Chapter 36
Marigold’s stomach fizzed. Today was the day of the Goldenmoon Festival. The importance of the day hummed in her bones. Many
of the people who made Harvest Hollow a charming, warm kingdom would meet Bram today. His tenderness and humor would shine
through, dissipating their misperceptions of the orc’s surliness. Even if he never again stepped foot from Grimroot Farm again,
he would not want for company.
She cared not a whit for the plan Bram, Rowan, and Coby, the adorable golden retriever of a knight, had hashed out at the
kitchen table yesterday while she fed them pumpkin crumble and hot cider. No, all she cared about at the moment was the festival.
The day would be full of merriment, drink, and food.
She opened the door to the porch and frowned.
Hmph. The day, in fact, was full of clouds.
The swirling gray taunted her from above. “This is a disaster.”
Bram’s arm curled around her back. “It’s not a disaster, my love.”
“It is.” She thrust her hands toward the field. “This is an outdoor event. Meant to celebrate the resplendence of the season. Mud
is not resplendent.”
His hand played at her hip. “Paloma would argue with you.”
“Paloma is a pig.”
“An intelligent pig.”
Marigold elbowed him. “Stop trying to make me feel better.”
“It’ll be fine. Common folk are hearty folk. Nothing holds us back from a celebration, even if it means dancing in the rain
and mud. Better yet, the possibility of muck will keep Crispin in his castle and we needn’t worried about him gracing us with
his presence. Now, will you please minimize the tables so I can distribute them to their various stations?”
He gestured to the dozen tables he’d built in the last weeks. They were his own ingenious design, with legs on hinges so they
could be folded and easily stored in the byre’s empty stalls when they weren’t in use.
“Yes.” She snapped, and blue sparkles rained until the tables reduced to the size of a deck of playing cards.
Bram gathered them into a haversack. “Thank you. I’ll let you know when they’re arranged so you can enlarge them. Elenor’s
note said she’d arrive in an hour to set up the beer garden, and the other vendors will soon follow. We’ll be set for the
noon start.”
She eyed the clouds and muttered, “Hope those burn off by then.”
As Bram headed toward the pumpkin fields, Marigold disappeared inside to check her preparation list. Ah, yes—next was to wrap
her identifiable hair in a scarf on the chance any of the palace guard might attend the festival. A wimple was more fashionable
these days, but she couldn’t fathom swaddling her chin and neck in volumes of fabric.
Fuzzle leapt onto the counter and butted her hand, greedy for pets.
“Feeling lonely?” She scratched behind the cat’s ears. “Sorry. We’ve been so busy these last few days.”
Fuzzle leaned low and tapped the pull for the catchall drawer. He went after it like it was catnip. Which, ew, might mean there’s a mouse in there? Or a large spider? Between the two, she’d prefer the mouse.
“Don’t bring me anything dead as a prize, please?”
Marigold tugged open the drawer. Fuzzle batted something around in it until a folded piece of parchment flew free. As he sat
to lick his paws, she picked it up to put it back.
“Is this what you wanted?” she asked.
The parchment was fine stuff, very much like the parchment she’d been provided at Brambleton to write to her family back in
Thornwick. She rubbed her thumbs over its surface. She shouldn’t open it. This was not addressed to her—was not addressed
to anyone, in fact. But no good ever came from reading someone else’s correspondence.
Then again . . .
“If Bram really hadn’t wanted me to find this, he would’ve hidden it better. Right, Fuzz?”
The cat meowed in agreement and continued cleaning its paws. Satisfied she had one ally to her snooping, Marigold unfolded
the parchment and laid it flat. The spiky hand was not sophisticated, and words were oft misspelled. But as she read, she
widened her eyes. List all that true love does, not swears; the quiet works, the patient cares . . .
Saints, this was the loophole.
The instructions were simple enough. Where had this come from? Why hadn’t Bram told her about it? She bit her lower lip, then
glanced out the window as he happily worked in the pumpkin fields. The Hunter’s Moon was tonight, and come sunrise, the sprite
would slumber until next year’s equinox.
Outside, she spied him crouching to place tables in the cleared part of the pumpkin patch.
Did Bram not want to break the curse?
As the late-afternoon sun hung low in the sky, Marigold admitted to herself that Bram was right.
She needn’t have worried. The clouds had burned off by midmorning.
Vendors and guests started arriving not long after.
Now, as the day shifted to evening, people outnumbered the pumpkins at Grimroot Farms. Marigold wove around the pumpkin-decorating tables, admiring the children’s clever handiwork.
At the end of one table, Bastien sat with a woman her age—his mother, most likely.
Singing an off-key tune, the boy put finishing touches on his pumpkin.
“Enjoying yourselves?” Marigold asked.
“We are.” She raised her tankard of cider in greeting. “It’s nice to celebrate the changing seasons with a festival. I’m Matilda,
the new caretaker at Kindlewood Garden of Rest next door. This here’s my son, Bastien.”
Marigold shook Matilda’s rough hand. “I’m Meg. Welcome. Your boy and I met last week in the woods.”
“So you’re the lady with the cat who lives with Jask? Until I met your farmer, I thought Bastien pulled all that from his imagination.”
“I am indeed the lady with the cat.” She skipped her gaze over the crowd. “He’s around here somewhere. An orange tabby. If
Fuzzle crosses your path, he’s a glutton for scratches behind the ears and on the belly.”
“Do you do this every year? Seems popular.” Matilda gestured to the crowds circulating from the pumpkin activities to the
vendor stalls and beyond to the meadow and the orchard.
