Page 85 of The Pumpkin Bride

He’d worry about that later.

Today was all about Marigold’s birthday. Which she still did not know that he knew. He raked his hand down his face. He’d figure something out—maybe tell her she talked in her sleep. Which she didn’t. She giggled though, and it was charming.

He stood at the chicken-yard fence, waiting for Marigold.

If all went to plan, he’d stay behind to finish repairing the fence and she’d forage for herbs. In truth, he’d use the time apart to bake the cakes and make the pomegranate frosting. Yesterday’s pomegranate delivery waited in the cabinet—Alfred had cleverly hidden them in a flour bag so Marigold wouldn’t notice.

He was uneasy about her venturing far on her own, but she knew Grimroot Farms and its pumpkin fields, orchard, lake, and wood well. Should anyone cross the threshold, he’d sense it and she could deploy her minimancy powers.

“Jask?” she called as she exited the cottage. “I’m ready.”

Saints, she was beautiful. Her red curls spilled along her shoulders. Under the cloak, she wore the homespun that revealed her ankles. For a moment, he was tempted, but he needed to bake the birthday surprise.

“This split is trickier than I thought it would be, and I’d like to finish it before dark. I need to stay behind.”

She wrinkled her brow. “I really hoped for your company. What if another tree tries to kidnap me?”

“The Leshy and I squared our agreement, and the herbs are not in his territory regardless. This needs to be complete today,” he lied. “I found fox scat in the pumpkin field. Can’t have him getting access to the chickens.”

“Oh. No, I suppose not.” She slid her basket further up her arms. “I’ll be gone for an hour or so—if you finish early, I plan to harvest more goldcaps. I know it sounds odd, but I had an idea for an onion, mushroom, and spiced apple pastry that I’d like to try.”

“No odder than peas-and-mint soup,” he said.

Her laugh startled the chickens. “You’ll never get over that, will you?”

He caught her around the waist and kissed her deeply. “To remember me by. And don’t forget—avoid walking through fairy rings.”

“I promise,” she called over her shoulder.

He waited for her figure to disappear into the wood, then hurried into the cottage. As fast as he could muster, he lit the oven, then removed the bowl where he’d mixed the flour and spices this morning while she slept upstairs. Next, he whipped together eggs and melted butter, then folded it into the batter.

Fuzzle leapt up onto the block to inspect his work.

“She’ll love this, Fuzz.”

The cat meowed and hopped to the floor, uninterested.

After greasing six baking hoops, he placed them on the baking sheet. Next, he carefully filled them halfway with batter, then slid the sheet into the oven and flipped the sandglass.

Now for the frosting.

From the cabinet, he withdrew the pomegranates and set about splitting one for the seeds. When they were teenagers, he’d questioned her love of the fruit. The memory replayed in his mind’s eye as though he were watching it happen today.

“First of all,” she’d said as she cut into it with her gardening knife. “You clearly don’t know your Greek mythology.”

“Try again. Persephone, Hades, Demeter, winter. Chew on that.”

“Fine, you know your mythology.”

“Thank you for recognizing my greatness. Pomegranates are a lot of work for an insubstantial reward.”

“Insubstantial?” She dribbled gem-like seeds into a small dish. “This is a treasure chest of delight. A trove. A hoard.”

“Your tutor’s been teaching synonyms again, I see.”

“Perhaps.” She pushed a dish toward him. “Try them.”

“No, thank you.” He stubbornly resisted food from the royal kitchens lest he prefer it to the plain, filling food Sir Patrick had taught him to cook.