Chapter 14
After feeding the chickens, Marigold turned to find Jask contemplating the chopping block across the courtyard. It lay beyond
Paloma’s pit in a nook. Shadows marbled the white of his shirt as he clapped loudly to scare off the fox that peeped at him
in curiosity.
Hmph. Jask Bone-Cracker contradicted every stereotype.
Fairy-tale books all described orcs as dull, mean-spirited creatures with a single-minded focus on questing, treasure, and
inflicting damage. But Jask refused to leave Grimroot Farm. Did he possess a treasure hoard? Not unless you counted his trove
of books. As for damage, she had no doubt he could defend them with that axe, but the maces and flails typically wielded by
orcs weren’t to be found in the cottage. An elegant sword hung on brackets above the fireplace, as though more of a decoration
than practical.
His demeanor didn’t fit the mold, either. Although gruff and grumpy to be sure, Jask possessed more self-control than knights
and learned clerics alike. And he spoke so lovingly to the animals that she wondered if they weren’t his cursed siblings,
like in “The Six Swans.” She’d looked through his chests and cabinets but found no evidence he was weaving nettle shirts.
Still, something was off about him.
Had she been less caught up in her own drama, she would’ve noticed it from the moment she arrived on his doorstep. But these last two weeks, as the farm’s daily rhythms helped her soul and muscles unclench for the first time since Bram died, Jask’s quirks came in greater focus.
Inexplicable coincidences cropped up, too.
That line he’d quoted when they were baking—my everlasting pleasure—sent a shiver through her. Could he have read it in a book? At night, as they sat before the fire, she read while he carved miniature animals. She was on
her fifteenth tale and still had not come across that phrase. And sometimes when he looked at her, he shook his head, like he couldn’t believe a runaway
princess was in his presence. Well, that last part was reasonable, but something in his eyes was familiar.
There was a mystery here—she was sure of it.
She picked up Bluebell. “What do you think, Blue? Have Jask and I met before? I’m sure I would’ve remembered a tall, broad,
handsome orc with kind eyes. Or perhaps he’s the long-lost son of an orc king, doomed not to remember his place in the world?”
As she cuddled the chicken, the rooster scratched his way around the corner. Barnaby raised his head when he noticed Bluebell
in Marigold’s arms, then puffed his chest.
“Barnaby, don’t do it. I’m serious. If you—”
Barnaby screeched, and Bluebell startled from her arms and flapped to the hay-covered earth. With high-stepping feet, she
bustled into the coop and away from the rooster.
Marigold sneezed in the cloud of dust and feathers, then chuckled. She didn’t blame the hen for running away. After she let
herself out of the chicken yard, she stretched her arms. Her muscles no longer ached like they had the first week. She’d nearly
used up her supply of comfrey in her baths, but it helped her become accustomed to the demands of the work.
Carefully, she crept closer to Jask.
From behind the golden-and-red maple, she watched him.
Today’s breeze held a bite and played with her blue skirts.
It did the same with Jask’s shining mane of black hair.
He tied a leather thong around it at his nape.
The gathered tail hung past his shoulder blades, neatly bisecting the back of his ivory shirt.
Jask reached for the axe.
She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Don’t you dare.”
He yanked his arm back like he’d been stung. “Blood and bones, Marigold. There’s work to do, and I’m healed. Stop sneaking
up on me.”
“I’m not sneaking.” She had been, but sneaking wasn’t dignified, so she’d never admit to it. “And you’re barely healed. I’d like very
much for you not to split the seam like you’re a cheap flour sack.”
“Saints, you paint an image.” He gestured to the tree rounds. “We need firewood. We’ve gone through more logs in two and a
half weeks than I do in a month. We’ll run out at this rate.”
She maneuvered herself between him and the chopping block. “A few more days won’t doom us. And orcs run hot, right? If I get
cold at night, I’ll sit near you.”
As he tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, tingling swept up her nape and across her cheeks, as though every one of her
freckles had caught fire. What in blighted blazes had she said?
She must change the subject—now.
“I need herbs. Mint, rosemary, sage, and comfrey specifically, but I’d like to see what else is out there,” she babbled. “Despite
the mist, midmorning’s the best time since the dew will have dried. Will you come with me?”
He shifted his gaze betwixt the axe and her, then sighed. “Fine, we’ll forage. I know a few mint patches.” He glanced skyward,
sniffed, then pivoted toward the cottage. “Wait here while I get the herb basket.”
Where else would she go?
Within moments, he returned with a wide, shallow basket in one hand and her cloak in the other. As he draped it around her shoulders, his heat warmed her back.
