Page 13 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
Not a perfect one or glossy or polished. Just a palm-sized piece with uneven grain and soft curves and a tiny crack along one side. A little crooked. A little raw.
Like us.
The next morning is colder than the last. Dew glistens silver along the fenceposts as I head down the road toward Bramley’s orchard.
He’s already out front when I arrive, sharpening his shears with a mug of something dark and steaming at his elbow. He squints at me, then at the object in my hand.
“Didn’t expect to see you up this early, city boy.”
“Didn’t expect to sleep much.”
“Hmph.”
I hold the carved heart out, the wood still warm from my grip.
“She won’t take it from me,” I say. “But maybe she’ll take it if it comes through you.”
He eyes me, then takes the heart without comment.
“You want her forgiveness?” he says as I turn to leave.
“I want her to know I see the difference now. Between keeping someone safe and keeping them caged.”
Bramley nods, just once. “Good. Because that girl’s got enough thorns of her own. She don’t need yours added to the bunch.”
I walk away with the smell of woodsmoke in my lungs and nothing left in my hands.
But gods willing—maybe she’ll hold what I carved, and feel even just a sliver of the apology I poured into it.
I hope it’ll be enough.
CHAPTER 7
TESSA
By the time I make it to Town Hall for the Harvest Gala planning meeting, I’ve already broken two pencil tips, burned a batch of orange-peel sachets, and told a scarecrow to go straight to the seventh circle of the harvest moon.
It did not respond.
Tara, naturally, finds all of thishilarious.
“You know,” she says, trailing me up the steps in a shawl the color of overripe cranberries, “if you glared any harder at the agenda, the paper might spontaneously combust. Just think—no seating chart required.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I mutter, adjusting the satchel on my shoulder and clutching my tea like it holds my last remaining thread of sanity.
Inside, the meeting room already smells like anxiety and cinnamon scones. The long pine table is littered with fabric swatches, lantern samples, dried flower arrangements, and someone’s half-eaten maple bun. Bramley’s there, sipping cider and pretending not to eavesdrop. Three other council members chat by the window—Mrs. Fenley, always in some shade of lavender; Ewan Larkspur, who overuses exclamation pointseven when speaking; and Ada, the schoolteacher who runs the silent auction and has a suspicious addiction to raffles.
And, of course, Drogath.
He’s leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over that ridiculous chest, looking like a thunderstorm wrapped in a wool coat. The moment I walk in, his eyes lift—burning gold and way too steady—and I swear my stomach does an absolutelytreacheroussomersault.
I straighten my spine.
Smile like a professional.
March over to the table with the same energy I reserve for extracting dried rose thorns from my palm.
“Morning,” I say brightly. “I brought updated vendor notes, a revised cost list for the cider garden, and the willpower not to stab anyone with a corn skewer. Let’s keep it that way.”
