Chapter 24
Marigold stomped through the damp forest, angrily appreciating the beauty around here. Golden fingers of light streamed through
the leaves, and the orange-and-yellow carpet of their fallen brethren glowed in the sun. A perfect backdrop for a romantic
romp.
But Jask had chosen a railing repair over her.
“Nature is soothing, my ass,” she muttered.
She’d been out here for a half an hour and was no calmer than when she’d left. She understood wanting to protect the chickens—she’d
be horrified if anything happened to the girls. Barnaby, too, she grudgingly admitted.
But it was her birthday.
Not that he knew she turned twenty-nine today. As the date approached, it felt increasingly awkward to bring it up out of
nowhere. But now she wished she had, because it was a normal piece of information you provided to the person you loved.
She stopped and leaned upon a tree as the realization wrapped itself around her soul.
Love. She’d fallen in love with Jask?
With her hand pressed to her chest, her stomach swirled. Saints, she had fallen in love again. Her young love with Bram was all sunny possibility and the conviction that all would work out well in
the end. Her feelings for Jask were more rooted. This Marigold understood that life contained shadows but found the courage to open her heart again.
To the love, yes, but also to the pain.
How would a love match with an orc work? She clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Not that she believed it
of them, but if Bess believed her parents frowned upon her marrying a knight, what in the five kingdoms would she counsel
about marrying an orc? Would any children be added to the line of succession?
A blur rolled past her, leaves crackling underneath it.
“What in sweet mercy?” She whirled and held out her hands as a small creature ran at her. Orange orbs of light erupted from
both palms and flew at her attacker, twisting and twining around each other as they went.
Oh no. Oh no no no.
This wasn’t a creature—this was a child.
The boy shimmered as the orbs collided with him. For ten seconds, however, a faint crown rested upon his head. Marigold looked
at her hands with astonishment, then back to the boy. Except her magic no longer crowned the knobby-kneed boy.
“What in thunder?” Marigold stared at her unblemished palms. “Those lights didn’t hurt you, did they? Are you well?”
“Yes, mistress. Have you seen my hoop?” He scanned the area near her feet. “It got away from me on the hill.”
Ah, that was what had ripped past her.
“Over there.” Marigold gestured to a curve in the path. “I think it leapt between those trees. What’s your name, lad?”
“Bastien.” The boy crashed into the brush in search of his hoop. His driving stick poked from his breeches’ back pocket. At
his age, her brothers had begun their military training. Playing hoop and stick in the woods seemed like a far more reasonable
use of a young lad’s time.
“Are you alone out here, Bastien?”
“Maybe. Are you Old Mother Ash?” he asked. “My ma said she lives in the woods and eats little boys who ask too many questions.”
Marigold hid her laugh in her fist. The boy might not have known it, but the words were obviously from a woman desperate to
slake her child’s curiosity. She’d not met Bastien’s mother, but she already liked her.
“I’m neither a mother nor old,” Marigold said. “So, no.”
He emerged from the woods, clutching his hoop. “You’re kind of old.”
Hmph.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Mari—” She coughed. “Meg.”
He tapped his hoop with his stick. “Marimeg is a strange name.”
“It’s just Meg.” She shifted the basket dangling from the crook of her elbow. “Where are your parents, Bastien?”
“My ma’s at home updating burial records.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, then pointed up. “And my da’s in heaven.”
Her heart shifted in her chest. This must’ve been the son of the new caretaker at Kindlewood Garden of Rest. The widow Alfred
had mentioned a few visits back . . . Marigold sighed. This poor lad was far too young to lose the steady hand of his father.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks.” Bastien shoved his hand into his pocket. “We moved here last month. I don’t know anyone yet. Are you sure you don’t have kids?”
The hope in his voice made her heart pinch. “I’m sure. But now you know me. And my friend has a cottage through the woods.
His name is Jask.”
“Are you married?”
“No,” she said. If they were, that would solve one of her current problems. “He’s a great big green orc and the kindest person I know. You can meet him, and then that would be two people you know.”
The boy lifted his shoulder. “I’d rather know kids. Or a puppy?”
Affection washed over her. If she had a puppy, it would be his.
“No luck there, either. But I have a cat, Fuzzle, whom you’re welcome to visit.” She crouched so their eyes were level. “Anytime.”
“Okay.” The hoop bolted ahead as he struck it with the bow stick. “Bye, Marimeg.”
“Bye, Bastien.” She raised her hand to wave at his receding back.
Once he’d disappeared, she lifted her hands to inspect her palms. For minimancy, she kindled the magic by snapping her fingers.
She was still learning to control this new power, whatever it was, but it answered her call when she flipped her palm quickly
forward.
But what, exactly, did it do?
On her, nothing. Same with the Leshy and the various buildings around Grimroot Farm. Bastien, however, briefly transformed
into a man and seemed none the worse for wear. She dusted her palms together. Without Vera and her vast knowledge of magical
gifts, Marigold would be forced to experiment like she had during her alchemical pursuits.
She needed to try it on someone else.
Marigold steepled her fingers and pressed her pointers to her lips.
A large, green opportunity could be found back at Grimroot Farm.
He claimed to hate magic, but he’d grown comfortable with her minimancy.
She called forth an orb on her palm and gazed upon its heatless light.
During her alchemy studies, she’d conducted strange experiments on stubborn metals.
She could convince him; she was sure of it.
After all, it was her birthday.
Didn’t he owe her a present?