Chapter 15
In the cottage, Bram showed Alfred where to stow his shoes while Marigold sorted out lunch. He cut a glance her way as she
ladled the porridge onto toasted trenchers. Her body language was stiff. Please let her heed his advice about the autumn sprite.
After he and Alfred washed up, Bram filled mugs of water for the three of them.
“I know it’s customary to set the trenchers directly on the table,” Marigold said as she set full plates and spoons in front
of them, then sprinkled the dishes with cinnamon, drizzled them in honey, and added a knob of butter. “But I’d rather wash
plates than the table.”
Both he and Alfred remained standing until Marigold took her seat on the bench.
“I’d never question you, Miss Meg.” Alfred dug into the porridge with his spoon. “Delicious. Much better than the hunk of
cheese and venison jerky in my satchel.”
“Glad you like it.” Marigold dashed an extra sprinkle of cinnamon onto her porridge. “Now, tell me all there is to know in
Harvest Hollow. Isolde Fenlow’s gossip column has nothing compared to you.”
“I’ll take that compliment.” Alfred raised his mug of water. “The sprite activity in the Shivering Dales continues. You have a new neighbor to the west. A widow and her boy have moved into the caretaker’s cottage at Kindlewood.”
“Is that a country estate?” Marigold asked.
Alfred shook his head. “Cemetery. Other than that, the only other news is the Goldenmoon Festival has officially been canceled
in favor of the prince’s wedding celebrations.”
Bram cut his eyes to Marigold, whose color had drained from her face. Alfred, deep into his porridge, seemed not to notice
her distress.
“The wedding is still going ahead?” he asked.
“Yessir,” Alfred said. “The second banns were delayed until yesterday on account of Thornwick being so far away. Need to give
local parish folks more of a chance to object, though I can’t imagine why they would. The princess is quite beautiful.”
He exchanged a glance with Marigold.
Her mug trembled slightly as she sipped.
“Have you seen her?” Bram ripped a corner from his trencher and sopped up melting butter with it.
“Not with my own eyes, no,” Alfred said. “But the royal guard have been describing her to those in the marketplace. Tall and
strong, they say, which makes all the biddies crow about children. Hair as fiery as a sunset, and eyes the color of a clear
sky. Not unlike Miss Meg, here.”
Alfred pointed at her with his spoon.
Bram closed his eyes and prayed Alfred’s dreamleaf kept him from connecting the dots between the missing princess and the
woman sitting across from him. The royal guard wasn’t in the habit of waxing eloquent about a princess’s beauty. They were
obviously canvassing for her whereabouts.
“Thank you, Alfred.” Marigold’s grip on her spoon tightened. Only those who knew her well would pick up on it.
Bram was one of those people.
“Meg?” he asked. “Would you mind refilling my water?”
Wordlessly, she nodded and rose to collect her nerves along with the pitcher from the counter. Crispin would often dispatch
him and the other knights to gather information through casual conversation at the Laughing Gourd, Brumet’s Books, and around
the Harvest Herald newsstand. This would be no different.
“Are others talking?” Bram pressed. “Do they say anything of her demeanor? It would be wonderful if Harvest Hollow had a future
queen with a charitable heart to balance the prince’s mean spirit.”
Marigold snorted as she refilled his mug with spring water.
“Mostly the guard, at least within my hearing. There was one other—an older woman. Tall, slate-gray fringe, a face that looks
like it’s made of blades, and the sharpest mouth in Harvest Hollow.”
Bess. Bram’s throat dried.
She was not to be trifled with—whip-smart and nimble, she’d nearly caught him with Marigold mid-tumble more times than he could count. Bess would want to find Marigold too—as a lady’s companion, her job was to keep tabs on the
princess. But why would she be working with the palace guard?
Bram drummed his fingers on the table. “A royal wedding is exciting, but I’m sure it causes headaches throughout the kingdom.”
“Believe it,” Alfred said. “The delay didn’t help. Inns are already full from here to the Marches, so people are forced to
pay a premium they can ill afford. Truth be told, Jask, you could pocket some decent coin by hosting a lesser noble or two,
though that’d mean you sleeping in the byre. Since the pumpkin trade’s down, want me to put out the word for you?”
He grunted. “I’d rather remove my tusks with pliers.”
Alfred laughed through his last bite of lunch, then dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “No need for dramatics. Just thought it worth mentioning. That was as fine a dinner as I’ve ever had, Miss Meg. I’m much obliged.”
“Happy to have you, Alfred. Were it not for your appetite, the remainder would’ve gone to the chickens.”
Alfred scooted back from the table. “Anything you need for next week ’sides the usual?”
