Page 2 of Bewitched By the Pumpkin Queen

I sigh dramatically, but I can't maintain the charade of annoyance when my heart swells with such fondness for these two impossible creatures in my kitchen.

I turn toward Jasper my hands finding the solid warmth of his chest through his worn flannel shirt as I tip up on my toes to kiss his cheek. “Third degree burns or not, don’t go thinking this gets you out of carving duty. We need to make sure everything is ready before the festival.”

He surrenders with a hands-up gesture, smirking. “You drive a hard bargain, Mrs. Nightshade. But I accept my fate.”

“Good man,” I say, snuggling into his side for a rare, brief slice of stillness.

It’s these quiet, messy, love-stained moments I wish I could bottle and keep forever, but even I don’t possess that kind of magic.

The morning is already swelling with To-Do’s and Should-Already-Be-Done’s, so I don’t let myself bask in the domestic glow for long. I step away from Jasper's warmth with a sigh, then twirl my index finger in a lazy spiral. The apple tarts rise from the cooling rack, performing a cinnamon-scented conga line across the countertop before diving one after another into the paper boxes I found at that whimsical little crafts shop on Newbury Street last month.

“No rest for the wicked.” Jasper chides, buzzing around me as he swipes two more tarts from the box with a wink.

I flick his hand away from the box with a laugh. "If you keep eating the merchandise, we'll have nothing left for the festival."

"Consider it quality control," he says, taking an exaggerated bite. “Can’t have my wife’s reputation tarnished by subpar pastries."

"Right, because you're so selfless." I roll my eyes, trying not to smile as I continue packing. The familiar rhythm of our banter feels as comforting as my favorite sweater. "I still need to enchant the miniature pumpkins to dance along the fence line. Care to join me?"

"You know I can't resist watching you work your magic," he says, and the genuine warmth in his voice makes my cheeks flush despite myself.

“Gross.” Whiskers comments as he hops onto my shoulder, his tiny paws still covered in sticky melted sugar.

“Shut it, rat.” Jasper warns.

“I’ll have you know I am technically a weasel.” Whiskers snaps, tail flicking indignantly.

“Seriously,” I laugh, pushing open the front door. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with the two of you.

Maybe I’ll just let them squabble until they both dissolve into puddles of sarcasm and glucose.

The idea isn’t without its charm.

The crisp autumn air carries the scent of fallen leaves and distant woodsmoke as we step into our sprawling pumpkin patch. The morning fog still clings to the ground in wispy tendrils, curling around our ankles like affectionate cats.

"We should have about fifty more ripening today," I say, crouching beside a promising vine. "If I can coax them along."

Jasper nods, surveying the field with eyes that see more than mine ever could. His werewolf heritage gives him vision that can detect the subtlest shifts in color, the earliest signs of disease or perfect ripeness.

"The ones on the western edge need your touch," he says, pointing to a distant corner of the patch. "They're struggling with the shade from the oak trees."

I roll up my sleeves, feeling the familiar tingle in my fingertips as I summon my magic. "Let's start there, then. The fence line can wait."

We walk between the neat rows, Whiskers scampering ahead, occasionally diving beneath the broad leaves with excited squeaks. The western edge looks anemic compared to the rest of the patch. The pumpkins are much smaller, their color more yellow than orange.

"Poor babies," I murmur, kneeling in the soft earth. I place my hands on the nearest vine, to better feel the life pulsing within the plant. "You just need a little encouragement."

I send my magic through my palms, gold sparks trailing from my fingers and along the vines like electric current. The plants respond immediately, quivering as if in delight. The vines thicken, strengthening their grip on the soil. Leaves unfurl, reaching toward the sunlight with renewed vigor. The pumpkins themselves swell visibly, their skin deepening from pale yellow to rich, burnt orange.

"That's my girl," Jasper murmurs behind me, his voice filled with quiet pride.

My heart does cartwheels.

I stand, brushing the dirt from my knees as I admire my handiwork before continuing down the row. As we walk, I trail my fingers over the plants, whispering encouragement as I brush by. The third row yields to my touch, twenty pumpkins swelling from sickly yellow to deep burnt orange beneath my fingertips, their vines strengthening as they drink in my magic.

Jasper occasionally carries off the largest pumpkins four or five at a time, his biceps straining against his sleeves with a sound like fabric protesting for its life. He hums under his breath, sometimes a low wolfish growl, sometimes a silly tune from a cartoon neither of us will admit to loving.

We are almost done when he taps his foot on a massive specimen. "This one," he says, "is going to be our centerpiece for the display at the town square."