Page 80 of The Pumpkin Bride

As his cart disappeared, Marigold tangled her fingers.

Jask slung an arm over her shoulders. “Something troubling you?”

“How could you tell?”

“Your fingers are knotted tighter than your kirtle’s laces.” Jask squeezed her shoulder. “You do that when you’re anxious.”

She parted her hands, then stared at them. “Do I?”

“You do.” Fuzzle twined himself around Jask’s ankles. The orc scooped him up, then scratched under the cat’s chin. “What’s got your fingers in knots?”

“I really thought they would’ve canceled the wedding and accepted that I was gone by now, or that Rowan would have arrived to escort me home so we can alert our parents to Crispin’s schemes. But now with us, I don’t want to leave . . . and I’m sure this lie about me being ill is to buy time to find me. I don’t like it.”

There. That was all true, but not the whole of it. Nothing about Alfred guessing her identity. And certainly nothing about her new magical ability. She preferred to wait until she knew more about it before sharing it with him. During her brief periods of solitude, she’d lobbed orange orbs at the byre, the trees, and herself, but nothing came from it. If they were simple illuminations, they were useless since they lasted all of ten seconds.

“I admit it would be better if Crispin accepted the situation. But he’s a prideful prick and won’t release you until he sees the advantage in it for him.” He squeezed her shoulder. “They’ve already searched for you here once, and they’ve attempted to conscript magical creatures to find you. If they come ’round again before Rowan comes for you, we’ll handle it.”

She wished she could be so sure. But if Alfred saw the goodness in Jask and how good the two of them were together, perhaps more people would see it as well. Like the common folk of Harvest Hollow. And Rowan. Maybe even her younger brother and parents.

Strength lay in numbers.

Like that fairy tale of the princess protected by seven little people—alone, none of them would have been able to protect her from the evil queen, but together they succeeded.

Marigold tangled her fingers.

Well, not succeeded, exactly. She still ate a poisoned apple, and the little people preserved her until a passing prince could help.

But the point was to survive, they’d need allies.

Chapter 21

Bram’s breath plumed in the crisp air. “Are you sure about this?”

He was game for most physically demanding activities, but he couldn’t believe he’d agreed to this.

“More than sure. Let’s get started.” Marigold rubbed her hands together. “Where do I touch you?”

“You don’t—not yet.” He placed his hands on his hips to survey the courtyard. “Dancing is more fun with music.”

Fuzzle curled up on the chair facing nearest the firepit, his diamond-shaped face swiveling between Marigold and Bram as they faced off.

“Well, we’re fresh out of minstrels.” She tightened her cloak around her shoulders. “Stop stalling. What do I do first?”

“This.” He sketched a bow toward her. “Now you.”

“So respectful.” She curtseyed.

“The respect rarely lasts.” He held out his hand. “This dance is called the Sway. Master it, and you’ll fit right in with any field or folk party. The key is to remember this kind of dancing is faster, more fun, and less concerned about propriety than courtly dancing. Don’t get in your head about it—just have a good time. Ready?”

“As ever.”

With clasped hands, they turned to face the pumpkin fields. “For the one-step version of this dance, start with your weight on your right foot, then step to the left, and bring the right foot to meet it, but in a tapping pose. So, step left, tap with the right, step right, tap with the left.”

She followed along, colliding with him only slightly.

“You know left from right, yes? That’s integral to this dance.”

“Yes,” she huffed. “I only occasionally mix them up.”