Nothing he’d share in Marigold’s hearing. Bram threaded his hands together. “No, we’re well stocked. Meg? Anything you need?”
“Not at present, but—”
“Plague take it!” Alfred exclaimed, clapping a hand to his forehead. “I nearly forgot, Miss Meg. Must’ve indulged in a few
too many dreamleaf buds.”
From inside his jerkin, he withdrew a folded piece of parchment. “This came in fresh to Elenor Brewster’s tavern this morning.”
Bram’s eyes widened. A letter.
“Already?” With shaking fingers, Marigold lifted the letter. “I’d hoped for a fast return, but I thought a few more days . . .”
“I’m as surprised as you,” Alfred said. “I popped into the Laughing Gourd for a bite before my morning deliveries, and there
it was.”
The seal was cracked—someone had read the letter already. The Laughing Gourd’s patrons were generally good people, but there
was money to be made trading information. The lack of an attempt to conceal the violated privacy pointed to a petty criminal,
not the palace guard.
Still, thank the heavens she and her brother had a code.
Marigold’s russet brows knit in concentration as she read the letter’s contents.
“What does it say?” Bram asked.
“I’m to stay here until my brother arrives.” She folded the note and tucked it into her pocket.
“How long?” Bram’s cage of ribs was two sizes too small for his thumping heart.
“Undetermined.” She shrugged. “But he was very clear I’m to remain here. I doubt it will be overly soon. Consequently, Alfred, I amend my earlier statement. I’ll need a
rug for the loft. The floors are cold in the morning, and my new house shoes do naught to stave the chill.”
Undetermined, she’d said.
So much joy and dread in one word. The last two and a half weeks with Marigold had been a gift, one he did not take for granted.
He’d made his peace with offering her protection in the calm oasis of Grimroot Farm for as long as fate determined. But this
afternoon’s foraging adventure made it plain his rebellious, greedy hands would find ways to touch her.
And, saints preserve him, with each touch, he wanted more.
This was how things had started between them all those years ago—innocent brushes of flesh, caught hands, lingering hoists
onto horses. Would he be able to dance on that razor’s edge of chivalric help without losing his mind? She liked Jask—that
much was clear. But the fondness with which she spoke of Bram might drive him mad.
Alas, she could not know they were one and the same.
With a hearty sigh, Bram pushed back from the table. “A rug it is, then. Come, Alfred, I’ll see you to your horse.”
Outside, he glanced over his shoulder to ensure Marigold wasn’t within earshot. “There’s something else I’d like from the
market. Sunday next is Meg’s birthday. Pomegranates are her favorite fruit. Pick up a few, if you can? They should be in season.”
Alfred climbed onto the driver’s box. “You surprise me again, Jask. You sure your last name is Bone-Cracker and not Cuddle-Pie?”
Bram snorted. “Off with you, then.”
Marigold reveled in quiet birthday celebrations. Now all he had to do was cajole Marigold into revealing her birthday to “Jask”
so he could surprise her with a gift.
Autumn sank deeper into the flesh of the Harvest Hollow. They’d done their best to shake off the news Alfred had shared yesterday.
All they could do was wait for the wedding to blow over. The indecisive weather matched Marigold’s moods. In the sunshine,
the outdoors was temperate. In the shadows, winter had already arrived.
Dark mood or not, there was laundry to be done.
He tapped his good hand with the battledore.
“That’s too fine a dress for this work,” Bram said as Marigold joined him in the courtyard.
After setting her book down on the table he’d carved from the rootstock’s heartwood, she glanced down at herself, then shrugged.
Her kirtle was more brilliant than the scarlet oaks that divided the pumpkin fields from the forest beyond.
“My new working clothes are in the pot.” She gestured toward the cauldron of soiled laundry that had been simmering overnight.
“This is all I have left. Besides, no clothing is too fine for working.”
Marigold held a healthy skepticism about the division between royalty and everyone else, and he’d loved her for it as a younger
man. There was joy in rediscovering her, that time and circumstance had not dimmed her refreshing intelligence and humor.
“Fair, but it’d be a shame to ruin it.”
“I’ve nowhere else to wear it. If a ruined kirtle doesn’t offend you, we’ll be fine.” With her hands on her hips, Marigold
turned toward the washtub. “What do we do next?”
“Nothing pleasant. You’re about to discover why laundry’s my least favorite chore.” With a sanded and sealed wooden stick, Bram poked at the sodden pile soaking in the mixture of water, lye, ash, and herbs. “Saints, you go through a lot of clothes.”
“Your pile was as large.”
“Because I’m bigger.”
As he stirred the steaming cauldron, his shirts, braies, hose, and stockings, mixed with her shifts, corselets, drawers, and