Chapter 23
Bram tapped the head of the hammer against his thigh. It was a testament to how much of a pig’s ear he’d made of things last
night that he’d agreed to host the Goldenmoon Festival next week and let all of Harvest Hollow trample his farm.
He’d worry about that later.
Today was all about Marigold’s birthday. Which she still did not know that he knew. He raked his hand down his face. He’d
figure something out—maybe tell her she talked in her sleep. Which she didn’t. She giggled though, and it was charming.
He stood at the chicken-yard fence, waiting for Marigold.
If all went to plan, he’d stay behind to finish repairing the fence and she’d forage for herbs. In truth, he’d use the time
apart to bake the cakes and make the pomegranate frosting. Yesterday’s pomegranate delivery waited in the cabinet—Alfred had
cleverly hidden them in a flour bag so Marigold wouldn’t notice.
He was uneasy about her venturing far on her own, but she knew Grimroot Farms and its pumpkin fields, orchard, lake, and wood
well. Should anyone cross the threshold, he’d sense it and she could deploy her minimancy powers.
“Jask?” she called as she exited the cottage. “I’m ready.”
Saints, she was beautiful. Her red curls spilled along her shoulders. Under the cloak, she wore the homespun that revealed her ankles. For a moment, he was tempted, but he needed to bake the birthday surprise.
“This split is trickier than I thought it would be, and I’d like to finish it before dark. I need to stay behind.”
She wrinkled her brow. “I really hoped for your company. What if another tree tries to kidnap me?”
“The Leshy and I squared our agreement, and the herbs are not in his territory regardless. This needs to be complete today,”
he lied. “I found fox scat in the pumpkin field. Can’t have him getting access to the chickens.”
“Oh. No, I suppose not.” She slid her basket further up her arms. “I’ll be gone for an hour or so—if you finish early, I plan
to harvest more goldcaps. I know it sounds odd, but I had an idea for an onion, mushroom, and spiced apple pastry that I’d
like to try.”
“No odder than peas-and-mint soup,” he said.
Her laugh startled the chickens. “You’ll never get over that, will you?”
He caught her around the waist and kissed her deeply. “To remember me by. And don’t forget—avoid walking through fairy rings.”
“I promise,” she called over her shoulder.
He waited for her figure to disappear into the wood, then hurried into the cottage. As fast as he could muster, he lit the
oven, then removed the bowl where he’d mixed the flour and spices this morning while she slept upstairs. Next, he whipped
together eggs and melted butter, then folded it into the batter.
Fuzzle leapt up onto the block to inspect his work.
“She’ll love this, Fuzz.”
The cat meowed and hopped to the floor, uninterested.
After greasing six baking hoops, he placed them on the baking sheet. Next, he carefully filled them halfway with batter, then
slid the sheet into the oven and flipped the sandglass.
Now for the frosting.
From the cabinet, he withdrew the pomegranates and set about splitting one for the seeds. When they were teenagers, he’d questioned
her love of the fruit. The memory replayed in his mind’s eye as though he were watching it happen today.
“First of all,” she’d said as she cut into it with her gardening knife. “You clearly don’t know your Greek mythology.”
“Try again. Persephone, Hades, Demeter, winter. Chew on that.”
“Fine, you know your mythology.”
“Thank you for recognizing my greatness. Pomegranates are a lot of work for an insubstantial reward.”
“Insubstantial?” She dribbled gem-like seeds into a small dish. “This is a treasure chest of delight. A trove. A hoard.”
“Your tutor’s been teaching synonyms again, I see.”
“Perhaps.” She pushed a dish toward him. “Try them.”
“No, thank you.” He stubbornly resisted food from the royal kitchens lest he prefer it to the plain, filling food Sir Patrick
had taught him to cook.
“Bram, you must.”
He lifted a shoulder. “I can do without.”
The gleam entered her eye. He knew it well, and it always meant trouble. She counted out six seeds.
“What are you—”
She leapt onto him, nearly knocking him from the bench as she flattened the seeds to his lips. The tart rich juice seeped
inside his mouth. He held on to her to keep her from falling to the ground, then licked his lips.
Damn it, she was right. They were delicious.
And she was in his lap.
“Saints, Bram.” She giggled. “You look like you’ve caught a bloody flux.”
This was it—this was the moment he could do what he’d been dreaming about for a while now. He leaned forward and pressed his
lips to hers.
The kiss was chaste.
Until she held firm to his face and devoured him.
Fuzzle leapt back onto he counter.
“Saints, cat!” He lost his grip on the fruit’s slick skin. Ruby-colored seeds scattered across the butcher’s block. As he
collected them, he felt the chill of someone crossing the boundary without his permission.
Marigold.
He dashed to the door, grabbed his cloak from the peg, and ran down the cottage’s front steps. The path to the woods was damp
with this morning’s melted frost, giving him excellent footsteps to track. He was halfway to the trees when he remembered—shite. The cakes. Burning down the cottage wouldn’t do, either. As he pivoted on his heel, the familiar clang of Alfred’s bell
rang in the distance.
But Alfred didn’t trigger the chill, and this visit was out of schedule. He wasn’t due for another few days. Jask shaded his
eyes and peered.
His hammering heart calmed.
Crisis averted.
A woman sat beside Alfred—wait, he recognized her. Elenor the Brewster, the formidable alewife of Harvest Hollow. She ran
three taverns and was known for unapologetically booting anyone too soused from her establishments. He’d knocked back plenty
of ale at the Laughing Gourd as Sir Bram Duncan. But he’d always been respectful.
He’d helped her kick out Kevin a time or two as well.
