Chapter 21
Bram’s breath plumed in the crisp air. “Are you sure about this?”
He was game for most physically demanding activities, but he couldn’t believe he’d agreed to this.
“More than sure. Let’s get started.” Marigold rubbed her hands together. “Where do I touch you?”
“You don’t—not yet.” He placed his hands on his hips to survey the courtyard. “Dancing is more fun with music.”
Fuzzle curled up on the chair facing nearest the firepit, his diamond-shaped face swiveling between Marigold and Bram as they
faced off.
“Well, we’re fresh out of minstrels.” She tightened her cloak around her shoulders. “Stop stalling. What do I do first?”
“This.” He sketched a bow toward her. “Now you.”
“So respectful.” She curtseyed.
“The respect rarely lasts.” He held out his hand. “This dance is called the Sway. Master it, and you’ll fit right in with
any field or folk party. The key is to remember this kind of dancing is faster, more fun, and less concerned about propriety
than courtly dancing. Don’t get in your head about it—just have a good time. Ready?”
“As ever.”
With clasped hands, they turned to face the pumpkin fields. “For the one-step version of this dance, start with your weight on your right foot, then step to the left, and bring the right foot to meet it, but in a tapping pose. So, step left, tap with the right, step right, tap with the left.”
She followed along, colliding with him only slightly.
“You know left from right, yes? That’s integral to this dance.”
“Yes,” she huffed. “I only occasionally mix them up.”
“Now reverse it—right, step, left, tap.”
More bumping. Not that he minded.
When he paused, she said, “Your rhythm’s off.”
“Never heard you complain about that before.”
She slapped his biceps. “Be serious.”
“I am. Dancing is deadly, deadly serious.”
“It is. Men are allowed to look foolish, but women are held to a higher standard.” She squeezed his hand. “Let’s try again?”
He’d practice all night if it meant holding her hand. They repeated the steps—left, then right—again and again until they
didn’t bump into each other.
“Is that it?” she asked. “A lively sidestep and hop?”
“Not quite. Those are the basic steps—after we string six together, we turn toward each other, then kick our feet. You—right,
then left, and me—left, then right. All together it’s step-tap six times, then kick-kick. Got it?”
As with battle maneuvers, describing it made it seem complicated. Seeing it was a different story. Fuzzle was unbothered,
licking his paws.
The flames from the firepit sparkled in Marigold’s eyes. “We’ll find out.”
“Then we go.” He led them into the routine.
The step-taps were fine. At the kick-kick, she nailed his shin.
He grunted and rubbed at the spot.
“Oh, sorry. Did I mix up the kicks?”
“I refuse to name names. Let’s try again, but maybe this will help you remember which leg is your right.”
He knelt before her, then lifted her skirt.
“What are you—oh,” she said as he licked a trail along her right thigh. “That tickles. And is chilly.”
“Now you’ll remember.” He rose again and held out his hand.
Side by side, they hop-skipped as he hummed a tune, turned to each other, and this time their kicks alternated, saving his
shins from further bruising. As they caught their breath, his was stolen again by the dramatic light and shadows playing on
her face.
“Now what?” she asked. “A staring contest?”
“A lift.” He lifted her hands to his shoulders, then wrapped his own around her waist. “You jump, and I assist. On the count
of three. One, two—”
She jumped.
“Marigold. I said on the count of three.”
“I was eager.” She shimmied and shook out her fingers. “Okay, nervous energy cleared. Count of three.”
Bram’s chuckle rumbled his chest. “One, two, three.”
She jumped, and he lifted her as though she weighed no more than a pillow. With her hair shrouding them from the night, he
couldn’t resist spinning while holding her upon the pedestal of his body. There were many things that displeased him about
his orc form, but he enjoyed the strength from the start.
“Like it up there?” he asked.
She lifted her arms to the sky. “There are so many stars out tonight—it’s like they’re out here dancing with us.”
After a few more turns, he slowly drifted her down his body and back to the courtyard.
The friction of her homespun on his linen set his blood alight.
Many a night in the Laughing Gourd, he’d overheard men complain about their wives, referring to them as the old shackle.
But Marigold was the first person he wanted to talk to in the morning and the last hand he wanted to hold at night.
