Page 128 of The Pumpkin Bride

“What’s that?” Grindlethwack cocked his head to one side.

“Crispin’s knights stand between the Lantern Oak and the farm.”

“And you’d like me to kill them?”

Marigold covered her mouth. “Saints, no. Let their eyes not see us.”

“Blind them, then?” Grindlethwack rubbed his hands together.

“No,” Marigold huffed. “Don’t hurt them at all. Render us not visible to them.”

“Oh, sure, that I can do.” Sparkles swirled around them. After a brief shimmer, they saw through each other to the magical wood surrounding them. The sprite flew ahead, wings fluttering, and his glowing body lighting the way.

“He’s nicer than I remember.” Bram’s warm hand found hers.

“Because I fed him treats.” She squeezed his hand. “Always take treats.”

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.”