Page 79 of The Pumpkin Bride

Alfred called back, “Indeed I would!”

Marigold rose to scoop another serving of soup into a bowl, added a biscuit on a plate, and set it on the table. As she upended the pitcher of the cider she and Jask had pressed two weeks ago, bubbles rioted into a light foam in the waiting tankard.

By the time she’d set his portions on the table, Alfred entered the house. “Welcome, Alfred. Any news from town?”

Jask closed the door and tucked a small sack of flour into the cupboard.

“Not much. The festival’s still canceled, but no new wedding date’s in sight.” Alfred hung his hat by the door. “Seems the princess’s ague has worsened.”

“That’s all it is?” Marigold asked. “An ague?”

“Rumors run wild. The townspeople have diagnosed her with everything from melancholia to plague. I’m taking bets on ergot exposure. Rémy the baker sold some bad rye lately.” Alfred slathered his biscuit with herbed butter. “He can’t compare to your delicious goods, Miss Meg.”

Much could change when she put her mind to it—a month ago, she couldn’t bake a bean.

“Thank you,” Marigold said.

“To the princess’s recovered health.” Jask held his tankard aloft, and both Alfred and she clanked theirs with his.

From behind her tankard, she glared while he hid a snort. The honeyed fizz of the bright cider gently prickled her tongue. Unlike the orc-strength cider, this was meant to refresh, not blind, the drinker.

“That’s nice.” Alfred sniffed his cup. “What do you call it?”

“It’s Miss Meg’s Hollowsnap Red–cider recipe,” Jask said. “She calls it Crankle’s Finest. Light enough to enjoy at midday without compromising the afternoon’s work.”

“Would you like to take some with you?” Marigold asked. “We pressed far too much, and it would be a shame for it to go to waste.”

“I’ll take you up on that, if you’re sure,” Alfred said.

Marigold spooned up her soup, then blew on it. “We’ll call it a fair trade for your reporting.”

The rest of the meal passed with tales of the market’s quieting business and mounting frustration with Crispin’s stance on trade, and laughter as Jask stoically endured Fuzzle’s leap onto his lap.

When his soup was gone, Alfred folded his napkin and placed it beside his dishes. “I need to get going to my other stops. Thanks for your hospitality, friends.”

Jask stacked their dishes. “I’ll get the firkin.”

In the courtyard, Marigold and Alfred watched Jask dip a pitcher into the light cider barrel, then pour it into the firkin’s funnel.

“You’re good for him, you know,” Alfred said. “I’ve been out here every week, sometimes more, for three years. It’s hard to tell with orcs, but this last month’s the happiest I’ve seen him.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” she said. “He’s lovely but easily misunderstood.”

“On that, we agree. At first, I stopped here out of habit—the previous farmer, Halvard, and I were good friends, rest his soul. Gruff as your fellow is, he struck me as a solid sort. Capable, and set much of Grimroot’s disrepair to rights. Busy as all get-out, like he was trying to escape his own mind. He’s calmed, though.” Alfred fiddled with the brim of his hat. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, Miss Meg, but for Jask’s sake, I hope the princess never, ah, recovers from the so-called ague and you stay here with Jask.”

Sweat prickled Marigold’s brow. “I don’t know how that’s related.”

Alfred chuckled. “Don’t you, though? You needn’t worry. I’m the only one who knows you’re here, and I’m no gossip.”

“That’s demonstrably false.” She bumped shoulders with him. “Every time you’re here you tell us the latest from Harvest Hollow.”

“Well now, that’s just making conversation.” Alfred winked. “But what I see in the hinterlands stays out here. Especially with your fella. It’s my personal life philosophy never to piss off an orc.”

Jask tapped a stile into the side of the firkin, then hoisted it onto his shoulder. As they walked around the cottage to the front yard and the cart, he said, “You’ll want to store this on its side. The cider’s still fermenting a bit, so I didn’t plug it.”

He wedged it amid the other goods to reduce jostling on Alfred’s journey back to Harvest Hollow proper.

“Thanks, friend.” Alfred untethered his horse from the maple in the front yard. After he seated himself in the driver’s box, he tipped his cap. “Till next week.”