Page 120 of The Pumpkin Bride

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.