Page 25 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights

MADDIE

T he orchard’s all aflutter with the final scraps of autumn, like it’s throwing one last glittering party before winter sweeps through and hushes everything in white.

The apple trees stand nearly bare now, their dark arms stretched out as though waiting for snow to settle gentle across their knobbly shoulders.

A few stubborn leaves still cling to high branches, bright rust and amber, catching every bit of late afternoon sun until they almost glow.

It’s perfect. So perfect it makes me ache right under my breastbone, in that tender spot where all my brightest hopes have been crowding for weeks now.

Because I’ve decided—I don’t need grand. I don’t want grand. I just want him.

So that’s exactly what I plan. A simple wedding, right here among my trees.

The orchard’s been my whole world for so long—full of sticky-sweet summers, rustling golden harvests, and long quiet winters where I dreamed about what could be.

It only feels right to make it the place where everything truly starts.

I’m knee-deep in plans, humming to myself as I sort through bolts of fabric on the long bakery prep table.

Bits of lace and warm russet linen lie scattered like fallen leaves.

Liora’s perched on a stool nearby, peeling apples for turnovers, half-listening, half-pretending not to be completely charmed by my giddy rambling.

“So I was thinking lanterns,” I say, holding up a length of creamy fabric, trying to imagine how it’ll look under moonlight.

“Little floating enchantments that bob just over our heads, you know? Soft like fireflies but bigger. And strings of cloves and dried oranges, so it all smells like warm spice even if the night gets cold.”

Liora snorts, slicing another apple with exaggerated care. “You could wed him under a goat cart and he’d still look at you like you’d personally pinned up the stars just for him.”

My grin stretches so wide it nearly hurts. “Stop it. You’re going to make me start swooning right here, and I still need to finish half a dozen tarts before the dinner crowd comes knocking.”

“Please do swoon,” she teases. “It would liven up my afternoon. Maybe knock a pie onto the floor for good measure.”

But the truth is I feel like swooning most days now. Especially every time I picture Thornak standing under those lanterns, big hands a little awkward at his sides, eyes soft and watchful in a way that’s only ever meant for me.

That’s what gets me to do something I’ve never dared before. I decide to sew his wedding shirt myself.

I’ve never been much with a needle—more likely to stick it under a fingernail than pull a neat stitch. But there’s something that feels… important about this. Like every careful pass of thread is a tiny promise I’m tying right into the fabric.

So that night, after the bakery’s emptied out and the hearth’s crackling low, I set up by the window with a pot of tea and the lantern burning soft. The linen’s a rich, deep moss green—almost the exact shade of Thornak’s favorite flannel, though finer, smoother, meant for special things.

My hands move slow. I work by instinct more than skill, tiny stitches that wander now and then before I pull them back on course. It’s silly, but I talk to the shirt while I sew.

“You’re going to make him look so handsome he’ll scowl for days just to keep the old village biddies from swooning,” I murmur, tugging the thread taut. “Not that it’ll work. He’s the sort of handsome that sneaks up on you—big and quiet and rough-edged until he smiles, and then it’s all over.”

Somewhere around the third row of embroidery—a simple trailing vine along the cuffs—I prick my finger. A bright bead of blood wells up. I stare at it for a moment, heart stuttering, because suddenly it feels like more than just a little mistake. It feels like something binding.

“Guess you’re well and truly mine now,” I whisper to the fabric, pressing the tiny smear into the seam like a secret. “And he’s well and truly mine too, whether he knows it or not.”

Later, I press the finished shirt to my cheek.

It smells faintly of the lavender I tucked into my sewing box—warm, calming, like dreams of long naps together on the orchard porch.

I close my eyes and let myself picture it clearly: Thornak standing under the lanterns, shoulders so broad in this new shirt that the seams will strain just a bit, eyes all dark and nervous and hopeful as he watches me walk toward him.

Stars above, it’s enough to make me dizzy.

The next day, I sneak out into the orchard just after dawn.

The grass is wet and sparkles with frost, each blade tipped in tiny diamonds.

I wander row by row, checking the little hooks I’ve hammered into low branches for the lanterns.

Each one’s got a faint spell tied to it—nothing fancy, just a simple warming charm so they’ll glow gentle and bright even if a cold wind kicks up.

At one point I stop and just stand there, breath puffing in little clouds. The orchard’s so quiet. A robin flutters by, landing on a branch overhead, tilting its head like it’s trying to figure me out.

“I’m getting married here,” I tell it, because why not. “Right here, to the best, grumpiest man I’ve ever known. And I’m terrified, because I want it more than anything. But also? I’ve never felt so sure about something in my entire life.”

The bird chirps once—decidedly unimpressed—and flits off. I laugh, shaking my head.

When I wander back up toward the bakery, Liora’s waiting on the porch, a mug of cider in each hand. She hands me one with a little smirk. “Your face is all flushed. Been daydreaming about your future husband again, haven’t you?”

“Maybe,” I admit, ducking my head, though it doesn’t stop the grin.

She loops her arm through mine, steering me inside. “Good. Because Maddie Quinn, if anyone deserves to glow like a lantern from the inside out, it’s you.”

And that’s what I hold onto. Through all the nerves that bubble up every time I glance at the growing pile of little wedding things—bundles of herbs for the tables, tiny wreaths for the chairs, jars of caramel to drizzle over everything—I keep Thornak’s face in my mind.

That hesitant, overwhelmed way he looks at me now, like he can’t quite believe he’s allowed to want this.

I plan to spend the rest of my life convincing him he is.