Page 33 of The Pumpkin Bride

Marigold laughed despite her breath juddering in her chest. “Okay, but remember you asked for it. I loved him so deeply that I don’t . . . I don’t work without him. He was tender but never let me take myself too seriously. He’d bring me small tokens and treats, things to let me know he was thinking of me when we weren’t together. A sunflower, a vanilla cake, an exquisite lace kerchief. Nothing that would reveal our relationship to those who’d frown upon it. But it was enough for me.”

The lump that swelled in her throat choked off her words.

Jask handed her a fresh linen handkerchief. “He sounds like he was constant.”

“He was.” She sniffled as she gripped the cloth. “The thing I ache for is having a shared language, someone to whom I can tell all my thoughts, brilliant and silly. He knew I loved him, so I have no regrets on that front, but . . . my world is dim without him in it.”

“Did he die recently?” Jask asked.

“Depends on what you mean by recent. Three years, and I’m not sure I want to stop grieving. Missing him means he’s still here in some way. Does that make sense?”

“Some,” he says.

She blew her nose. “When his squire brought the news to us, I didn’t believe it, because they didn’t bring home a body. So, I thought the knights of Harvest Hollow must have had it wrong—that he was missing and they were pessimists. When the guard held a modest funeral, I was angry. I thought if we kept faith and hope, he’d return to us. To me.”

“What changed?” he said.

She’d never confessed this before. Not even to the clerics.

“Eventually, Prince Crispin paid us a visit. In a private meeting, he gave me Bram’s half of our locket.” She withdrew the necklace she kept close to her heart. “He hadn’t sent it with the squire because he guessed I wanted our affection to remain discreet. Bram would’ve throttled anyone who attempted to take it from him. There could be no doubt he was gone.”

She dropped the pendant back under her kirtle.

Jask started to speak, then stopped and thinned his lips. The fact that he spoke few words made her eager to hear whatever he was fighting to say. Would an orc, reputed to be creatures of low empathy, offer her comfort?

“He could . . .” Jask’s jaw bulged with clenched teeth until he cleared his throat. “He could yet be alive, Princess. You said it yourself. There was no body.”

No, there was no comfort in that.

Marigold held up her hand. “Please don’t. Hope hurts. If I accept his death, at least I can function and find some muted joy in life. If I thought he was out there somewhere and waiting for me . . . that would be torture.”

Jask’s shoulders tensed. His face clouded, then cleared. He turned his back to her, then lifted the lid on the pot. “So, we’ll agree your true love is dead and dusted, then.” The lid clattered where he dropped it onto the counter. “Add the barley and the beans. Should be ready in a half hour.”

Marigold blew out her lips. She’d annoyed him again. By talking about Bram, though he’d asked her to? Or in refusing Jask’s suggestion that Bram’s alive? That made no sense at all. They were not friends—why would he care about Bram or how she grieved?

No, pain from his injury was the likely culprit for his temper.

The shrieking kettle inspired her. Instead of rosemary and honey, she’d fashion something stronger. “I’ll make a willow-bark draught. After you drink it, your hand will feel much better.”

She hoped she was right.

Chapter 9

Bram sat in one of his rocking chairs on the cottage’s porch. He’d fashioned the pair to enjoy the view of the pumpkin fields and, beyond them, the sunflower patch. Who the second one was for, he had no idea. But crafting a single chair had seemed too sad.

The breeze carried the scent of apples from the orchard, reminding him to fill a basket soon. With Marigold staying here, he’d need more food.

Two weeks. He could make it that long.

“Drink your draught,” Marigold yelled from the side yard. “I’ll secure the chickens.”

Bram twisted his lips. From the small table between the chairs, he lifted the steaming willow bark. This was the second draught she’d made him today. He grimaced. The liberal amounts of honey and cinnamon she’d added took the edge off the bark’s bitterness, but it was still as pleasant as chewing chalk.

What a damned strange day this had been.

After her tears, their midday meal had been tense and silent. He was angry, but not at her. Never at her. While they cooked the pottage and she’d spoken of Bram, it was like attending his own funeral and all he could do was offer her a fresh handkerchief. His one true love had sat across the table from him, and he could reveal nothing.

Monstrously unfair.