Page 3 of The Pumpkin Bride

“A grandiose boast,” Crispin challenged. “But succeed, and I’ll grant you a title.”

“You will?” A title was beyond his dreams. Marigold’s parents would surely grant their permission for her to wed Lord Bram Duncan. Possibly earl?

“I swear it.” The prince placed his hand over his heart and bowed his head. In Harvest Hollow, that signaled a solemn and unbreakable promise. “Now, go. The castle needs repair, and Harvest Hollow will revolt if I raise taxes again.”

Hmph. Repaving the crumbling trade roads or plugging the leaking aqueducts would be a better use of the money, but Crispin had made it clear it was not Bram’s—or anyone’s—place to question his decisions. Sir Patrick had taught Bram that a confident person welcomed a challenge. Not so with Crispin, as the heir apparent was still finding his feet in his regency.

Three years ago, King Clovis, Crispin’s father, had fallen into his dotage and could no longer serve as king of Harvest Hollow. Princess Rosamund, Crispin’s older sister, should’ve taken up the mantle. From what Bram pieced together, Rosamund—overwhelmed by grief and responsibility—had taken to the seaside to balance her humors. This left the regency to the ambitious prince.

It had cost Bram, a Thornwick-trained knight, many pints at the Laughing Gourd to learn the intricacies of Harvest Hollow’s royal intrigues and palace gossip. The investment had served him well, though, as understanding the tensions in the balance of power had helped him win a place in the palace guard and, eventually, a spot in Crispin’s privy guard.

“Tick tock, Bram,” Crispin called from below.

Branches twined around him, providing a plethora of routes to the top. Despite the bark roughing his calloused palms, the tree proved easy enough to climb. Much as he appreciated the amber orbs lighting his way, he wished he could see the Lantern Oak during the day. In full sun its crimson, orange, and bright yellow leaves must’ve resembled fire.

With a final step upward, his head and shoulders breached the canopy.

Dozens, no, hundreds of gold acorns winked between the light of the moon and orbs. Bram swiveled the haversack to his front, then plucked the gold free from the branches. He made quick work of his task, tugging and snapping the acorns free. Once the sack was full, he stuffed a fistful into his pocket with Marigold’s handkerchief and unicorn.

“How’re you getting on, then?” a cheerful voice called to him.

A chubby winged creature who stood three apples tall fluttered above the treetop. The sprite’s wispy clementine-colored hair waved around his head like a shimmering halo. His overalls were neatly tailored soft yellow leaves, though he wore no shoes. Above Bram, he blew clove-scented smoke rings from a pipe the size of Bram’s little finger.

Bram pressed his lips together and stuffed down his surprise at the friendly sprite’s question. As a knight of two realms, he’d encountered plenty of magical creatures. Fairies, werewolves, banshees, basilisks—they all dove for the throat first. Unlike this hovering sprite, whose eyes sparkled with kind curiosity. But he couldn’t be trusted.

“I’m well,” Bram said carefully. “And you?”

“Grand, thanks for asking.” He drew another long pull on his pipe. “So, young fella, how’d you like to proceed?”

“Proceed with what?” Bram asked.

“Ah, now, the battle of wits, of course. I can’t be letting you walk off with forty pounds of gold without putting a riddle to you first. So what’ll it be—up here, or down below?” He gestured toward the earth with his pipe.

“Is there an advantage to moving?”

“No, not really, but I enjoy giving you poor humans the notion that you’re in charge of something. Can’t help myself. Big heart, that’s my trouble. Ready so?”

Bram snapped another acorn from a nearby branch. “For what?”

“Sure and everyone knows riddles are a sprite’s business.” He wiggled his fingers, then drank deeply from a tankard that appeared next to him. “Get it right, and you walk away with the gold. Get it wrong, and I’ll more than likely turn you into some class of fierce unfortunate creature. Standard enough.”

“If I’m cursed, is there a cure?” Bram dropped another acorn into the haversack.

The sprite blew a smoke ring into the air. “Ah, now, I always leave a little door open, so I do. True love, more often than not. It’s my soft spot.”

Bram stroked the locket. “There, I’m well set.”

“Fair play to you.” The sprite flitted closer. “She’s lovely, so she is.”

“Correction, Sprite. She’s beautiful, inside and out.”

“Here’s hoping so. What are you called, handsome?”

“Bram.” He stripped more acorns and filled his back pocket.

“Well now, Bram. Pleased to meet you I cannot say, not with you robbing me blind like this.” The sprite winked. “But you’ve got an earnest look about you, so I’ll tell you truly—this curse is a desperate one. Once you’ve transformed, your identity is your secret to keep forever. Breathe your name, past, or family line to another soul and that soul is gone. Just like that. You can be with your loved ones, aye, but as a stranger to them. Always. A living death, if you will. So. Still want it? Or will you leave my gold and return from whence you came?”

Bram’s pulse thudded harder than a blacksmith’s hammer. It was time for him to couch his lance. All or nothing. No half measures.