“To be honest, I’m new around here, too. This is the first time the festival’s been held at Grimroot Farm—it’s usually in
Harvest Hollow proper. But I’m told it’s a favorite tradition.”
“I can see why. Bastien’s had a great time.” Matilda tousled the boy’s hair.
“I’m glad to hear it. May I take a closer look at your pumpkin design?” As she crouched, she felt like she’d gulped an apple whole. The pumpkin’s painted face bore a strong resemblance to the autumn sprite, wispy hair and all. “Is that someone you know?”
The boy nodded. “I saw him last night. He was singing and dancing around a fairy ring in the wood, near the Lantern Oak.”
A fairy tale flashed in Marigold’s memory. Something about a girl who spun straw into gold and was able to dissolve her bargain
with an imp.
“Bastien!” Matilda clasped his shoulder. “You’re never to go there. You know that.”
“I was chasing my hoop.” The boy scratched his knees and looked down, scolded.
Marigold couldn’t let the boy shut down. Not when she needed information from him.
Marigold tapped Bastien’s pumpkin. “Do you remember his song?”
Bastien nodded eagerly. “It was silly.”
“Can you sing it for me? Please?”
Bastien looked to his mother.
“What’s this about?” Matilda asked.
“This creature—” she tapped the pumpkin again “—is a sprite who cursed someone dear to me. If we don’t break the curse tonight,
we’ll be forced to wait until next year. Fairy tales lead me to believe the sprite’s song could be a clue.”
Matilda whispered to her boy. He nodded, nodded again, then smiled.
“Mama said you’d give me a sweetie if I sing for you.”
“I will give you ten sweeties.”
“Three,” Matilda countered.
“Three.” Marigold wouldn’t dare push a mother’s sweets limit.
Bastien cleared his throat. In a quiet, wavering voice, he sang,
“Cleverer far than king or jack,
Guess and gamble, lose your stack,
None outwits old Grindlethwack.”
Marigold’s insides vibrated like a struck blade. It was a perfect name for the rotund little creature. Her limbs felt light
enough she could take flight. Handy, that, since she’d need to scale an enormous tree.
“Grindlethwack,” Marigold asked. “Are you sure?”
Bastien nodded. “He sang it twenty times.”
“Clever boy! Thank you.” She gave him a small bag of comfited pumpkin seeds that she carried in her apron. To Matilda, she
said, “You’re welcome to visit any time. I make lovely tisanes and enjoy conversation.”
Matilda laughed. “I’ll take you up on that. So far I get most of my gossip from the carter.”
“Alfred has the juiciest reports.” Marigold rose to relieve her protesting knees. “He mentioned you recently arrived. How
did you come to Harvest Hollow?”
“Ah, that’s too long a tale,” Matilda said. “But the short of it is I was to work in a noble house—a favor from a friend of
Bastien’s father. His missus didn’t like the look of me, though, and that was that.”
This poor woman. When Marigold thought she’d lost Bram, she was as hollow as the jack-o’-lanterns decorating the cottage and
tables in the field. To mourn, solely parent a child, move house, and earn a living as well—Matilda might as well carry the
world on her slim shoulders.
“I’m sorry to hear that. But their loss is my gain in a good neighbor. Should you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
The thick beat of a hand drum from the brigade of recently arrived minstrels pulsed through the crowd. Beyond the blaze of
sunflowers lay the meadow that Bram had cleared of large stones and, within it, the new gazebo. The fiddle’s bright, resonant
tone was like ribbon wrapping around her and pulling her toward the field.
Bram knew her so well. As he’d predicted, the first fiddle, and she was off to dance.
“Care to join us for dancing in the meadow?”
“Soon as I’ve finished my cider,” Matilda said.
Marigold squeezed her new friend’s shoulder. “I’ll see you out there.”
As she scampered toward the music, she passed by clusters of people enjoying themselves. Children squealed from within the
haystack maze, and young men congratulated the stout lad who’d won the pumpkin-chucking competition.
A delicious swirl of aromas from the warren of food stalls made her stomach rumble. Strongest was the roasted chestnuts dusted
with sugar. From a small fire, the seller fished out the nuts with tongs as they popped and cracked. Marigold had already
indulged in a candied apple from the next stall, which she’d been granted in exchange for a dozen Hollowsnaps they’d traded
the confectioner. The cheesemonger’s business was also brisk, as was the spit roaster’s.
Coins tinkled into the tills as she passed by.
Excellent—she wanted their trouble to be worth it in earnings. A few vendors said the royal guard offered them a bribe not
to put up a stall here today. But they took their chances that today’s event would bless their pockets. The more money they
made, the more likely they’d return next year. Because she’d already decided they were hosting again next year.
Hmph, she should probably inform Bram of that, too.
Speaking of, where was he?
She shaded her eyes from the powerful streaks of setting sun—ah, there he was. Standing by the sunflowers and watching the
minstrels in the gazebo. On her way to him, she passed Elenor’s beer garden.
Seated under the pergola, Brother Oswald called, “Hello again, Miss Meg! This is a fine celebration of the harvest!”
She tipped her head and couldn’t hold back a smile.
Brother Oswald had been one of the first to arrive and hadn’t been without snack or drink since. With his frequent booming
laughter and bawdy jokes, he was a welcome change from the prim Archbishop of Briarveil.
Across the meadow, Bram caught her gaze, then waved. The day had been a success. The night would follow suit—especially when
she slipped away to pay a follow-up visit to the autumn sprite. A diversion would be required, however, or Bram might give
chase.
She was sure she’d think of something.
For now, though—dancing.