Chapter 39
Bram’s nerves crackled more than the leaves under their feet as they approached the pumpkin fields. Lanterns and the bonfire
loaned the scene a cozy glow, one that made his heart shift. Here was the place where he’d learned to sit still, to rest in
his skin, in whatever shape that skin took. But for three years, it was just a place where he lived.
With Marigold, Grimroot Farm had become his home.
The minstrels’ brisk tune brought many dancers to the meadow. Sitting apart from the group were the Thornwick royals, Bess,
Crispin, and more of Crispin’s guard. His stomach churned. Now that he looked like himself again, he was confident her parents
would believe them when they informed them of Crispin’s plot.
They still might not accept Bram as her husband, however. He was a commoner, after all. They and the hierarchy they represented
were the last obstacle to his enduring happiness. Marigold might put on a good show that she didn’t need her parents’ acceptance.
Giving up her crown was one thing—she had no love for courtly demands.
But she’d suffer if she cut ties with them.
As frustrated as she was by the demands of royal life, her love for her parents, and they for their children, was as obvious as a red tree in a green wood.
Her parents’ eyes shone with pride when Marigold played the virginals for visiting dignitaries or when Rowan took first in the joust. Beckett, born to them later, twenty now and stationed in the Gildfall Mountains, was rambunctious, but he’d amused her parents rather than cause despair.
They corrected their children when they’d erred, too.
Firmly, but commands were never barked. Before Matthias had been crowned, they’d simply been a lovely family on whose fringes Bram had lived.
All he’d ever wanted was for them to accept him.
Saints, he’d faced battles and monsters, but this confrontation threatened to knock him to his knees. He’d ask for her hand
in an honorable way. Her parents might decline, and then Marigold would have a choice to make.
As they approached the royals, Crispin’s knights squared up.
“Turn around,” a beefy fellow barked.
Yikes. Sir Fergus had aged like milk. Too much ale, too little tilting at the quintain.
Bram boosted his shoulders. “We need to speak to King Matthias and Queen Elowen.”
“And I need to take a piss, but we don’t all get what we want.”
“Enough, Fergus.” Prince Crispin pushed past the knight. “Marigold, my dearest, we’ve been looking for—”
He stopped short as he laid eyes on Bram.
“—you. What’s this?”
“The curse has been broken.” Marigold stepped forward. “And I need to speak to my parents. Now.”
“Marigold?” Queen Elowen, radiant as ever, leapt up from her seat.
Bram stepped aside so she could wrap her arms around her daughter.
“My little pumpkin, is it really you?” The queen rubbed her thumbs along Marigold’s cheeks. “You look so well! Crispin said
you’d taken to the countryside to cure your ailment.”
“That’s one way to put it.” Marigold narrowed her gaze at Crispin. “Will you tell them the complete truth, or shall I?”
King Matthias joined his wife and daughter’s embrace. “The truth about what, pumpkin? And who is this— Wait.”
The king blanched as though he’d seen a specter.
With a nervous breath, Bram said, “It’s me, sir. Bram Duncan. I didn’t die.”
King Matthias clasped his shoulder. “And I’m very glad for it. Marigold was despondent her childhood friend had . . . How
did you come to be here?”
“May we speak in private?” Crispin’s eyes darted from face to face, never landing. “I can explain, but it would be best if—”
“No.” Marigold shook her head. “Enough with secrets and shadows. Let’s share in the open, shall we?”
Among the gathering crowd, Bram noticed a studious young woman edging closer to their circle. Isolde Fenlow, the chronicler
who specialized in Harvest Hollow intrigues. Prior to the curse, when he was a knight in Crispin’s privy circle, he’d have
chased her off.
Now?
He welcomed her attention and the light her pen would shine. It wasn’t his job to protect bad behavior. Nor was the shame
his to bear. Crispin was the one who’d plotted, planned, and inflicted harm. The prince was the only one to be held to account
here.
Bram cleared his throat. “Three years ago, Prince Crispin of Harvest Hollow bade the autumn sprite who resides in the Lantern
Oak to curse me. He transformed me into an orc and tethered me to Grimroot Farm.”
“An orc, you say?” King Matthias scanned him.
“I’ve returned to myself.” He glanced at Marigold. “After your daughter broke the curse.”
Rowan stepped forward. “It’s true. I saw him with my own eyes two days ago. But that’s not the whole of it.”
Queen Elowen whipped her head to her daughter. “What, then, is the whole of it?”
“Honestly.” Crispin grasped Marigold’s forearm. “Please take this into the cottage?”
Bram sizzled with anger. “Leave off, if you know what’s good for you.”
