Chapter 18
Marigold’s emotions thundered harder than that storm. Upstairs, in the low glow of the candlelight, she prepared for bed.
Before removing her kirtle, she checked her pockets. Yarrow. She stuffed the flower into her pillow. The herb shouldn’t go
to waste, especially when she was confused about Jask.
He’d kissed her, and it had lit an inferno in her.
Then he’d apologized, from the depths of his soul.
Which was exactly how Bram apologized when he blundered grievously. For missing a secret assignation in the hayloft because he could not evade
his chores when squired to Sir Patrick . . . forgetting her birthday . . . assuming all the chocolate biscuits were for him.
She’d never heard anyone apologize like that, before or since.
It could be a coincidence. Bram leveraged rhetorical flourish to lend weight to his apologies. Terse as Jask usually was,
she would’ve expected a quick Sorry,” then silence.
Still, she might’ve written it off as a coincidence.
Then she’d looked into his eyes.
Truly, deeply. Perhaps madly.
In them, she saw Bram. Because she wanted to? The shape was different and devoid of a hedge of lashes envied by young women all over Thornwick. But the flecks of gold were there, and the soul beyond them bore an undeniable resemblance to her true love.
She gathered her hair in her fist and squeezed.
Wishful thinking.
Another instance of her wanting something to be true that was impossible. After the squire delivered the message about Bram, she dreamed of him often. In
those dreams, he hadn’t died. She sensed he was alive and well but unable to come to her. Bess told her to keep these dreams
to herself, lest her parents call for the surgeon to balance her humors.
The world was not always as it seemed, however. Her magic was evidence of that. As she paced, she allowed herself to consider
the possibility that Jask Bone-Cracker, orc of Grimroot Farm, was Sir Bram Duncan of Thornwick and Harvest Hollow.
Why would he not simply say who he was?
That was an excellent piece of evidence that he was not Bram. As was his mysterious inability to decamp from Grimroot Farm.
Her Bram wouldn’t have been able to keep these secrets from her or his hands to himself.
She rubbed her temples. What madness to consider for a moment that the mountainous creature downstairs was the boy she’d loved?
She blew out her lips.
And yet . . .
No, she refused the notion. She’d buried Bram. A marble marked his empty grave, and a cleric offered comforting words. They’d
wept and eaten a feast in his honor. Beyond the rituals, in her heart, she’d said goodbye. False hope would break her to pieces
all over again.
She flopped onto the bed.
So what if Jask apologized the same way Bram had and possessed golden-flecked eyes? She was no mathematician, but the sheer volume of words and eyes in this world must’ve meant there were two creatures with similar vocabulary and irises. Surely that was possible.
Fuzzle leapt onto the bed, then cuddled against Marigold’s side.
“I’m okay, Fuzz,” she said. “Just cursed with hope.”
With a quick pinch of her fingers, she extinguished the candle. The callouses she’d developed since she’d arrived were helpful
in this way. If only she could thicken the ones around her heart.
Jask was not Bram.
And as vexed as she was with him, she could not deny what she felt when he kissed her. Now that the seal had been broken,
the want was undeniable. Had he made a pig’s ear of their encounter?
Without a doubt.
Would she forgive him? Yes, also without a doubt.
The fiery feeling of his palms on her backside drifted between her legs. Tomorrow she’d make the Maiden’s Mercy silphium infusion
that kept her courses at bay and prevented pregnancy. If there was any chance of intimacy, it was best taken early to work
its way into her humors. Another thing her magic mentor, Vera, had taught her.
Babies are blessings, she’d said. But it’s ideal not to be surprised.
Marigold woke with sweat snaking from her temple to her neck. Fuzzle touched a concerned paw to her cheek.
“I’m okay.”
She hugged the cat to her. In her yarrow-infused dream, she’d sat in Jask’s chair in front of a crackling hearth, sipping hot cider with a curl of cinnamon and flipping pages of her favorite book of fairy tales.
She was all cozy contentment when she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder.
A low, rumbly voice invited her to bed. When she swiveled her gaze to smile at her beloved, it was Bram.
And also Jask, as though they were layered one atop the other.
She pressed her palms to her eyes. The stupid yarrow must’ve brought on false visions. Assuming Jask slumbered and hadn’t
stayed up all night, had the yarrow affected him?
Jask, who rejected her advances.
