Chapter 16 #3
“You have. I’m well-impressed that you stalled the Leshy long enough that I could catch up to you. But I still worry—your scream made my heart lurch.”
As Jask slid it into the open wood-fired oven, Marigold flipped the sandglass.
“Yet you stopped from crossing into the Leshy’s territory.”
“I didn’t stop—I was stopped. There’s a difference.”
She wrinkled her brow. “But what stopped you? I crossed into his forest, so there was no magical barrier.”
“Not on his territory, no.”
“So, there’s one on yours,” she said. “But people cross the border of Grimroot Farm all the time. You said so yourself.”
“I did,” he said, crossing his luscious forearms yet again.
She pursed her lips. This was like Master Alaric’s lessons. He favored the Socratic method, believing his job was to guide
his students as they pulled knowledge from within themselves. She told him her education would go faster if he gave her the
answers.
Today she saw the wisdom in his tactics.
“If there’s a barrier on Grimroot Farm but it doesn’t keep people out . . .” She covered her mouth as the realization dawned.
“It keeps you in. That’s why you don’t go into Harvest Hollow proper. Why? Are you a criminal?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“What is it like, then, Jask?” Her brain buzzed with possibilities.
The orc worked his tusks against his upper lip. “I’d rather not get into it.”
Much as she wanted answers, she wouldn’t push. He’d respected the pace at which she shared information with him. She should
do the same. But refraining from an interrogation was like trying to hold in a sneeze. She needed something to distract her from both the unanswered question of the barrier and the coming tempest.
She glanced at the sandglass. “Shall we play a game while we wait for the eggs to bake?”
Jask lifted a shoulder. “I would, but alas, I have no games.”
“Incorrect.” She opened a cabinet below his bookcase. From behind a collection of spare farm equipment parts, she withdrew
a wooden box containing her favorite game of all time. “You have Tables.”
He frowned. “Surely that hasn’t been here the whole time?”
“It was quite dusty when I found it.” She knelt at the crate in front of the hearth, then unfastened the latches to lay the
board open. “But all the pieces are here. I checked. Do you know how to play?”
“Yes, but I don’t want to. You’ll beat me.”
“Where’s your confidence?” She separated out the discs and dice.
“You always—” He abruptly cut himself.
After a beat, she raised an eyebrow. “Always what?”
“Surprise me.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Now sit.”
He sighed and dropped onto the divan across from her.
Twenty minutes later, she rattled the dice a final time and let them tumble. Yes, exactly the roll she needed. Jask groaned as she walked her discs safely home, stacking them where he could no longer touch
them.
“Congratulations.” She stuck out her hand.
He pumped it. “For what? I lost, as predicted.”
“For correctly guessing the future.” Her laugh shook the support beam. Insulting? Yes. Unseemly, unladylike, and unbecoming
as well, but damn, she loved winning. Never would she flip a game board if she lost, but winning was glorious.
“You’re the worst,” he said. “Such a sore winner.”
“The worst?” She flipped her palms upward. “How would you know? This is the first time we’ve played.”
“I can tell,” he said. “Would it kill you to be gracious?”
“At Tables? Never.”
“Well, in my house, the winner tidies up.”
“A price worth paying.” She swept the pieces into their burlap bags, then tightened the drawstring.
Wind buffeted the house, snuffing her calm mood.
She glanced at the roof. Since she was a child, raging storms frightened her. She’d been caught outside once, terrified by
the lightning, convinced it would slice through her if she strayed from her hiding place in the hedgerow. Bess had found her
and, instead of comforting her with a hug, lectured her on making her worry.
Jask rested a palm on her shoulder. “It’s okay, Marigold. The cottage is sturdy. I’ve weathered storms this bad and worse.”
“I’m not afraid,” she said, too quickly and with a tremble.
He smiled indulgently, the ass. “Obviously.”
She shoved the game in the cabinet and slammed the door to hide her shakiness. Perhaps food would help calm her. The scent
of earthy onion, mushroom, and eggs filled the cottage. A glance at the sandglass confirmed what her nose told her.
“Supper’s ready. Slice the bread, please?”
She grabbed the long-handled peel and slid the flat paddle under the dish. Tamping down her unease, lest she upend their meal,
she slowly turned and deposited the hot dish onto the butcher’s block. Jask sliced the last of the bread and set them on plates
as Marigold preferred. She spooned the egg concoction onto each trencher, and they carried them to the table. The hearth light
did not reach this corner of the kitchen, so Jask lit a candle and set it between them.
Were it not for the screaming winds and pounding rain, she might have thought this romantic. A cozy cottage and a candlelit
meal after a hard day’s work and dramatic rescue from a giant tree creature. Really, what more could any woman ask for?
Touch, a voice said.
Quiet, she responded. She’d ask Jask a neutral question, something about his childhood, to squash her thoughts of him in rain-slicked
linens or coming to her aid while wielding an axe. Nothing about his sweetheart, true love, or the knave who’d stolen her
from him. Or why he couldn’t leave Grimroot Farm. Hmph. That narrowed topics down to the point of silence.
“This is delicious,” Jask said. “A recipe from Thornwick?”
“No.” She blew on a steaming bite. “One of my own devising. It seemed the flavors would blend well. Since I’ve cooked you
a delicious dinner, will you indulge me by answering a personal question?”
He raised an eyebrow. “One.”
“It’s very personal and sure to rattle you.”
“I can handle it.”
“Where did you grow up? And no answering vaguely, like ‘far, far away.’”
As the smile died on his face, he drew his brows together.
“Please, Marigold.” He backed away from the table. “I can’t answer that. I fear you know me well enough to detect a lie, but
I cannot tell you the truth.”
“Yes, you can, Jask. You can trust—”
With a great, thunderous crack above, air blasted through the chimney. The fire in the hearth went out, plunging them into
darkness.