Chapter 22
Marigold paced the loft. How dare he say that to her?
Even if . . . she blew out her lips . . . he had a point.
Despite all her academic achievements, she’d never figured out how to mourn Bram properly. She felt like a widow with a forever-altered
future, but she wore no black, nor did she receive a folded banner to honor his service. With no public acknowledgment of
their relationship, she grieved in solitude for years.
To honor him.
But she had regrets, which was why Jask’s question was like a poke to a sore tooth and sent a painful shock through her body.
She didn’t regret the duration of her mourning—never that, because it took as long as it took.
No, she regretted the loneliness.
Without people to lean on, she turned to the grief itself for comfort. Before, she didn’t know who she was without Bram. Now
she didn’t know who she was without the grief.
She tangled her fingers together.
Saints, she was a mess. Jask was the first person she’d told the truth about her relationship with Bram. Finally, here was
a stranger to whom she could tell her troubles. He didn’t flinch—he listened. Then things changed between them.
Was it possible that people did not, in fact, have a single true love?
The way she felt with Jask was a mirror to what she’d felt with Bram. A sizzling, instant magnetism. But also an easy comfort that allowed her to let her truest self shine around him. Like a flame in her recognized a flame in him, and they called to each other.
Were safe with each other.
“Marigold,” Jask called. “Are you awake?”
She poked her head over the loft rail. “You didn’t run away this time.”
From here, he looked small. Or average sized, at least.
“Are you angry?” he asked.
“No. I’m hurt.”
He placed a foot on the stairs. “That’s worse. May I come up so we can speak properly?”
“No. This works better for me.”
He rested his back against the wall. “I’m sorry.”
She narrowed her eyes. “For?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything about the way you’ve mourned . . .” He swallowed hard. “Bram. You’ve been clear how you felt
about him, and grief is complicated.”
“It’s . . . I won’t say it’s fine, but I forgive you. I’m still sorting out my feelings. Part of the grief was that I didn’t
know until weeks after it happened. I was convinced we were connected by a heartstring that, if clipped, would tug mine from
my body. Do you know what I was doing the day the squire arrived to tell me he’d died?”
Jask shook his head. “Tell me.”
“We were banqueting with my mother’s cousins from Mareval, eating a honeyed pumpkin tart. My lady’s companion, Bess, gestured
for me to leave the table and follow her. In the withdrawing room off the great hall, a squire asked if I was Princess Marigold.”
“Was he kind, this squire?” Jask asked.
Well, that was an odd question. “Very. With tears in his eyes, he handed me a letter and said he was sorry. He turned on his heel and hurried away. It was sealed with the royal Harvest Hollow signet, and I knew.”
The first line of the letter caused her knees to turn to aspic. Bess had been helpful to Marigold in that moment. Her lady’s
companion helped her to her rooms, offered a prayer for Bram’s immortal soul, then left her in the dark.
“That must have been difficult.”
“To say the least.”
“What did the letter say?” Jask asked.
“Prince Crispin had personally written to say that his company had encountered an enemy, and that he’d spare me the details
but wanted me to know that Bram had been courageous. That Crispin had tried to save him, but Bram ran ahead, fearless and
foolish, and disappeared.”
“That craven wretch,” Jask uttered.
“Bram?” She held firm to the railing. “Or the prince?”
“Always the prince,” Jask splintered a staircase spindle.
“So, to respond to what you said—”
Jask held up a hand. “You don’t owe me a response, Marigold. That was mean-spirited jealousy talking, and I’m embarrassed
I said it.”
“No, Jask, I want you to hear this.” The railing bit the backs of her fingers. “I didn’t give people a chance to know my pain
and let them stand with me. To help me through it. But I should have. This time here with you . . . you’ve taught me that
people are good for the soul.”
“Not all people.” He folded his arms.
On this, they could agree. “No, not all. But many.”
He closed his eyes, then rolled his neck. “Hosting a festival here will enrage Prince Crispin. He’ll take it as a challenge
to his minimal benevolence.”
“True.” Her smile widened.
“Which is a point in its favor.” He climbed a step.
She descended one step. “It will bring people who may gawk.”
“A point against.” The next step groaned under his weight.
“It will also bring children and their sense of wonder.”
His rigid back softened. “I’ve not seen a child for a very long time.”
“I promise you they are as appealing as ever.”
He climbed another step. “Two points in favor.”
Her heart thumped an extra beat. She had a weak spot for people who liked children.
“There’s one more thing that’ll seal your opinion in favor.” She descended. With their height difference, they now saw eye
to eye. “I’ll get to show off the dance I’ve learned.”
She slipped her hands onto his shoulders.
He belted his arms around her waist. “Then we shall host a Goldenmoon Festival of our own. I’ll ask Alfred to secure a headwrap
for you.”