’s guard might circle back. But the week had been calm, and he sensed that
Marigold might like to stretch her legs. She’d never lasted longer than a week in Thornwick Castle before plotting an adventure
outside its thick walls.
Within the hour, after gathering the apple-picking bag and the ladder, they were in the orchard.
Apples periodically thudded to the ground around them, and many of the previously fallen ones were half-eaten.
Clearly Paloma had been here. Hopefully she hadn’t eaten too many of the ones that had gone soft.
A tipsy pig could be difficult to coax into a pen.
“Did you plant these trees?” Marigold asked as they strolled through the tidy rows. “They’re so orderly.”
The breeze fluttered the green-and-yellow leaves and carried with it a heady fermented scent from the fallen fruit. Within
the enclosed orchard, there was a constant hum of eager insects, along with a chorus of cardinal, crow, and sparrow song.
“No.” He shook his head. “The previous owner did. From what I gather, he was the last of his family and the land reverted
to Harvest Hollow after he died.”
At least, that was what Alfred had told him.
“How sad that he died here alone.” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry. Living on one’s own is admirable. My words
get ahead of my brain sometimes.”
He hitched the bag he carried further up his shoulders. “No offense taken. It’s the way things have worked out so far. But
I loved once, and I may yet take a wife.”
Unlikely. A suitable companion would need to stumble into his path without dashing away, screaming. But the worried flicker behind
her eyes was too much to bear, so he broke his chivalric code and told the lie.
“Jask Bone-Cracker, I forgot! The deep true love from your palm.” Marigold bounced on her toes. “What’s her name? What happened?
Please, I must know everything.”
Saints, how had he fallen into this trap? Second to Alfred, Marigold was the biggest gossip he knew. Never ill-intentioned—just
relentlessly curious and searching for ways to be helpful.
“No, Marigold.” He stepped from the walking path and onto the sward, then paused in front of a tree laden with apples. “This
one’s plentiful.”
Under the thick canopy of this tree, he felt sheltered with Marigold. The sun breaking through the foliage dappled her face, which was currently pinched in frustration.
“This is so unfair. I’ve told you so much about Bram.” She clasped her hands together. “I beg. One tiny crumb of a detail?
Then I promise I’ll leave it.”
With a sigh, he withdrew the minimized ladder from the bag, then leaned it against the tree. “Can you do your magic?”
“Yes.” Marigold teased her middle finger against her thumb but did not snap. “As soon as you tell me something about your
love. And you can’t cheat like that first night. I want something specific.”
“Now who’s being unfair?” he asked. “You can’t force a person to be indiscreet about their romances.”
“It’s very bad of me—that’s true.” With her chin resting on her fist, she nodded. “Spill.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose and streamed a deep breath through his nose, then out through his mouth. Marigold would
not relent. Not when she had that gleam in her eye.
“Fine, you win. My sweetheart doesn’t live here because I stupidly thought I could make a life for us elsewhere. During our
time apart, another asked her to marry him. She said yes.”
It was all the truth, though she’d never see herself in it.
“What a churl! Who’d have so little sense to choose any orc over you?” Blue sparks rained on the ladder, and it shot up the
trunk. “How did you find out?”
When she showed up on my doorstep ten days ago.
Instead, he wagged his finger. “Our deal was for one thing, and you must honor it. Ready to harvest? I’ll hold the ladder.”
He gripped a stile with his bandaged hand. The wound had healed cleanly—she’d snipped the stitches this morning. To protect
the fresh skin, she insisted he wear a bandage for anything that rubbed his palm aggressively.
Marigold glanced upward. “I could shrink the tree.”
“Please don’t. It might disturb the root system and cause it to collapse.” He removed the picking bag and handed it to her. “Fill this, and we’ll have enough for pies and a firkin of cider.”
“And apple fritters?” She looped the strap around her neck, then fussed with the sleeves of her dress, cursing them under
her breath. “Apple fritters were my favorite at the Thornwick fall festival. Do they have them at the Goldenmoon Festival?”
“Possibly.” He held the ladder steady as she climbed, but if she fell, he’d catch her.
