Page 71 of The Pumpkin Bride

The stairs creaked under her feet. With a deep breath, she rounded the corner, expecting to find him at the table.

It was empty.

Hmph. Sort of spoiled her dramatic entry.

On the table, he’d left a vase of sunflowers. They grew tall on the other side of the pumpkin patch, so he must have been up and out early. Underneath the vase lay a note.

Sugared oats are in the pot. Back by nightfall.

She blinked at the message.

Once, twice, then burst into laughter. One big argument and this tough, strong orc ran away. She wouldn’t begin to know where to chase him down. With another giggle and a shake of her head, she tied her apron around her waist. As the kettle boiled, she dished out oats, then dug the dried silphium from her herbal-remedy kit. Once the kettle whistled, she poured the boiling water over the silphium and flavored both the draught and the oats with honey.

While she ate, she read through her fairy tales.

Next, the chores. Keeping busy would keep her mind from Jask.

After scraping the remainder of the oats into the pig trough and opening Paloma’s gate, she collected eggs, then milked Queen. Next, she swept the yard clear of the twigs and leaves that littered the cobbles after last night’s storm.

She peered up at the trees.

Though still heavily garbed in foliage, more patches of the sky were visible betwixt the branches. She tugged her cloak around her shoulders. They were on the cusp of winter.

Next weekend was to have been her wedding day.

She could honestly say she was happier sweeping the courtyard than enduring final fittings for some elaborate golden gown. She gathered twigs into a basket for kindling and took them inside.

What next?

They were also running low on butter, so she climbed atop a stool to retrieve the mason jar and mechanical churn from the shelf. Fuzzle followed her, meowing. He’d grown to sense when a second breakfast might be in the offing.

“Patience, cat.”

She crossed the courtyard to the dairy where she’d stored this morning’s strained milk. The scraped cream went into the mason jar, and she ladled a portion of milk into the flat dish she kept nearby for exactly this reason.

“Enjoy,” she said as she scratched Fuzzle’s ears.

At the trestle table, she capped the mason jar with the crank device. Here, sitting under the bright blue skies and golden leaves, listening to the robins’ birdsong, churning butter they’d enjoy later with bread that she’d baked with her own hands, she was content.

Once the butter and the buttermilk separated, she carried everything back inside. A pinch of salt and herbs mixed into the butter to taste, then she pressed it into the butter crock.

Satisfaction spread through her.

Most of her royal duties were intangible, invisible. Greet this diplomat, attend that party, visit these charities, shake those hands. She had no doubt of the importance of those events, but she couldn’t point to it as a thing she’d accomplished.

Not like she could with this butter.

Queen provided the milk and cream, but without Marigold, the butter wouldn’t exist. She made that. After toasting yesterday’s bread, the butter melted as she slathered it across the slice’s surface.

Heaven.

No sooner had she finished the midmorning treat than Paloma ran across the yard, belly swaying under her. She must’ve been stuffed with the acorns she’d foraged this morning. Chasing her back into the pen was normally Jask’s job, but with him gone who knew where, it would fall to Marigold. From the corner, she grabbed the broom and stepped outside.

“Paloma!” she yelled. “Into the pen.”

She swished the broom toward the pig, who trotted through the open gate. Her contented huff-huff noises made Marigold smile. With all the essential chores complete, she was alone and possessed hours of free time.

Time to figure out what her new magic could do.