“I’ve got this,” Marigold said. “I can shrink him to obscurity if need be.” She turned to her parents. “I overheard Crispin
plotting Thornwick’s ruin. Upon our marriage, he planned to have the mountain sprites murder Rowan and Beckett, then put me
away at Scarlet Spire to convalesce in grief. From there, he’d rule both kingdoms and strip-mine Thornwick for the benefit
of Harvest Hollow.”
King Matthias lowered his brow. “Is that so? In league with the mountain sprites? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
Grindlethwack fluttered into view, then scrunched his face apologetically. “Ah, that’d be my fault. Crispin had control of
me, and I brokered the deal with the mountain sprites. He promised to give them the foothills of the Gildfall Mountains.”
“A full quarter of Thornwick’s land?” Queen Elowen gasped.
Marigold nodded. “So, you see, I can’t marry Crispin.”
“No, you cannot.” She kissed her daughter’s cheek, then glared at Crispin. “I forbid it.”
“How’s that now?” Crispin laughed darkly. “We have an agreement. A marriage license.”
“And you have broken the contract.” King Matthias, shorter than Crispin though he may be, intimidated the younger man enough
to force him to step back.
“You don’t believe this . . . this fantasy, do you?” Crispin spluttered. “Why would I, a prince in my own right, engage in this kind of subterfuge?”
“How dare you, sir?” The king pursed his lips as though he were holding back venom. “My daughter does not lie.”
Crispin’s arched a sharp eyebrow. “Then she told you about the romantic relationship she and Bram carried on all those years
ago, did she? You should be grateful I was willing to take her off your hands, knowing what I know about her virtue.”
“You go too far.” King Matthias fisted Crispin’s jerkin. “Apologize.”
“Never.” Crispin glared at Marigold’s father.
“No one should apologize for true love.” Grindlethwack flitted around Crispin’s head. “The only person who should apologize
is you, you great weasel.”
Queen Elowen held her daughter’s hands. “True love?”
“It’s the only kind that breaks the curse.” Grindlethwack fluttered above them, swirling them with amber glitter.
Marigold beamed a smile at Bram. “The truest.”
“About that.” Bram cleared his throat as he shifted his gaze between her parents. “Sir, ma’am. Marigold and I . . . we’d like
to marry and would be grateful for your blessing.”
The parents exchanged a glance. A silent conversation waged between them until, imperceptibly, Queen Elowen nodded.
King Matthias opened his arms. “We welcome you, Sir Bram Duncan, into our family. You’ve remained true to Marigold and have
done our family and Thornwick a great service in protecting her from this craven lout.”
The crowd cheered as the king and queen embraced him. Their clothes were of the finest material he’d touched, but beneath
it, their warmth and ready acceptance stole his breath. Saints, he’d forgotten how easy it was to shed tears as a human.
“Stop!” Crispin sputtered. “There’s more you should know about your daughter. More of her lies. Magical lies.”
Next to him, Marigold sighed, then pivoted toward her parents. “I am so tired of keeping secrets. Mama, Papa, let me strip the leaves from your branches. I possess magical abilities.”
“What?” her parents said in unison.
Her mother covered her mouth, then removed it. “My darling, when?”
“For the first one, five years ago. Bess told me not to tell both of you—said the laws of Thornwick forbid magic and my talents
would put you in an awkward position. The second appeared roughly two weeks ago.”
King Matthias turned to Queen Elowen. “You said it skipped a generation.”
The queen flipped her hands to the sky. “I’m wrong sometimes.” To Bess, she said, “And how dare you encourage our daughter
to divide herself from us in this manner?”
Rather than look abashed, Bess lifted her chin. “I was looking out for her in a way neither of you hypocrites seemed to. Crispin
embraces magical abilities and would encourage her to use them instead of threaten her with the oubliette. They’re well-suited.”
“There’s still the whole willing-to-murder-my-brothers-by-proxy situation that’s hard to overlook.” Of her mother, Marigold
asked, “And what do you mean, skips a generation?”
Queen Elowen splayed her fingers against her chest in a way that reminded Bram of Marigold. “I, too, possess magical abilities,
but I’ve refrained from using them. As you say, Thornwick frowns upon such things, and Matthias and I were already budging
up against propriety since my family is of the merchant class. But I’m eager to know, pumpkin. What are your gifts?”
“Minimancy, but I don’t know the second one’s name,” she said.
“Show me?”
Marigold popped the glowing orbs from her palms and flung them outward.
A stray orb splatted onto Crispin, who shimmered and showed as a small, puckered, ashy creature. The crowd gasped and shrank
from him, while Isolde Fenlow frantically scribbled on a pad of paper.
Bram leaned toward Marigold and whispered, “Is he a creature masquerading as human?”
“No, I think that’s what he’s like on the inside,” she said.
After a beat the shimmer faded.