Page 87 of The Pumpkin Bride

“A firkin, at best, but it belongs to my . . .” He ached to say wife.

“Ward?” Alfred offered.

“Friend,” Bram countered. “She’d be upset to find it gone.”

Elenor nodded her kerchiefed head. “I’ll make it worth your while. We’ve brought back the firkin my customers emptied. The prince’s guard are a thirsty lot. How much are you asking?”

With the lack of pumpkin sales this season, another stream of income would be useful. He did the math in his head—what he’d paid while in her tavern, multiplied by the number of pints that fit in a firkin, compared to what it cost him to produce.

“Thirty sous,” he said.

“Twenty,” she countered.

“Twenty-five.”

“Done.” Elenor stuck out her hand to shake. As she pumped his hand, she looked him in the eye. “Do I know you?”

“No, ma’am,” he said.

“Don’t call me ma’am. Either Elenor or Brewster’ll do, but the husband’s gone, so the ma’am’s gone with him.”

“Yes, ma . . . Elenor. I’m Jask Bone-Cracker.”

So hard to keep a straight face when sharing that name.

She narrowed her gaze. “No, I suppose we haven’t met. I don’t recall meeting an orc, and I never forget a face. Still, though—something about your eyes is familiar.”

“I get that a lot.” He shoved his hands into his breeches’ pockets to hide their trembling.

“Out here in the hinterlands?” She put her hands on her hips and let another laugh rip. “You’re a funny one. Alfred said you never come to town. Why’s that?”

“I’ve got everything I need here.” He gestured for them to follow. “Cider’s in the root cellar out back.”

“Shame you don’t bring your wares to Harvest Hollow. The market’s bustling most days. You’d make a killing.”

Bram opened the root-cellar door, then loosened the barrel’s lid. “I don’t need to make a killing. Just enough to get by.”

“Alfred said you make otherworldly pies, too.”

“And bread,” Alfred said. “And butter.”

“Sounds like Alfred talks a lot,” Jask grumbled, shooting Alfred a look.

Elenor elbowed Alfred in the ribs. “He’s got your number.”

“I’m not a gossip, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he said.

Bram and Elenor burst out laughing.

“I see it’s Let’s Be Rude Day here on Grimroot Farm,” Alfred said. “But I’ll overlook it if you have any pie.”

Bram tapped a spile into the firkin, then wrapped it in honeyed cloth to prevent spills. “We have a few slices we can spare. Oh, shite, the cakes.”

He dashed into the cottage and rescued the pans from the oven. Thankfully, they hadn’t burned. More done than he’d like, but he’d cover them with the pomegranate frosting.

At the back door, he shouted, “Come in this way.”

He sliced a few wedges of the pie he and Marigold had made yesterday afternoon. It was a twist on the standard pumpkin pie—they’d finished it with a toasted pumpkin seed and maple-sap topping.