He’d never tire of her.
“Can we do it again?” she asked. “I want to practice until we get it fully right and then keep going until I never get it
wrong.”
“Luck favors the sharpened blade,” he said.
“Exactly.” She squeezed his hand.
On they went, dancing the line back and forth and back again, with turns and kicks, jumps and lifts. His arms never wavered,
as though their sole purpose was to support her.
“I feel ready,” she said, chest heaving.
He dropped into the chair next to Fuzzle. “All you need is a festival.”
“About that . . .” She opened the root cellar and dipped cider for both of them. “I had an idea. Grimroot Farm is the perfect
place for a big celebration.”
Aha—was this the moment she confessed that tomorrow was her birthday? The crown made an enormous fuss about Rowan every year,
since he was the heir apparent. She, in contrast, preferred to celebrate with a picnic. Perhaps that had changed?
“Do you, now? And what would be celebrate?”
“The Goldenmoon Festival, of course. What about hosting it here?”
Cold flashed through him as he gripped the chair’s arms. “Mare, what? All those people? You can’t be serious.”
“Hear me out.” She handed him a tankard, then sat on his lap. “You said the townsfolk gawk at you, so you don’t feel comfortable
around them. How will that ever be repaired if you never go to town?”
The cider’s bubbles scrubbed his tongue as he drank to buy time. He’d been a fool to hope this wouldn’t come up again.
“You have the space, Jask. People deserve a celebration. They’d be so happy if you step in where Crispin stepped aside. And if it’s the expense, I can—”
“No.” He sets his tankard on the ground, then stood, careful to set her on her feet. “You’re too trusting and optimistic.
I don’t want the entirety of Harvest Hollow here. Not when you’re in hiding—”
The words stuck in his throat. The idea of Crispin locating her and spiriting her back to Brambleton Castle was more than
he could bear.
“Just . . . no, Marigold.”
“Please? It would be so good for you.” Her eyes widened. “Also, Crispin’s search for me is exactly the reason you should host it. It’s a feint. Why would you invite everyone here if you were really trying to hide a person? I could shrink. Not
even be here.”
“Oh, really? You’d hunker down in the cottage, after you’ve gone to all this trouble to learn to dance? You know the first
fiddle that comes out, you’ll be in the center of the circle.”
“You are completely . . .” Her laugh echoed over the fieldstones. Barnaby squawked in response. “Right. You’re right—I would.
But I could wear a disguise, Jask. A wrap to cover my telltale hair. Mistress Meg, at your service.”
He waved off her curtsey. “Why do you want this?”
“Because you’re wonderful, and if you do this, everyone in Harvest Hollow will have a chance to know you. It isn’t healthy
for a person to live in such solitude. And since you can’t leave, we should bring Harvest Hollow to you.”
He warmed at her kind words but bridled against the stratagem. “That’s a lot of opinion for someone who’s been here a month.”
“It’s empathy for your situation, Jask. Not judgment.
” She raised her chin. “I did the same thing when Bram left. I hid in my tower, reading my books, convinced a world without him had nothing to offer me. Then he died, and I blacked out the windows until my parents and brothers dragged me from my isolation. Looking back, I would’ve healed sooner if I’d allowed myself the company of people. ”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Was it mad to be jealous of himself? As Jask, he resented that she tossed out Bram’s name
as frequently as drunkards toss dice in a tavern. As Bram, he was jealous that she was happy and with someone new. He was
both the ghost and the possessed body, locked in despair.
Today Jask’s jealousy won.
Through clenched teeth, he asked, “For someone who claims to have enjoyed the miracle of true love, you seem to regret the
length of your mourning period often. Did he not mean as much to you as you claim?”
She shrank from him. “Did you really just say that to me?”
The air smelled of cinnamon, pine, and his cavernous regret. Holding her to account for how she processed her grief was unfair.
She didn’t know, couldn’t know, who he truly was or what it cost him every time she spoke glowingly of Sir Bram Duncan.
He ran his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless.”
“It was.” The crackling snap of the firepit filled the air. “That’s the second time you’ve used what I’ve shared about my
past to wound me, Jask. Do not do it a third time. Especially when you are so reticent about your own history.”
She whirled on her heel and stomped into the cottage.