Page 99 of The Pumpkin Bride

The frosting was sweet, the honey, pomegranate, butter, and cream perfectly whipped. The cake underneath was moist and spongy, the way Marigold preferred it, even though she’d never use the m-word to describe it.

“My compliments to the chef,” he said.

“You still have frosting on your lips.”

He swept her into his arms, then kissed her. “Now you do as well.”

“How do you . . .” She traced her fingers on his chest. “Feel about returning to the rug?”

“I feel excellent about it.”

And once again, in front of the fire, he wished Marigold a happy birthday.

Chapter 28

Two things became more obvious than ever for Marigold the day after Bram’s revelation.

One, she’d venture to the Lantern Oak to give that miserable autumn sprite a piece of her mind. And two, Prince Crispin could not be allowed to get away with betraying Bram. Ruling through magical threat was a dangerous path that had warped many a sovereign. Though she didn’t want to be queen of Harvest Hollow, she cared about the common folk.

As for that first item . . .

She’d need to check the proportions with Bram, but the map of Grimroot Farm that she’d drawn on a large sheet of parchment seemed accurate. Ostensibly, the rendering would help her visualize the best layout for the Goldenmoon Festival. It served a dual purpose, however, of learning precisely where the imp who’d upended their lives lived. There was the wood, which led to the cottage, the pens, the coop, and the pumpkin fields. Farther down, the sunflower patch, the meadow, the orchard, and beyond that, Coldpress Lake.

Fuzzle leapt onto the table to inspect her handiwork.

“What do you think, Fuzz?” She hovered her hand over the orchard. “Apple picking will be here, obviously. And pumpkin decorating and carving either in or near the pumpkin fields. But what about the dancing? And the vendor stalls?”

The telltale creak of the stairs signaled Bram’s descent. His orc-yawn shook the cottage’s very foundation.

As he came around the corner, she sighed contentedly.

Was there anything more delicious than rolled up shirtsleeves on his muscular forearms?

“Good morning.” With his chest to her back, he slipped his hands around her waist and nuzzled her neck which, if her looking glass was true, featured a lavender love bite. “You’re up early.”

“The festival waits for no one.” She pressed back against him. “I’ve already done the eggs and milked Queen, and Paloma’s living her best life in the woods. Porridge is on the stove.”

“Sounds like I can go back to bed.” He rested his chin on her shoulder, then gestured to her scattered parchments. “What’s all this?”

“A map of your property. I’m trying to figure out the logistics for the festival. We can also make copies for Alfred to take to the city to help people find their way.”

“Trust me, everyone knows how to get to Grimroot Farm.” He kissed her cheek, then released her. “Wayfarers have walked the paths thin. They claim the farm’s energy is magical—something about ley lines, though all I’ve noticed are boulders to pluck out of fields. Coming here’s also a rite of passage for young ones to visit and have me roar at them. But we don’t have to host the festival, Mare. Crispin’s continued search for you worries me.”

“But I don’t want to disappoint the townspeople.”

“They’ll live. Your safety is my greater concern.” He poured himself a mug of her chamomile tisane, then topped up hers. “You’re not worried Prince Crispin’s people—or the prince himself—will attend?”

“I’d be surprised if they did.” Marigold blew the steam from her mug. “What kind of prince skips off to a festival when his lady love lies suffering from an ague that prevents their nuptials? If he and a lance of knights storm the farm, though, I can shrink us in a snap. We have an edge.”

He stirred the porridge pot and ladled out a portion to break his fast. “Still, the unresolved question of your betrothal and the announcement that it’s been delayed, not canceled, feels like a sword of Damocles.”

She beamed at him. “You did study your Greek mythology.”

“The only stories you love more are the fairy tales.” He sat at the table and spooned up porridge.

“Incorrect. Romances first, then fairy tales, then Greek mythology.” She spun the parchment toward him. “Did I get the placement and scale right?”

“It’s close.” Bram tapped his finger on the orchard drawing. “If an inch equals a hectare, then the orchard needs to move an inch to the west. The pumpkin field, the cottage, and the yards are more or less correct. Coldpress Lake should move to the east, maybe an inch and a half. The brook that runs through the wood is a bit farther south. And that’s the wrong spot for the Lantern Oak. It’s farther north.”