Page 89 of The Pumpkin Bride

The boy shimmered as the orbs collided with him. For ten seconds, however, a faint crown rested upon his head. Marigold looked at her hands with astonishment, then back to the boy. Except her magic no longer crowned the knobby-kneed boy.

“What in thunder?” Marigold stared at her unblemished palms. “Those lights didn’t hurt you, did they? Are you well?”

“Yes, mistress. Have you seen my hoop?” He scanned the area near her feet. “It got away from me on the hill.”

Ah, that was what had ripped past her.

“Over there.” Marigold gestured to a curve in the path. “I think it leapt between those trees. What’s your name, lad?”

“Bastien.” The boy crashed into the brush in search of his hoop. His driving stick poked from his breeches’ back pocket. At his age, her brothers had begun their military training. Playing hoop and stick in the woods seemed like a far more reasonable use of a young lad’s time.

“Are you alone out here, Bastien?”

“Maybe. Are you Old Mother Ash?” he asked. “My ma said she lives in the woods and eats little boys who ask too many questions.”

Marigold hid her laugh in her fist. The boy might not have known it, but the words were obviously from a woman desperate to slake her child’s curiosity. She’d not met Bastien’s mother, but she already liked her.

“I’m neither a mother nor old,” Marigold said. “So, no.”

He emerged from the woods, clutching his hoop. “You’re kind of old.”

Hmph.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Mari—” She coughed. “Meg.”

He tapped his hoop with his stick. “Marimeg is a strange name.”

“It’s just Meg.” She shifted the basket dangling from the crook of her elbow. “Where are your parents, Bastien?”

“My ma’s at home updating burial records.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, then pointed up. “And my da’s in heaven.”

Her heart shifted in her chest. This must’ve been the son of the new caretaker at Kindlewood Garden of Rest. The widow Alfred had mentioned a few visits back . . . Marigold sighed. This poor lad was far too young to lose the steady hand of his father.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks.” Bastien shoved his hand into his pocket. “We moved here last month. I don’t know anyone yet. Are you sure you don’t have kids?”

The hope in his voice made her heart pinch. “I’m sure. But now you know me. And my friend has a cottage through the woods. His name is Jask.”

“Are you married?”

“No,” she said. If they were, that would solve one of her current problems. “He’s a great big green orc and the kindest person I know. You can meet him, and then that would be two people you know.”

The boy lifted his shoulder. “I’d rather know kids. Or a puppy?”

Affection washed over her. If she had a puppy, it would be his.

“No luck there, either. But I have a cat, Fuzzle, whom you’re welcome to visit.” She crouched so their eyes were level. “Anytime.”

“Okay.” The hoop bolted ahead as he struck it with the bow stick. “Bye, Marimeg.”

“Bye, Bastien.” She raised her hand to wave at his receding back.

Once he’d disappeared, she lifted her hands to inspect her palms. For minimancy, she kindled the magic by snapping her fingers. She was still learning to control this new power, whatever it was, but it answered her call when she flipped her palm quickly forward.

But what, exactly, did it do?