Page 64 of The Pumpkin Bride

With a mighty swipe of his axe, he cleaved the creature’s foot from its leg. Sap sprayed across Marigold’s face. Ew, ew, ew. This was doing naught for her dislike of forests.

The hobbled tree man fell to its knees.

She wiped the sap from her lips with the back of her hand. “What is that thing?”

“The Leshy.” Jask brought his axe down on its wrist this time. “Can you shrink him?”

She snapped her fingers to rain down the sparks. “The magic doesn’t last long on him. I don’t know why.”

“All I need is a minute to restrain him so he’ll listen.”

As the Leshy dwindled to twigs, she asked, “Listen to what?”

“Me.” He picked up the flailing creature in a language of sounds that cracked like split timber and hissed like wind through a canopy far above.

She understood none of it and somehow all of it at once. Jask knew the Leshy, or at least he knew its kind, and this was a negotiation. After a few minutes, he set the creature down, then took several steps back as it regained its height. Its missing foot and hand had regrown, too.

With a nod to Jask, the creature disappeared in a swirl of leaves.

Jask turned to her, then plucked a leaf from her hair. “Are you well?”

She was many things, but well was not one of them.

“No. I’m hurt, I’m scared and befuddled.” She poked him in the chest. Harder than he deserved, but not as hard as she wanted. “What in the five kingdoms is that thing? Do all orcs speak tree? And what knocked you down?”

In the distance, thunder rolled, low and angry.

His chest ballooned with his breath. “I’ll explain at the cottage. The rain’s about to start.”

The heavens opened while they were yet forty yards from the cottage. Marigold glanced in the direction of the thundercrack, tightness climbing from her throat to her jaw. No, she would not let the fear consume her.

Inside, they shucked their shoes and their sodden clothes dripped on the floor. Jask reached behind himself and tugged his shirt off by its scruff, then hung it by the hearth.

Honestly, she should get a prize for not staring. She dashed up the stairs to the loft to change into a dry shift and homespun, then returned with her wet kirtle and shift to hang next to Jask’s clothes. Nothing to be done for her soaking hair, though. The wet tresses would need to dry on their own.

Downstairs, she found him as modestly wrapped in linens as a friar was in wool.

“Mind if I retrieve clothes from the loft?” he asked.

Over the last few weeks, she’d insisted he not move his entire life from his bedroom to the first floor. He kept a few things downstairs—his brushes, braies, and thongs for his hair—but the rest remained neat and tidy in the wardrobe. Which she knew because she might have accidentally opened it to learn more about him.

“Be my guest,” she said.

The wind whistled outside, and the fire flickered in the hearth.

Above her, the floorboards creaked under his feet. She tracked his movements to the armoire, then back to the stairwell. As he descended, he rolled up his sleeves to reveal his forearms. All respect to the women who wanted men who were fair of face and long of limb.

Marigold, apparently, was weak for forearms.

“Better?” she asked.

“Much,” he said. “Though I wish Paloma had returned already. She ignored my calls, but she does love a good wallow.”

“I’m sure she’s happy. She loves an escape more than me.” She dusted her hands together. “Shall we talk as we prepare supper?”

“Yes.” In the kitchen, he reached above her to the infuriatingly high shelf and retrieved the dish for the egg bake she’d planned. “I’ll slice the onion?”

“Please.” Onions made her weep but had no impact on him. “Tell me, please, what is the Leshy? Another friend of yours?”