Page 36 of The Pumpkin Bride

“You all right there, Jask?” Alfred asked. “You’re looking a little green. A different green, I mean.”

Jask shook it off. “Fine.”

“Don’t worry, Jask. The pumpkins will enlarge with no trouble.” Marigold touched his biceps, and saints, the fire caused by her touch whipped through him.

This was intolerable.

“I’m not worried,” he ground out.

She popped her hand on her hip. “You look worried.”

“How can you tell?” Alfred joked. “He always looks like a vulture shat on his breakfast to me. If you’ll pardon my language, Miss Meg.”

As though she was the one he insulted?

“Pardoned. And if you really want to know how I can tell he’s worried, look there—” she pointed to the bridge of Bram’s nose “—a crease that could hold an acorn between his eyebrows.”

Bram snort-hmphed. Hard. He’d like to tell Marigold she couldn’t possibly know what a worried orc looked like because she barely knew him. But then that would contradict what he’d told Alfred about her being a childhood friend. Now he wasn’t worried, he was mad.

“Can you restore the pumpkins?” he asked impatiently.

She snapped thrice, and the pumpkins swelled to their full size with another impressive display of blue sparks. The cart lurched and sagged with the sudden weight, and Alfred held tight to the startled horse’s traces. The control she had over this magic, much as he distrusted it, gave him an idea about her request for a bath.

“You’re a hoot, Miss Meg,” Alfred said. “This is the most fun I’ve had at this stop since Jask moved in.”

Hadn’t been aware he was supposed to entertain the carter.

She curtsied. “Happy to be of service. How often do you pass by, Alfred?”

“Every few days, minimum once per week. I cart mail, packages, and goods to town for those who can’t go themselves, then bring back their profits. You ask around—there’s no one fairer than me.”

“I believe it,” she said.

Alfred withdrew his pipe from his shirt pocket. “Anything you all need next week besides the usual?”

“Vinegar,” Marigold said. “And house slippers? I forgot mine, and the mornings are chilly.”

Bram pressed his lips together. He’d stoke the fire harder this evening. Might mean sleeping in his braies, but it’d be worth it for her comfort.

“Anything else?” His pipe’s bowl glowed orange as he drew in the smoke.

“Do you carry letters?” she asked.

“Yes, miss, but only along my route. Any farther and you’ll need to hire a carrier. If that’s the case, I know some reasonable fellas.”

Marigold nodded. “Thank you.”

Letters originating from Grimroot Farm were an exceptionally bad idea. Paid carriers hardly respected the sanctity of the seal. If they opened it and could identify her by name, content, or handwriting, they’d earn far more coin alerting the palace guard to her location than they would successfully delivering the letter. Bram would argue with her about the insecurity of correspondence after Alfred left.

“For next week, what do you think?” Bram asked. “The same number of pumpkins? Or more? We’re getting close to the festival.”

Which happened to be his best sales of the season.

“Maybe none.” Alfred shook a few more dried dreamleaf buds into his pipe. “Rumor’s going around that the royal family’s canceling it.”

Marigold tilted her head. “What’s the festival?”

“The Goldenmoon Festival’s our harvest celebration, Miss Meg.” He struck a match and dipped the flame into the pipe’s bowl. “Three of the best days of the year. Corn mazes, pumpkin carving, candied apples, cider presses—the works. It’s capped off with dancing and bonfires under the full Hunter’s Moon. The royals host it, but they say planning the prince’s wedding calls for all the local resources and laborers.”