Chapter 30
A twig cracked to Marigold’s left. She held her fingers aloft, ready to snap herself small and hide. Ah. It was Fuzzle. That was odd. Fuzzle was less of a fan of the out-of-doors than she’d been when they first escaped the castle.
“What are you doing out here? Are you worried about me, too?”
Fuzzle meowed, twitched his ears, then shot off into the underbrush. Okay, then. Not worried. Bored, more like.
Marigold swooshed through the fallen leaves carpeting the path, then paused to review the rough map she’d drawn this morning.
She was not far from the goldcaps tree. Based on the adjustments Bram suggested this morning, the Lantern Oak should be across
the brook.
The trees held their breath as she leapt across the gurgling water.
She wobbled for a moment on the bank but caught her balance.
“Ha!” She pumped her fists. “No distressed damsel here.”
She stepped forward, and hell. Her left-turn shoe stayed behind, sucked from her foot by the squelching mud. She crouched and reached, but the shoe lay
beyond her fingertips. Minimancy wouldn’t help here, nor would true face.
A stick, on the other hand . . .
Marigold grabbed a fallen branch and wiggled it into her boot, then coaxed it free. The boot popped from the muck and straight into the brook. As the water swept it away, she swore she could hear it laughing at her.
“Damn it all,” she muttered.
No matter. She’d make this work.
Her gait was uneven as she pushed through the flexing scrim of willows branches. The papery leaves caught in her hair and
whispered along her cloak.
“Pthtt.” She spit out a leaf that found its way into her mouth.
Once again, she loved being outdoors adjacent, but the actual out-of-doors, however, could rot. She paused to brush the leaves and burrs from her skirts. The stubborn vegetation refused
to fall free.
She’d deal with it later, back at the cottage.
When she’d have to confess to Bram that she’d taken this risk.
As she looked up from her skirts, goose bumps fanned over her skin. She understood why the autumn sprite chose the Lantern
Oak as its home. The tree’s cloak of fiery leaves was resplendent as it swayed in the autumn breeze. In today’s gray gloom,
the orbs glowed a welcoming orange, inviting her into the branches.
Maybe that was part of the sprite’s magic, luring people into the tree’s embrace like a siren calling sailors to crash upon
rocks? She knew little about sprites. Fairies, gnomes, pixies, witches—these she’d read about in detail.
Sprites on the other hand . . . She knew two things: That they preferred to align with natural elements—seasons, terrains,
trees, waters. And that they were quick to vanish.
Since Marigold decidedly did not prefer natural elements, that explained why she’d never crossed paths with them.
So, she’d need to be fast to catch him.
She tilted her head back. Bram said he’d climbed the tree to collect the acorns, and that was where he’d met the sprite.
Her spine curved as she took in its full height.
This . . . was a tall tree. Life would be easier if she’d grabbed the ladder.
All she’d brought in the pack basket was food and drink.
Welp, no time for dillydallying.
The lowest limb was chest high. With bent elbows, she placed her palms on it, then leapt, hauling herself up. She swung her
legs over the thick limb and scooted forward, bark scraping her thighs, until she grabbed another limb to pull herself upright.
On and on she went—up, scrape, up, scrape—until she reached . . . the middle.
Enough of this.
She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Autumn sprite?”
No answer. The sting on her thighs was deeply unpleasant.
“Sprite?” she called again. “Please talk to me.”
The wind blew in response. Around her, the air charged, like before a lightning strike. Marigold’s stomach swam at the idea.
A flutter tickled her hair, like a hummingbird trying to sip from her ear. She screamed, and her flailing hands connected
with something solid.
“Ouch! And what was that for?”
A luminous orange creature hovered above the branch in front of her, rubbing its forehead. His features were sharp but perfect,
like the sculptures pocketed in the alcoves of Briarveil Cathedral. Instead of pale marble eyes, however, his were large,
golden, and zeroed in on her.
“Are you him?” she asked. “The sprite?”
As he fluttered to a fresh branch, gauzy light trailed and fizzled behind him.
“Go on, then, Red, and make it good.” He held up his pinched thumb and index finger. “I’m this close to turning you into a
cardinal, so I am.”
She pointed at him. “You’ve got a lot of nerve.”
“I’ve a lot of nerve? Bold, you are. Climbing my tree and smacking me about, trying to steal my gold.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want gold. I want answers.”
“About what?” The sprite’s gossamer hair waved in the breeze.
“Sir Bram Duncan.”
“Who, now?”
She wiped her hands down her face. “You ruined his life, and you don’t even remember him.”
“Now listen, Red. I don’t go about ruining lives for sport. If something ill befell your man, I’d wager he brought it about
himself. Isn’t there someone always up my tree, helping themselves to what’s mine? If one gets away, they’d tell any who’d
listen to give it a go. Can’t have that, no, I can’t.”
The hair raised on her arms as he moved faster than her eyes could track. She twisted to find him again among the leaves.
“But he didn’t deserve it.”
“Sure, and that’s what they all say.” The sprite flung his hands into the air. “What’d I do, lass? Turn him into an apple?”
