Page 35 of The Pumpkin Bride

“Fine,” he wheezed.

“Never seen you discombobulated before,” Alfred said. “You must be keeping him on his toes, Miss Meg.”

“I guess I am.” She rocked on her feet.

“He could use it.” Alfred drained his mug, then handed it back to Marigold. “That is refreshing, Miss Meg. Thank you. Jask, if you can load up the pumpkins for the market, I’ll be on my way.”

“About that.” Bram palmed his neck. “I still haven’t had a chance to harvest them.”

Alfred twisted his lips. “Ah. Too bad—market’s tomorrow. You’ll miss out this week.”

Too bad was an understatement. When he’d tumbled to the earth as Jask, he’d retained the gold acorns stuffed in his pocket. The cottage and outbuildings had been here, but he’d since acquired everything else—the animals, the materials to expand, the seeds—courtesy of that cursed harvest. Only a morsel of gold remained. Pumpkin and apple sales were supposed to keep him afloat through the winter, but it would be hard to make up for a week’s lost income.

Tension banded around his forehead. “Blood and bones.”

“Can’t we harvest them now?” Marigold asked. “I’ll help.”

Bram held up his bandaged hand. “This’ll slow me down.”

“And I can’t wait long, Miss Meg. Sundown’s around the corner, and the forest’s not fit for nighttime travel. I don’t want to mix it up with the autumn sprite.”

She cast her eyes toward the trees down the road. “There’s really an autumn sprite? I thought that was a fairy tale to keep the children out of the woods.”

“Indeed,” Alfred said. “Any soul that crosses his path is changed for the worse.”

Bram could confirm that but held his tongue.

Marigold eyed the empty cart. “How many pumpkins does your cart hold, Alfred?”

The old fellow glanced over his shoulder. “Forty, give or take?”

“We can make that work.” She touched Jask’s arm, and a sizzle jolted through him. “Get the egg basket,” she said to him quietly. “I’ll shrink the pumpkins, we’ll gather, then I’ll resize them. Easy peasy.”

That . . . would work. He didn’t love the casual use of magic but had little choice.

“Alfred, give us ten minutes, and don’t tell anyone what you’re about to see.”

Alfred shielded his eyes to glance at the sun, nodded, then leaned back in his seat. “Deal, as long as I can get another one of those blackberry-leaf whatnots?”

“Oh, I’m so glad you like it!” Marigold took his emptied mug. “I’ll get you a refill, and Jask, you get the basket?”

By the time Bram returned from the coop Marigold stood at the edge of the field. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. With both hands held aloft, she snapped three times. Blue sparks rained on a quarter of the tidy furrowed patch, and the pumpkins shrank to the size of plums.

“Sweet mercy,” Alfred muttered.

“Yes! I’ve never done so many at once before.” Marigold bounced on her toes, then twisted toward Bram. “I’ll use the apron; you use the basket. First one back with twenty pumpkins wins. Go!”

She arrowed into the field, bending, plucking, and moving down the furrow. With the basket looped over the elbow of right hand, he awkwardly gathered the adorable pumpkins with his left. As a farmer, he always competed against fading sunlight, squeezing in work before the night closed in. This was much more fun. He’d forgotten the joy of trying to outrun, outwit, or outlast an opponent. Once his basket was full, he raced back to the cart where Marigold was already emptying her apron.

“I win!” she crowed as she pumped her fists in the air.

He’d also forgotten how much he disliked losing.

“I wasn’t ready,” he complained.

“Too bad.” She grinned. “Luck favors the sharpened blade.”

He leaned against the cart as grief and nostalgia rolled through him. His foster father, Sir Patrick, had barked that phrase a million times while training up Bram alongside the Marigold’s brothers, Rowan and Beckett. Sir Patrick alternated that nugget of wisdom with For a future king, you need more spine. That last one was only directed to the princes. Bram had heard neither since Sir Patrick died.