Page 132 of The Pumpkin Bride

“We could take our time.” Mama pulled a leaf from her hair. “Tidy up a bit?”

Marigold giggled. “This isn’t rushed, Mama.” She reached for his hand. “I’ve wanted to marry Bram since . . . always. From the moment Sir Patrick brought him to May Day and we played tag.”

“You could—” the autumn sprite swirled his fingers together “—and I’m just throwing it out there—you could ask your old magical friend to sort some wedding duds, if you like?”

“Give me one second.” Marigold climbed atop the nearest table. “Excuse me, everyone? Excuse me.”

A few faces turned her way, but most of the festival goers remained locked in chatter, laughter, or jigging with the minstrels’ latest tune. She took a deep breath, then cupped her hands around her mouth. Before she could shout, Barnaby joined her on the table and split the air with his shriek.

All eyes turned toward Marigold.

“Thank you, Barnaby.” To the crowd, she shouted, “You’re all invited to our wedding, starting in five minutes.”

The crowd erupted into a cheer.

Bram helped her down from the table. “Are you sure?”

“Sure isn’t the half of it.” She leaned forward and kissed him. “I am rooted, Bram. In you, this place, our life.”

“Ah, ah, ah, you two.” Brother Oswald shook his finger. “Save it for the altar. Speaking of which, what will serve as the altar?”

She and Bram looked at each other.

In unison, they said, “The heartwood tree.”

“Lead me there?” Brother Oswald said to Bram.

“See you soon.” Bram kissed her knuckles.

As soon as Bram was out of sight, the autumn sprite cracked his knuckles. “Okay, Red, you ready for this?”

“Go for it,” she said.

The autumn sprite wiggled his fingers, then tapped her on the forehead. From where he made contact, gold, crimson, and orange sparkles swirled around her like a gentle rain. As the magic drizzled, twisted, and turned, her dress changed from the simple homespun and headwrap to a body-skimming ivory confection adorned with autumnal flowers.

Mama folded her hands over her heart. “That is a gown fit for a princess.”

The sparkles leapt from her hem, then flew and wheeled like a flock of starlings over the farm. In their wake, they left an amber trail of floating lights, marking the path toward the orchard.

“Shall we?” Papa said, offering his arm.

“Wait—sister, your bouquet.” Rowan clipped a dozen sunflowers from the blaze that stood at the edge of the pumpkin patch and tied them with his handkerchief.

Her eyes shimmered at the gesture. “Thank you.”

The crowd advanced before her, and in five minutes’ time, she and her family arrived at the orchard. The sweet scent of apple filled the air. The crowd split, making space for her to find her groom.

Rowan escorted their mother to the front of the crowd. Marigold’s eyes followed them and led straight to Bram. The autumn sprite’s magic had transformed his clothing to ivory finery, but still with a blue shirt to accentuate his beautiful eyes. When they locked gazes, his face was full of joy. It was like she could see all versions of him at once, smushed together into one delicious person: the seven-year-old boy, the teenager, the young man, the orc, and now this new version, with finer lines and longer hair.

Saints, she couldn’t wait to love the versions yet to come.

The minstrels played the start of the traditional wedding march, and Papa patted the hand she’d slipped into the crook of his elbow. This moment, right here, was the dividing line between the last version of herself and the new, and she couldn’t wait for her chrysalis.

“May I offer you some advice, Marigold?” her father asked.

She nodded. “Please do.”

“There are many people who will tell you marriage is work,” he said. “That may be true for them. But with your mother—I’ve never felt it was a burden because love makes the so-called work easy. Never take the love for granted.”