Jask, whom she’d encounter as soon as she walked down the stairs. There was no avoiding him in a cottage this size. After
washing up, she whispered the speech she’d spent half the night crafting in her looking glass.
“While I stand by everything I said last night, I know you were trying to be honorable when you thought me impassioned beyond
rational thought. Hear me, Jask. My honor’s my own to keep, and there’s nothing more rational than what I feel for you.”
There. If it didn’t knock him over, he must’ve been stone hearted.
She glanced at herself in the looking glass. Excellent. Despite a lack of sleep, her eyes were clear and twinkling, their color brought out by her pale blue dress. She’d chosen
this one because Jask seemed to favor it, perhaps because it hugged her breasts like an eager lover.
Anything to tempt him.
Since last night’s kiss, she could not shake the sensation of him between her thighs. Nor did she want to. This was an ache
that could be satisfied in one way, and she was determined.
Was it scandalous for a woman to have desires?
For some, probably. But who wanted to live in a world where women simply tolerated lovemaking when there was so much joy and pleasure to be found in it? She’d not felt this bloom in her body for a long time. Its reawakening assured her that her heart was resilient.
The stairs creaked under her feet. With a deep breath, she rounded the corner, expecting to find him at the table.
It was empty.
Hmph. Sort of spoiled her dramatic entry.
On the table, he’d left a vase of sunflowers. They grew tall on the other side of the pumpkin patch, so he must have been
up and out early. Underneath the vase lay a note.
Sugared oats are in the pot. Back by nightfall.
She blinked at the message.
Once, twice, then burst into laughter. One big argument and this tough, strong orc ran away. She wouldn’t begin to know where
to chase him down. With another giggle and a shake of her head, she tied her apron around her waist. As the kettle boiled,
she dished out oats, then dug the dried silphium from her herbal-remedy kit. Once the kettle whistled, she poured the boiling
water over the silphium and flavored both the draught and the oats with honey.
While she ate, she read through her fairy tales.
Next, the chores. Keeping busy would keep her mind from Jask.
After scraping the remainder of the oats into the pig trough and opening Paloma’s gate, she collected eggs, then milked Queen.
Next, she swept the yard clear of the twigs and leaves that littered the cobbles after last night’s storm.
She peered up at the trees.
Though still heavily garbed in foliage, more patches of the sky were visible betwixt the branches. She tugged her cloak around
her shoulders. They were on the cusp of winter.
Next weekend was to have been her wedding day.
She could honestly say she was happier sweeping the courtyard than enduring final fittings for some elaborate golden gown.
She gathered twigs into a basket for kindling and took them inside.
What next?
They were also running low on butter, so she climbed atop a stool to retrieve the mason jar and mechanical churn from the
shelf. Fuzzle followed her, meowing. He’d grown to sense when a second breakfast might be in the offing.
“Patience, cat.”
She crossed the courtyard to the dairy where she’d stored this morning’s strained milk. The scraped cream went into the mason
jar, and she ladled a portion of milk into the flat dish she kept nearby for exactly this reason.
“Enjoy,” she said as she scratched Fuzzle’s ears.
At the trestle table, she capped the mason jar with the crank device. Here, sitting under the bright blue skies and golden
leaves, listening to the robins’ birdsong, churning butter they’d enjoy later with bread that she’d baked with her own hands,
she was content.
Once the butter and the buttermilk separated, she carried everything back inside. A pinch of salt and herbs mixed into the
butter to taste, then she pressed it into the butter crock.
Satisfaction spread through her.
Most of her royal duties were intangible, invisible. Greet this diplomat, attend that party, visit these charities, shake
those hands. She had no doubt of the importance of those events, but she couldn’t point to it as a thing she’d accomplished.
Not like she could with this butter.
Queen provided the milk and cream, but without Marigold, the butter wouldn’t exist. She made that. After toasting yesterday’s bread, the butter melted as she slathered it across the slice’s surface.
Heaven.
No sooner had she finished the midmorning treat than Paloma ran across the yard, belly swaying under her. She must’ve been
stuffed with the acorns she’d foraged this morning. Chasing her back into the pen was normally Jask’s job, but with him gone
who knew where, it would fall to Marigold. From the corner, she grabbed the broom and stepped outside.
“Paloma!” she yelled. “Into the pen.”
She swished the broom toward the pig, who trotted through the open gate. Her contented huff-huff noises made Marigold smile. With all the essential chores complete, she was alone and possessed hours of free time.
Time to figure out what her new magic could do.