He raised his hand in reluctant greeting. She wasn’t the first Harvest Hollow resident to visit Grimroot Farm. Alfred, obviously.
Wayfarers and ramblers, too, some of whom he’d known as Bram. Every time, he wondered if they’d see through the autumn sprite’s
magic and perceive the man within the orc—but none did.
“Salutations,” Alfred called. “Jask, meet a potential customer.”
“You need pumpkins?” Bram asked. “Apples?”
Elenor tipped her head back and roared with laughter. “Mercy no! The cider.”
“What cider?” He helped her down from the driver’s box.
She glanced over her shoulder. “What did you call it, Alfred? Crankle’s Finest?” She turned to Jask. “Strange name.”
Crankle had been Rowan’s nickname for Bess after she’d swatted a pint of cider out of his hand at a banquet. Admittedly, the
prince had been young, but he took it personally.
“Alfred offered me a sample,” Elenor explained. “It’s the lightest, frothiest cider I’ve ever had the pleasure to drink. I
want it for my taverns.”
“We haven’t produced it at scale.”
“Even better,” she said. “If it’s scarce, folks’ll prize it more. Do you have any you can part with?”
“A firkin, at best, but it belongs to my . . .” He ached to say wife.
“Ward?” Alfred offered.
“Friend,” Bram countered. “She’d be upset to find it gone.”
Elenor nodded her kerchiefed head. “I’ll make it worth your while. We’ve brought back the firkin my customers emptied. The
prince’s guard are a thirsty lot. How much are you asking?”
With the lack of pumpkin sales this season, another stream of income would be useful. He did the math in his head—what he’d
paid while in her tavern, multiplied by the number of pints that fit in a firkin, compared to what it cost him to produce.
“Thirty sous,” he said.
“Twenty,” she countered.
“Twenty-five.”
“Done.” Elenor stuck out her hand to shake. As she pumped his hand, she looked him in the eye. “Do I know you?”
“No, ma’am,” he said.
“Don’t call me ma’am. Either Elenor or Brewster’ll do, but the husband’s gone, so the ma’am’s gone with him.”
“Yes, ma . . . Elenor. I’m Jask Bone-Cracker.”
So hard to keep a straight face when sharing that name.
She narrowed her gaze. “No, I suppose we haven’t met. I don’t recall meeting an orc, and I never forget a face. Still, though—something
about your eyes is familiar.”
“I get that a lot.” He shoved his hands into his breeches’ pockets to hide their trembling.
“Out here in the hinterlands?” She put her hands on her hips and let another laugh rip. “You’re a funny one. Alfred said you
never come to town. Why’s that?”
“I’ve got everything I need here.” He gestured for them to follow. “Cider’s in the root cellar out back.”
“Shame you don’t bring your wares to Harvest Hollow. The market’s bustling most days. You’d make a killing.”
Bram opened the root-cellar door, then loosened the barrel’s lid. “I don’t need to make a killing. Just enough to get by.”
“Alfred said you make otherworldly pies, too.”
“And bread,” Alfred said. “And butter.”
“Sounds like Alfred talks a lot,” Jask grumbled, shooting Alfred a look.
Elenor elbowed Alfred in the ribs. “He’s got your number.”
“I’m not a gossip, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he said.
Bram and Elenor burst out laughing.
“I see it’s Let’s Be Rude Day here on Grimroot Farm,” Alfred said. “But I’ll overlook it if you have any pie.”
Bram tapped a spile into the firkin, then wrapped it in honeyed cloth to prevent spills. “We have a few slices we can spare.
Oh, shite, the cakes.”
He dashed into the cottage and rescued the pans from the oven. Thankfully, they hadn’t burned. More done than he’d like, but he’d cover them with the pomegranate frosting.
At the back door, he shouted, “Come in this way.”
He sliced a few wedges of the pie he and Marigold had made yesterday afternoon. It was a twist on the standard pumpkin pie—they’d
finished it with a toasted pumpkin seed and maple-sap topping.
Elenor dropped her head back dramatically at the first bite. “This is like autumn on a fork. If I chased it with the cider,
I’d feel like I’m double-dipping on the season.”
“Thanks?”
She pointed her fork at him. “Are you sure you won’t set up a market stall? Rémy’s retiring, and we could use another baker.”
“Not a baker,” he said. “I’m a—”
Knight. But that was no longer true. And while he carried the training with him, he wasn’t sad about losing that warrior identity.
He had been, once open a time. But no more.
“—farmer.”
“This pie would argue,” Alfred said. “As would those cakes on the counter. But you could be both if you’d allow visitors.”
“That reminds me.” Bram snapped his fingers. “I need your help. We’re planning to hold the Goldenmoon Festival here.”
Alfred blessed himself. “Saints, you’ve been possessed.”
Bram crossed his arms. “It’s Meg’s idea. She thought since the festival’s been canceled, we could invite Harvest Hallow to
celebrate here. Apple picking, caramel apples, bonfires, dancing, pumpkin carving, pumpkin decoration, pumpkin throwing. Maybe
a hay-bale maze? Things like that. Anyone who sets up a stall could sell their wares, too.”
“One week is tight,” Elenor finished her pie. “But I’d love to stick it to the prince. Imagine canceling the most joyous day of the year for most in the kingdom without so much as a by-your-leave. If I put the word out and get you minstrels, I can run the beer garden?”
“Be my guest,” Bram said. “And thank you. Alfred, can I ask you to circle back this way in three days’ time with a pound of
nails?”
Alfred nodded. “Can do. What for, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Bram chuckled to himself. “A gazebo.”