Page 102 of The Pumpkin Bride

“How do you mean? I shouldn’t like to cross him.”

Bram crossed his arms over his chest. “I suspect he’ll return on the prince’s orders. Crispin typically bloodies his hands by proxy, and he was . . . dissatisfied with the search of Grimroot Farm the night Princess Marigold disappeared. I wouldn’t be surprised if he seeks another opportunity to ransack my homestead via Kevin.”

With his brow lowered, Coby scratched his jaw. “But you said the princess is not here.”

“I stand by that,” he said. “As part of the prince’s guard, the less you know, the better. All I’m asking is if you notice or catch word that Kevin is planning another visit to Grimroot Farm, send word to me.”

“That I can do. But how? Sending a messenger would raise suspicions, wouldn’t it?”

“The royal falconer,” he said. “Garrick Hale. He and I were friends once—hunted together on our off days. He loathed the prince.”

“Based on the comments he utters under his breath, he still does.”

Bram was oddly comforted that despite the years he’d lived in seclusion on the farm, some things remained as they were in Harvest Hollow.

Coby wrinkled his forehead. “But falcons are birds of prey, not messengers.”

“These are. Garrick trains them to deliver messages because Crispin prefers their look. Says they are more intimidating than pigeons. He pays a mage a monthly sum to work a spell that makes them fly true along ley lines.”

Coby rolled his eyes. “What a waste of money and magic. All for aesthetics?”

“That, unfortunately, is how Crispin makes most of his decisions. He slots people into places based on their looks and not their merit.” Bram tossed Coby a silver sou from the stash he’d earned from the cider sale to Elenor. “Grimroot Farm’s cottage is a nexus point for ley lines. Pay Garrick to send the falcon screaming when Kevin makes a move. I’ll hear it.”

Coby offered his hand. “You have my word.”

Chapter 30

A twig cracked to Marigold’s left. She held her fingers aloft, ready to snap herself small and hide. Ah. It was Fuzzle. That was odd. Fuzzle was less of a fan of the out-of-doors than she’d been when they first escaped the castle.

“What are you doing out here? Are you worried about me, too?”

Fuzzle meowed, twitched his ears, then shot off into the underbrush. Okay, then. Not worried. Bored, more like.

Marigold swooshed through the fallen leaves carpeting the path, then paused to review the rough map she’d drawn this morning. She was not far from the goldcaps tree. Based on the adjustments Bram suggested this morning, the Lantern Oak should be across the brook.

The trees held their breath as she leapt across the gurgling water.

She wobbled for a moment on the bank but caught her balance.

“Ha!” She pumped her fists. “No distressed damsel here.”

She stepped forward, and hell. Her left-turn shoe stayed behind, sucked from her foot by the squelching mud. She crouched and reached, but the shoe lay beyond her fingertips. Minimancy wouldn’t help here, nor would true face.

A stick, on the other hand . . .

Marigold grabbed a fallen branch and wiggled it into her boot, then coaxed it free. The boot popped from the muck and straight into the brook. As the water swept it away, she swore she could hear it laughing at her.

“Damn it all,” she muttered.

No matter. She’d make this work.

Her gait was uneven as she pushed through the flexing scrim of willows branches. The papery leaves caught in her hair and whispered along her cloak.

“Pthtt.” She spit out a leaf that found its way into her mouth.

Once again, she loved being outdoors adjacent, but the actual out-of-doors, however, could rot. She paused to brush the leaves and burrs from her skirts. The stubborn vegetation refused to fall free.

She’d deal with it later, back at the cottage.