“Crispin shouldn’t cancel it,” she called down the ladder.
“Because of apple fritters?”
“No, because of joy. If people are well fed and have entertainment, the kingdom holds strong. I—”
Her shriek dragged his gaze upward. Right up her kirtle. Blood and bones, he did not yet need yet another tantalizing glimpse
of Marigold to stoke him further. He flung himself into Coldpress Lake daily to chill his ardor.
With eyes closed, he asked, “What is it?”
“A wasp.” The ladder wiggled as she fidgeted. “Several, in fact. Can you do anything about them?”
“No. They prefer overripe fruit. Ignore them, and they’ll fly to more attractive food.”
“Easy for you to say.” The leaves rustled as she snapped the apple from its branch. “What’s this breed of apple? They smell
sweet.”
“Hollowsnap Reds, famous for their sweet crisp flesh.”
The fruit crunched as she bit into it. “Mercy, these are good. You should send your apples to market, too.”
“Can’t. The royal family also has an orchard, and all farmers are restricted from selling their apples. Apple products are
fine, like pies and cider, but the apples themselves are not.”
“They restrict commerce, too?” She took another bite. “My parents would never. Free trade and friendly competition suits the customer and lets the best merchant win. But I can see why they’re worried. I could eat a dozen of these apples.”
“Legend has it if you eat too many, your cheeks carry their color.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” She held the apple between her lips as she plucked more to fill the bag’s large front pocket.
Above them, clouds scudded through the blue sky. He shielded his eyes to inspect it. They were puffy and white, which didn’t
bode well for rain. Shite, that was too bad. The pumpkins were thirsty.
Soon, Marigold descended, her picking sack full and making her look like a ripe fruit herself. The sight weakened his knees.
Many’s the time he imagined Marigold as the mother of his children, but they’d agreed that they weren’t ready when they were
both in Thornwick.
But they were quite ready to love each other.
Fortunately, her herbal concoctions prevented conception. For that, he was grateful. Fathering a babe when he was on the brink
of leaving would have been unfair to both Marigold and the child. Unlike his own early upbringing, he’d intended for his babes
to know the full force of his love. They’d beg him to go away, he’d be so far into their affairs.
But he’d never imagined children with anyone but this woman.
Not that she’d have him.
“Jask? Did you hear me?” Marigold’s cheeks were flushed, and she twisted her curls into a bun.
He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Sorry—what was that?”
“Can I shrink the apples at least? They’ll be easier to carry.”
“Yes, of course.” He folded the ladder in half. “And this, too?”
After taking the apples from her, he led them a different route home to draw out their ramble.
“What happened here?” she asked as they passed the blackened and shattered rootstock tree. Wider and thicker than most of the orchard’s trees, he’d used the heartwood for many a cottage project.
“Lightning,” he said. “Last fall. Struck and split it in twain.”
As soon as the words exited his mouth he wished he could suck them back in. How could he forget she was petrified of lightning?
“Do . . .” Her voice faded. “Do bad storms happen often?”
He caught her hand. “They’re rare, and never sudden.”
She traced the lines of the charred remains. “Do you swear it?”
“Yes,” he lied as he squeezed her hand.
Another of his constant stream of untruths. But she would be gone before long. There was no need to worry her while she remained.
“Good,” she said, then withdrew her hand. “That’s . . . good.”
Saints, he’d overstepped. What had he thought, that the unavoidable touches while they lived in close confines gave him leave
to hold her hand? His face, neck, and ears were molten, like he’d dipped them into a steaming laundry pot.
In silence, they restarted the journey back to the cottage.
As they approached the verge where the orchard met the open meadow, the clouds of midges enjoying the fallen fruit thinned.
The deepening gold of the afternoon caught the occasional dragonfly wing as it arrowed across the meadow.
“Tell me about making cider?” Marigold prompted.
“There isn’t much to it,” he said. “The bloom—the faint dusty coating on the apples drives the fermentation. After we chop
and press the fruit, nature does the rest of the work. All that’s required of us is patience as the cider ages.”
“So, fermentation changes the apple, but its essence persists in a new form.”