Page 46 of The Pumpkin Bride

“About what?” she asked. “Tell it to me plain—I insist.”

“Farm duties. There are the normal, everyday tasks that I showed you yesterday. I milked Queen. She would have been in pain had I not. But now I am the one in pain.”

Her chest tightened with guilt. “I’m sorry. I should’ve woken earlier and done it for you.”

“Keep your apology—I’m partly to blame. Shouldn’t have given you the cider, and I should’ve woken you. What’s done is done. But I realized the rhythm of the work is all in my head, and you’d benefit from a list. Can you write it down?”

Relief flooded through her. “You’re not kicking me out? When I arrived, you were insistent that I leave the next day.”

“No, I’m not kicking you out. Not so long as this throbs.” He lifted his hand.

The willow bark seemed less bitter. “Do you have ink and parchment?”

He nodded, then pushed up from the table. With his back turned, she was free to admire the linen shirt’s drape over his broad shoulders. He rustled through his desk, then returned with a quill, inkhorn, sand, and parchment. Another thing the fairy tales got wrong—orcs were portrayed as creatures of war, not letters.

Lucky for her, as she had letters to write.

“Here.” He pushed the writing materials toward her. “We’ll draft the daily chores first, then the ones fixed to certain days of the week. Are you ready?”

She trimmed the quill with her knife and cut a fresh slit. “Yes.”

As he dictated the schedule and she transcribed, the quill scratched against the parchment. At the end of twenty minutes, it was filled with a tidy—and extensive—schedule.

“That’s a lot of work,” she said.

He stretched. “That’s running a farm. Anything you want to add?”

She scanned her handiwork. Baking, both bread and pies, was on the schedule for tomorrow. Laundry was later this week, as was splitting and stacking firewood. Though the pain was receding, a twinge forked across her temple.

“Cider,” she said.

“I would’ve thought you’d had your fill.”

Under a new column titled Other, she wrote, Pressing cider. “I have, but I’d like to press a lighter vintage so I don’t feel like this again while I’m here. Ooh, and braiding onions and garlic. I saw them in the root cellar. Genius way to store them and save space.”

“Cider takes longer,” he said. “That’s all you want to learn?”

“For now,” she said. “I’m sure I don’t know what I don’t know, and the list may grow. But I’m not completely useless. I already know how to sew, sweep, gather herbs. Dishes as well.” Her face lit up. “Oh, there is something else.”

She added, Carving pumpkins, Dancing.

“Those aren’t really chores. But your jack-o’-lanterns were amazing. We should replace the ones Crispin’s knights destroyed.”

“And the dancing?” The divot appeared between his scrunched brows. “A princess who doesn’t know how to dance is like a knight who can’t mount a horse in armor. I can’t believe you need me to show you the steps.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” She flapped the feathery part of the quill at him. “I know stiff courtly dances. But townsfolk always look like they have way more fun dancing during festivals. That’s what I want you to teach me, assuming you know them?”

Jask dipped his chin. “I do, in fact. Anything else?”

“Building a gazebo, eventually.” Yes, she was adding Gazebo to the list. “You must have noticed the farm is crying out for a gazebo. Between the pumpkin patches and the meadow, near the sunflowers. It would be perfect for reading or al fresco meals and would make a natural stage for any minstrels.”

His snort sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “You’re a constant surprise, Princess.”

She scattered fine sand across the parchment to soak up the excess ink. “While you’re in a state of surprise, I need to share my plans for removing myself from Grimroot Farm. Once you’ve healed, of course.”

The scrunchy ridges returned to his forehead. “But you’ve been begging to stay. And it’s not safe on your own.”

“Agreed, which is why I’d planned to ask you to escort me.”