“No.” She gasped and clutched her hands together. “Did you do that to someone?”
“Not that I recall.” He wagged his tiny finger at her. “But I could, and you’d best not forget it.”
“An orc. Three years ago you turned Sir Bran Duncan into an orc. Yes, he tried to take your gold, but it was at someone else’s
behest. You challenged him to a riddle, and he answered it correctly, so you should’ve let him go. But Prince Crispin told
you to curse him anyway. That’s cheating.”
The sprite paled as he backed away. “I haven’t a clue what you’re on about.”
“Oh yes, you do.” She pursed her lips. “I can see it in your face.”
“You know me not, lady.”
“Princess, actually.” Maybe he was intimidated by royals, and that was why he did Crispin’s bidding? It was worth a shot.
And in case he wasn’t . . .
She nabbed him by the feet and held him upside down. A challenge, as the sprite’s skin was slippery as moss.
“D’you have no sense, Red?” he said. “I’m fierce cranky. The Hunter’s Moon’s nearly upon us. When the sun rises after it,
I’ll be off to slumber till the next equinox. Put me down and be on your way, or I’ll be forced to do something drastic. And
mind your arse on the way down.”
“Can we talk like civilized people?” she asked. “I brought cake.”
He flapped his wings, curious. “What kind of cake is it, then?”
“Vanilla with pomegranate-cream frosting.”
The sprite raised an eyebrow. “No funny business?”
“All serious business. Baked goods and answers—that’s all.”
The sprite flitted closer, the buzz tingling her ear. “No one ever brings me anything.”
“Clearly a lack of proper upbringing.” She set him down and withdrew a cake wrapped in linen from her basket. “Here.”
He took it, sniffed at it, then unhinged his jaw and ate it in one bite.
And she thought Jask had rough table manners.
“Meh, I’ve had better,” the sprite said. “Is there more of it?”
“Plenty.” She handed him another cake. “Do you have a name?”
Crumbs filled the air as he spoke with a full mouth. “Oh, you’d like to know that, wouldn’t you?”
“It’s polite to use someone’s proper name. Did the cake help your memory?”
“A bit,” he said. “Better take another cake to be sure.”
Like the others, he ate it with nary a chew. The sprite’s belly, if possible, rounded further.
“I might remember your fella.” The sprite drummed his fingers against his belly. “Blond, was he?”
She sighed. “Like the sun in June.”
“Dimple? Blue eyes?”
“Like the early-morning sky, after the pink has faded.”
“You’re full lovestruck, aren’t you? A plain yes would’ve done the job.” The sprite tilted his head, and his hair wisped about
his ears. “Are you the true love he mentioned?”
“He spoke of me?”
“Yep. Seemed dead certain if he got the riddle wrong, you’d come to his rescue to break the curse.” The sprite looked her
up and down. “All in all, I guess he was right.”
She shifted her seat to ease the chafe on her thighs, but there was nothing for it. “So there is a way to break it?”
“There’s always a way.” The sprite flipped his palms to the sky. “Every trickster’s required to provide a loophole.”
“What is it for Bram’s curse?”
His orange eyebrow shot skyward. “Careful now, Red. That’s how you start a bargain.”
Bram’s voice nudged her brain. Never bargain with a sprite.
“Forget I asked.” She withdrew the last cake from her basket. “But I’d like some information, if you’re willing to give it
freely.”
He took it from her. “You’ve been generous, so I’ll give you a hand. Only one question, mind, so make it good.”
She could ask about Bram’s loophole to return him to his true form and free him from Grimroot Farm.
But she’d meant what she said earlier—she loved him no matter what.
And if they broke this curse, what would stop Crispin from visiting some other misfortune on them with this sprite’s magic?
His hold over the sprite was the greater mystery—that was the answer she needed to keep them safe from the prince’s shenanigans.
“Why did you do Crispin’s bidding, even though it contradicted the bargain you made with Bram?”
The sprite whistled, long and low, the pitch drifting into notes that caused her skin to break out into goose bumps. “Fair
play to you—that’s a honey of a question. Crispin true-named me. That means he can force me to his bidding until someone else
cracks my true name. That takes him out of the game, and once a true-namer’s bumped out, he’s done.”
Marigold wobbled as wind gusted through the tree, then caught herself. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me your name?”
The sprite fluttered closer. “Would that I could, and its pure class of you to ask instead of trying to trick it out of me.
I can see why Crispin wants to steal you from Bram. He said so that night—snatched your guy’s necklace and said he was making
a play for you. You haven’t married him, have you?”
“No.” Her hair whipped around her face. “I ran away.”
“Good. He’s a prick. Any more of those cakes, then?”
Her basket was empty. “All gone.”
“Pity.” He alit on the branch above her. “It’s a right nuisance to climb down in a skirt. Tell me you can do it without breaking
your neck?”
“Uh . . .” She peered at the forest floor below the tree. “Maybe?”
“I gotcha.” He tapped her on the forehead, and in a blink, she was standing on the forest floor, staring up at the sprite.
She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Thank you!”
“Welcome, Red. And I hope I never lay eyes on you again.”