Page 3 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights

MADDIE

I come out to the orchard bright and early, so early the dew is still pearling on the grass like tiny glass beads and the sun hasn’t quite decided if it wants to be warm yet.

It’s chilly enough that I wrap myself in a thick, oversized cardigan that used to belong to Aunt Hester.

The sleeves are too long and the shoulders are baggy, but it smells faintly of rosemary and cider, and that’s comfort enough.

The place needs me. The orchard looks more neglected by the day, drooping under the weight of untended branches and brambles that have decided this is their personal kingdom now.

Aunt Hester would never have let it get this bad.

She’d have been out here with her old straw hat and muddy boots, humming tunelessly while snipping away dead twigs like she was coaxing them back to life.

So here I am, armed with a pair of rusty clippers, a bushel basket, and a stubborn determination that feels bigger than my actual body.

“Alright, you cranky old trees,” I mutter, patting the rough bark of one twisted apple tree. “Let’s see if we can’t sort you out before the fancy developers come sniffing around with their gold coins and horrible blueprints.”

The tree, for its part, simply creaks in the breeze, dropping a solitary leaf right onto my nose. I laugh, brushing it off.

I get to work clearing away brittle branches and scraping moss off where it’s started to smother the trunks.

It’s slow going—every few feet I get tangled up in another trailing vine that seems personally offended by my presence.

By the time I’ve worked through half a row, my knees are damp, my elbows are scraped, and my basket is brimming with small, blushing apples that smell like September.

It’s satisfying, though. There’s something about watching the orchard slowly shrug off its burden that makes me feel lighter, too. Like if I can keep this patch of the world alive, then maybe everything else will be alright somehow.

Of course, that’s exactly when fate decides to have a laugh at my expense.

I’m dragging a pile of thorny cuttings toward a compost heap when my foot snags on a gnarled root jutting up like a little goblin hand from the earth. I let out a very dignified yelp—“Oh stars above, not again!”—and go sprawling flat on my face.

My basket flips, apples bouncing every which way, some rolling down the slight slope and disappearing into tufts of goldenrod. I push myself up on my elbows, wincing as bits of twig poke me in less-than-polite places, and then drop my head onto the grass with a long, muffled groan.

“Perfect. Just… perfect. Really putting on a show today, Maddie,” I mumble into the ground.

When I finally roll over and sit up, leaves in my hair, dirt smudged across my cheek, I’m ready to laugh it off. Then I freeze.

Because standing at the tree line, half-shadowed by tall beeches, is Thornak Ironjaw.

My heart gives an unhelpful little skip that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with how broad he looks, half lost in the dappled light, arms crossed over his chest like a wall of muscle and quiet disapproval.

His dark green skin stands out stark against the gold of the orchard, tusks catching a glint of sun when he shifts.

For a heartbeat, he just stares at me with this unreadable expression—eyes narrowed, mouth a hard line, brows drawn low.

Great. Exactly who I needed to witness my one-woman slapstick routine.

But because my mother raised me to be polite even to grouchy strangers hiding in the bushes (which is arguably a questionable parenting decision), I give him my brightest grin and a cheery little wave.

“Hi there! Lovely morning for… uh… forest lurking?”

I immediately want to swallow my own tongue. Who even says forest lurking?

His scowl deepens. He doesn’t say a word—just uncrosses his arms, gives me a look that’s equal parts irritation and something I can’t quite name, then turns on his heel and stalks back into the shadows.

Within seconds he’s swallowed by the underbrush, leaving only the rustle of disturbed leaves behind.

“Well,” I sigh, flopping backward so I’m sprawled in the grass, arms thrown wide. “That went about as smoothly as a porcupine in a feather bed.”

I lie there for a moment longer, staring up at a patch of sky that’s crisscrossed by high, thin branches. The blue is sharp and deep, like someone polished it just for today. A flock of tiny silverfinches flutters by, twittering to each other in high, musical notes that sound like gossip.

“Don’t suppose you have any bright ideas, do you?” I call up to them.

Naturally, they don’t respond, just wheel off toward the edge of the orchard.

I sit up again with a groan, brushing twigs out of my cardigan.

I probably shouldn’t let Thornak’s glowering bother me—he’s always been a bit of an enigma around town, a towering shape people cross the street to avoid.

Kids whisper about his tusks and the scars on his arms, say he once fought a mountain troll barehanded.

But I’ve also seen him from my bakery window in the early mornings, pausing outside with this odd, soft look on his face, like maybe he wants to come in but can’t quite bring himself to cross the threshold.

Once I even caught him watching me through the glass when I was arranging pies, and for the briefest flicker of a heartbeat, he looked almost… lonely.

Which means maybe he’s not all scowls and rough edges.

I start gathering up my scattered apples, muttering under my breath.

“Alright Maddie, pull it together. You’ve survived flour shortages, three separate plumbing disasters at the shop, and that one time Tessa enchanted your measuring cups so everything came out four times too salty.

You can survive one broody orc with a permanent frown. ”

As I’m hunting for the last wayward apple—wedged right under a stubborn tangle of wild mint—I hear someone clear their throat behind me.

My heart leaps so hard it nearly hits my teeth. I spin around, clutching my apple like it’s a weapon, only to see a lanky human man in a tailored charcoal jacket standing there with an oily smile.

“Oh—hello?” I say, trying to hide the way my voice cracks.

“Miss Quinn, is it?” His tone is smooth, too smooth, like syrup hiding something rotten. “My name is Alderic Wintrow. I represent the new development consortium looking to invest in these lands. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?”

“Unfortunately,” I say, because tact was never my strongest suit.

His smile tightens just a hair. “Well. I thought I’d drop by personally, see if we couldn’t come to some sort of arrangement that benefits everyone. You know how these things go—progress waits for no one, after all.”

I hug the apple to my chest. “If by ‘progress’ you mean tearing down every tree and paving over my aunt’s orchard to build glittery rental cottages, I think I’ll pass, thanks.”

His eyes narrow, though the smile never slips. “A pity. Still, I’ll leave my card. Should you… reconsider.”

He hands me a stiff little rectangle embossed in gold leaf. I take it, mostly so I don’t look like I’m about to hurl it back in his face, and watch as he tips his hat and strolls off through the orchard like he owns it.

I relax when he’s gone, stuffing the card deep into my pocket like maybe it’ll spontaneously combust if I keep it close to my body long enough.

Then I glance toward the edge of the trees again. No sign of Thornak—just the silent, watchful forest.

Still, something inside me firms up like bread dough finally rising. If that slick stranger thinks I’m going to roll over and let him take this place, he’s got another thing coming.

Even if it means chasing down a big, intimidating orc with a scowl sharp enough to cut steel and begging him to help me pull off the world’s most absurd fake marriage.

I am not losing this orchard without a fight.