Page 47 of The Pumpkin Bride

“I cannot.” The contents of his mug sloshed over the side as he slammed it on the table. If it was chicory, she’d done him a favor. “It’s too—”

“Calm yourself.” She touched her fingers to his wrist. “After observing you these last two days, I know you can’t abandon your animals for the two days there and back.”

“Where is there?” he asked.

She dragged her lower lip through her teeth. The plan had been her secret for weeks, held closer to her heart than her locket. Something shifted in her chest. She could trust Jask with this information. She’d been on the brink of asking him to escort her to the place, hadn’t she?

“Mareval. I’ve a contact there who will shelter me until my rescuer arrives.” She pinched a crumb of tart crust from her plate. “Your cottage was a beacon in the night, Jask, but not my planned destination. May I use your parchment and ink to correspond with my rescuer? He’ll be worried, and Alfred said he could find a carrier for me.”

His shoulders stiffened again. Mercy, what had she said now? He’d been quite clear he didn’t want her staying here for an open-ended period.

“Who is he?”

“My twin brother.” She twiddled the quill. “Before my dash from Brambleton Castle, I’d sent him word—coded so only he’d understand—that I’d wait for him in Mareval. I knew the palace guard would watch the roads betwixt Harvest Hollow and Thornwick. Less so the roads leading south. He’d meet me at my sanctuary, then escort me home.”

“Clever.” The bench creaked as Jask shifted his weight.

“Thank you. You see? I’m not just a pretty face. But now I must send word again, both to his position on the northern front and to Mareval in the event he’s already there. If you’re amenable, I’d like to tell him where I am. Discreetly, of course.”

Jask thumbed the divot in his chin. “Only if I read the letters to ensure they’re coded deeply enough. I must keep my farm—and everyone in it—safe.”

This was a reasonable request.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “Now, let me tend to your hand, then we’ll get started with the day’s chores. The letters will keep until after the animals have been tended.”

If Marigold ignored the fact a horde of knights and an angry prince were looking for her, she was happy in the easy rhythm she and Jask had fallen into over the last few. If she wasn’t mistaken, the orc was warming to her presence. Her clue? When they spoke, he held her gaze with his magnetic brown-and-gold-flecked eyes—a marked improvement from when she’d first arrived and he’d looked above, beyond, or through her.

Perhaps her capable help with the farm while he healed brought about his change of heart? Or the coins she insisted he take for room and board after Alfred declined an additional pumpkin shipment to market yesterday? After slipping the carter the letters to Rowan that Jask agreed were impossible to decipher, Alfred shared the latest Harvest Hollow news and gossip. On the news side, sprite activity had picked up in the Shivering Dales. As for gossip, according to the Harvest Herald’s chronicler Isolde Fenlow, Princess Marigold was suffering from an ague.

Interesting deflection.

Despite the princess’s reported “illness,” her wedding to Prince Crispin remained scheduled for next weekend. A bold feint, as Crispin had no bride. Dangerous, too, as the prince’s bluff likely meant he’d redouble his search for her.

And if that happened . . .

Marigold blinked, then shook her head. No, she was safe here. If found, she’d hide as she did before. All she had to do was stay out of Crispin’s reach until Rowan came for her. She mustn’t overthink it. Much like she shouldn’t overthink bread-making or the fact that flour dusted her from her neck to her hips.

“Shoo, Fuzzle.” She lifted the cat from the trestle table and dropped him to the floor.

Indignantly, he marched toward the hearth, tiny white paw prints in his wake.

She eyed the stubborn dough. “I think I hate baking.”

From where Jask sat reading at the table, he lifted his eyes. “You did well with the pie. The crust held the apples and the pumpkin with integrity.”

“That’s the mouthwatering description I aimed for.” She laughed as she kneaded the dough. “Pie with integrity.”

“It’s quite tasty.” He was eating a slice to conclude his midday meal. “You were right about the rosemary complementing the apple.”

Her chest expanded with his praise. During this fortnight of learning, while his hand healed and she’d taken over much of the cooking, he’d been liberal with his compliments. She soaked up his kind words like wool in a rainstorm. Besides Bram and Jask, the only other person free with praise had been Vera, the cunning woman who’d taught her to control her minimancy.

Not that minimancy helped with breadmaking.

“Glad you’re enjoying it.” Press. Fold. Turn, repeat. “How will I know when I’m done with this part? My arms ache.”

He closed his book. “When it smooths out and is no longer shaggy. It helps to pretend the dough’s an annoying person.”

“That’s good motivation—thank you.” She pressed with renewed vigor. “Prince Crispin Batten-Forge, meet your doom.”