Page 52 of The Pumpkin Bride

Barnaby’s muted rooster call heralded their return home.

Around the back of the house, in the courtyard, Bram set the picking bag on the trestle table. “I’ll get the press if you sort the apples—firmer ones for baking, softer ones for cider.”

As he wrestled the press, buckets, trough, and keeve into place, Marigold divided the fruit. She took greater care than he would, but she’d always been more particular. From the cottage, he grabbed two chopping knives, then joined her at the table to help wipe the apples clean of debris.

“Is it okay if they’re bruised?” she asked.

“Perfectly fine.” He handed her a knife. “They’ll sweeten the cider. The cider apples don’t need to be chopped neatly. A rough crush is better for the pressing.”

Between them, they made short work of the apples. Her knife skills had improved dramatically these last few days. Her color, too. Days spent working out of doors had transformed her pallor into a rosy glow. With her lip tucked between her teeth, she was beautiful in her concentration.

Her nose wrinkled. “Ew, ew, ew!”

Marigold pushed away an apple occupied by a wriggling worm.

“I’ll rescue you.” He hurled offending pieces into the chicken yard, then swept the mountain of chopped apples into the bucket. “Now, we give these a mash to help them to give up the juice faster. Grab one of those boards.” He gestured toward scrap from last season’s fence rail repairs.

“No wonder farmers are content.” She jabbed the board into the chopped apples. “You can take your frustration out on all your chores.”

She wasn’t wrong.

When Crispin had first discarded him here, he’d been wound tight. Between a life as a hired sword and the curse, he’d spent many of those first days shaking his fists at his fate. Eventually, he’d picked up a spade and hadn’t looked back. Working the land, tapped into the seasons and currents . . . there was peace in it.

Marigold’s soul seemed more settled, too.

An apple chunk flew from her masher and hit him in the chest.

“Sorry.” Her laughter startled the chickens. “That one fought back unexpectedly.”

He grunted and flicked it back to the bucket. “These are ready for the press.”

From inside the bucket with the holes punched in the bottom, he withdrew a linen sack. With two quick shakes, the sack billowed open, and he tucked it into the waiting bucket. “The linen keeps the mash separate from the cider. Dump the apples in here,” he said. “Then we load it into the press.”

The sinews in her tanned forearms flexed as she upended the bucket. The destroyed apples fell into the lined one he held steady. “It smells good,” she said, “but resembles vomit.”

“Can we not discuss vomit?” he asked.

“Do you have a queasy stomach?” she asked.

He fitted the linen-lined bucket into the press above the collection pan. “No. I just don’t like that word.”

His tusks scraped his top lip as he clamped his mouth shut. Bram also didn’t like that word. Plenty of people didn’t, but he must be more careful.

Her eyes flicked to him, and she tilted her head. “Duly noted. Any other words to avoid?”

“Oh, no, I’ll keep that to myself—thanks.” He placed the empty bucket below the drainage hole of the collection pan. “You must think me a fool. I’ve spent enough time with Princess Marigold of Thornwick to know that you’ll pepper every conversation with those words.”

“What?” She fluttered her eyelids and pressed her splayed fingers to her chest. “Me? I am all innocence.”

“You’re all mischief.” He turned the crank on the press.

“And you adore it,” she teased.

He did but could in no way admit it. Instead, he focused on turning the crank until the keeve filled with rich, amber cider.

Her eyes went wide and bright. “This is strangely satisfying.”

He reversed the crank to lift the press. “Grab the bucket of pulp and scoop it into Paloma’s trough. Be careful—the pulp is moist. Really moist. The moistest pulp ever.”