Page 121 of The Pumpkin Bride

“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!”