“The rain’ll hold off,” he said, his rumbling voice tickling her ears. “But the darkened wood feels like winter.”
“Thank you.” With nervous hands, she fastened the cloak’s clasp.
As they set off down the path, Jask handed her the basket. “While we’re in the wood, Princess, stay close. Dangers lurk within.”
She remembered well the night of her escape. The eyes, scurrying, the spiders. Especially the spiders.
She slung the handle over her arm’s crook. “I promise.”
As they entered the forest beyond the pumpkin fields, the loamy chill against her cheeks was welcome. Ten minutes ago, she
babbled about snuggling with Jask at night. Now she couldn’t divine a single topic of conversation. The weather? Saints, how
boring if she could only speak of the weather.
She sniffed the air. “Is that mint?”
Marigold closed her eyes. Amazing. Her conversation skills were as dull as one of Master Alaric’s penmanship lessons.
“Beneath the ferns.” Jask leaned against a white birch, the scrape of his large back releasing the cinnamon scent.
On her knees, Marigold readied her pruning knife. After digging up a small section to plant at the cottage, she sawed a clump
of the delicate herbs free for tomorrow’s tisane of mint and meadowsweet. The movement unleashed its sweet green scent, which
provided her with a conversation topic at long last.
As she tied the stems with a ribbon, she said, “Did you know mint accents pea soup well, too?”
He held up his hand. “Impossible. I love all things green, but that sounds horrid.”
“I swear it’s delicious. During a visit to my aunt at Mareval, it was a banquet course. I’ll make it, and I promise you’ll eat your words.”
“I’d rather eat my words than minty pea soup.”
She laughed, then tucked her knife back into her belt. As he had often done since her first bath, he offered her a hand. She’d
grown accustomed to his calloused grip, and his assistance meant she practically defied gravity as she rose to her feet.
“What else were you looking for?”
The truth of who Jask Bone-Cracker was.
“Parsley and sage,” she said instead.
Their feet swished through fallen leaves that littered the trail like wrinkled butterflies. When she escaped Brambleton Castle,
she’d thought the forest her enemy, tripping and scratching her at every turn. Today, with Jask, was different. He said danger
lurked within, and she believed him, but she felt safe in his company. The ancient trees’ golden leaves glowed like beacons
in the mist.
What would these trees say, if they could?
Ahead, a fallen tree blocked their path. Before it, Jask knelt like he was about to declare his undying love. As he reached
his hand toward her, Marigold’s heart hammered in her chest.
“Step on my knee to climb over. I’ll steady you.”
The hammering stopped.
What was wrong with her? Jask was not romantic. He was practical to his core. And she did not want romance. Not from him, not from anyone. She couldn’t deny her body flared around him. But those days were behind her. When
she returned to Thornwick, she might join the Order of the Quiet Sisterhood.
Though she had trouble with the quiet part . . .
“Mare?” he prompted.
That snapped her back to attention. One person was allowed to address her by that epithet—anyone else, she’d remind them that a mare was a horse, not her. She searched Jask’s face. So different to Bram’s.
And yet . . .
She took his hand. “I’ll dirty your breeches.”
“You can launder them later.” He averted his gaze.
“Oh, joy.” Her ankle flashed as she placed her foot on his leg.
Having never stepped on an orc, she wasn’t prepared. His thick thigh was as steady and solid as a boulder. If she could linger
here for an age, she would. She pushed off to climb onto the fallen tree, then paused. The drop to the other side was steep.
“Stay there,” he called.
With a grace and agility, he ran at the tree and vaulted over. The thick carpet of leaves trembled under his landing. Steady
on his feet, he reached for her waist. “May I?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yes. But careful of my knife.”
With her hands on his shoulders, he wrapped his hands around her middle. The scorch was instant, overwhelming, like she was
iron gone orange in a blacksmith’s fire. Gently, as though they were dancing, he slowly swung her around and set her on her
feet.
But he didn’t let go.
In her mind’s eye, she’d held a collection of moments that made her feel seen, loved, adored. Desired. Those memories featured
Bram. This one, deep in a golden forest with a dark-eyed orc, left them behind.
For three heartbeats, they locked gazes.
“Sorry.” He withdrew. “Thought you needed to be steadied.”
He was correct, but not in the way he meant.
“Don’t apologize,” she said.
Another smoldering look from Jask, and—wait, no, he was fixed on something behind her.
“Goldcaps,” he said.
“What?” Was “goldcaps” a nickname? She glanced at her chest. Nothing golden happening there, but maybe—