Chapter 28
Two things became more obvious than ever for Marigold the day after Bram’s revelation.
One, she’d venture to the Lantern Oak to give that miserable autumn sprite a piece of her mind. And two, Prince Crispin could
not be allowed to get away with betraying Bram. Ruling through magical threat was a dangerous path that had warped many a
sovereign. Though she didn’t want to be queen of Harvest Hollow, she cared about the common folk.
As for that first item . . .
She’d need to check the proportions with Bram, but the map of Grimroot Farm that she’d drawn on a large sheet of parchment
seemed accurate. Ostensibly, the rendering would help her visualize the best layout for the Goldenmoon Festival. It served
a dual purpose, however, of learning precisely where the imp who’d upended their lives lived. There was the wood, which led
to the cottage, the pens, the coop, and the pumpkin fields. Farther down, the sunflower patch, the meadow, the orchard, and
beyond that, Coldpress Lake.
Fuzzle leapt onto the table to inspect her handiwork.
“What do you think, Fuzz?” She hovered her hand over the orchard. “Apple picking will be here, obviously. And pumpkin decorating
and carving either in or near the pumpkin fields. But what about the dancing? And the vendor stalls?”
The telltale creak of the stairs signaled Bram’s descent. His orc-yawn shook the cottage’s very foundation.
As he came around the corner, she sighed contentedly.
Was there anything more delicious than rolled up shirtsleeves on his muscular forearms?
“Good morning.” With his chest to her back, he slipped his hands around her waist and nuzzled her neck which, if her looking
glass was true, featured a lavender love bite. “You’re up early.”
“The festival waits for no one.” She pressed back against him. “I’ve already done the eggs and milked Queen, and Paloma’s
living her best life in the woods. Porridge is on the stove.”
“Sounds like I can go back to bed.” He rested his chin on her shoulder, then gestured to her scattered parchments. “What’s
all this?”
“A map of your property. I’m trying to figure out the logistics for the festival. We can also make copies for Alfred to take
to the city to help people find their way.”
“Trust me, everyone knows how to get to Grimroot Farm.” He kissed her cheek, then released her. “Wayfarers have walked the
paths thin. They claim the farm’s energy is magical—something about ley lines, though all I’ve noticed are boulders to pluck
out of fields. Coming here’s also a rite of passage for young ones to visit and have me roar at them. But we don’t have to
host the festival, Mare. Crispin’s continued search for you worries me.”
“But I don’t want to disappoint the townspeople.”
“They’ll live. Your safety is my greater concern.” He poured himself a mug of her chamomile tisane, then topped up hers. “You’re
not worried Prince Crispin’s people—or the prince himself—will attend?”
“I’d be surprised if they did.” Marigold blew the steam from her mug. “What kind of prince skips off to a festival when his lady love lies suffering from an ague that prevents their nuptials? If he and a lance of knights storm the farm, though, I can shrink us in a snap. We have an edge.”
He stirred the porridge pot and ladled out a portion to break his fast. “Still, the unresolved question of your betrothal
and the announcement that it’s been delayed, not canceled, feels like a sword of Damocles.”
She beamed at him. “You did study your Greek mythology.”
“The only stories you love more are the fairy tales.” He sat at the table and spooned up porridge.
“Incorrect. Romances first, then fairy tales, then Greek mythology.” She spun the parchment toward him. “Did I get the placement
and scale right?”
“It’s close.” Bram tapped his finger on the orchard drawing. “If an inch equals a hectare, then the orchard needs to move
an inch to the west. The pumpkin field, the cottage, and the yards are more or less correct. Coldpress Lake should move to
the east, maybe an inch and a half. The brook that runs through the wood is a bit farther south. And that’s the wrong spot
for the Lantern Oak. It’s farther north.”
She bounced on her toes. That was exactly what she wanted to know.
Bram snapped his gaze to her. “Marigold.”
She fluttered her eyelashes. “Bram?”
“Absolutely not.”
She sat and rested her chin on her latticed fingers. “Absolutely not what?”
“Don’t go to the autumn sprite.”
“Why would I do a thing like that?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because you’re headstrong.”
“You’re lucky for it. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”
With narrowed eyes, he searched her face. “Please, don’t risk our happiness for so little reward. We’re content, are we not?
I know I am. But if you’re not, tell me.”
She reared back. “Why would you ask me that?”
He shoved back from the table. “Nothing. Forget it.”
With a great clatter, he tossed his dishes into the sink.
“Don’t avoid me, Bram.” She placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Bringing people here, trying to break the curse. I get that if you had the choice between this—” he swept his hand down his
midsection “—and the gregarious handsome man I was in Thornwick, you’d choose him every time. But it’s not worth it, Marigold.
It’s not worth you to try to change me back.”
“Oh, Bram. Is that what you think this is? That I want you back the way you were?”
“Yes.” He crossed his arms as he looked down at her. “Do you not?”
Her heart folded on itself. Did he really have such a low opinion of her?
“I fell in love with you, Bram. No matter what you look like, what form you take. I desire a chat with the autumn sprite to free you from Grimroot
Farm.”
“Because you grow bored of it.”
“Please stop twisting my words. I want you to have the choice to stay or leave. If you can’t choose, this is a prison. A lovely, rustic prison, but a prison nonetheless.”
He tilted his head. “I like it here.”
“So do I,” she said. “But was Rapunzel content to stay in her tower? Or Persephone in the underworld? You’ve done an admirable
job keeping yourself occupied while you’ve been here, but you deserve the freedom to come and go as you please. Seek adventures,
quests, and the like.”
His eyes dimmed. “I’m not the man you remember.”
“Yes, you are. Just as I’m the same woman.”
He gripped her shoulders. “No, you’re not. Neither of us is the same. Once upon a time, I dreamed of a bigger life. I’d tasted
it, and yes, at first, I felt trapped here. But as the seasons changed, I fell in love with Grimroot Farm. If I, or this place,
are not your choices, I’ll understand. But please, what I have here—what we could have here—is good without trying to lift
the curse. Do not let perfect be the enemy of good.”
He melted away from her, then grabbed his cloak from the peg beside the door. “I’ll return.”
“When?” she asked.
“Later.” After a beat, he closed the door.
His footsteps on the stairs rattled the house. As he walked the path, his figure grew smaller until you’d never guess he was
an orc. How had she fumbled that so badly? Did he truly not believe that she loved him in all his forms? Her goal was justice,
not aesthetics.
Marigold paced the cottage.
She needed fresh air. On the porch she scanned the horizon. It was devoid of Bram—wait, no. There was movement. She focused
on the shadow moving through the pumpkins. It lifted its head and . . .
Marigold exhaled as her fear blew away as a leaf on the wind.
A young fox sniffed the air. From what she’d read, the young ones were kicked out of their mother’s territory in the fall
to find their homestead. They wandered until they found a hospitable place to call their own.
To say she identified was to put it mildly.
She tapped her fingers against her lips. Bram said Crispin ordered the autumn sprite to curse him, despite answering the riddle correctly. Why? Sprites were notorious mischief-makers and did not respect human hierarchies. Rather, they mocked them.
That was the mystery here.
One that she’d need to resolve before she’d feel safe. Even if she convinced the sprite to return Bram to his human form and
untether him from Grimroot Farm, Crispin could compel him to curse them both.
Despite all Bram’s warnings, she had no choice.
She must seek out the sprite.