Page 103 of The Pumpkin Bride

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?”