Page 26 of Fixing the Grumpy Pumpkin King
A whole roasted boar, golden-brown and glistening with some kind of glaze, surrounded by what appeared to be who knows how many different dishes covering every available surface. The kitchen table. The counter. The coffee table in the living room. Even the mantle above the fireplace, where fruit piled high in arrangements that looked like art and threatened to topple onto the floor.
Flagons sat on every flat surface. Actual flagons, like something from a Renaissance faire, filled with liquid that smelled like honey and spices and made Locke’s head swim just from the fumes.
Jack was lounging on the chaise like a Roman emperor at a banquet, one arm draped elegantly over the armrest, his pumpkin face somehow managing to look smugly proud. He’d positioned himself perfectly in a shaft of morning sunlight, his robes pooling around him in shades of sage and burnt orange, and he looked like he was waiting for applause.
“Jack, what is this?”
Jack sat up slightly, his carved features shifting into something that might have been a smile if pumpkins could smile. “A feast. For you.”
Locke looked at the boar. Looked back at Jack. His brain was still not processing. “That’s a whole boar.”
“Yes.”
“On our kitchen table.”
“Where else would one place a roasted boar?”
Three tiny shapes zoomed into Locke’s peripheral vision. Pip did a backflip mid-air, nearly losing his pumpkin-hat in the process. “ISN’T IT AMAZING? We helped! Well, Boss did most of it, but we SUPERVISED!”
Russet appeared next to him, adjusting his tiny vest. Even at thumb-size, he somehow managed to look prim. “A proper harvest feast requires forty-seven dishes minimum. We’ve managed sixty-three. I’m quite proud.”
Bramble perched on one of the flagons, arms crossed, his scowling pumpkin-face matching his tone. “He’s been up since midnight roasting that thing.”
Locke pressed his fingers to his temples. The smell was incredible, yes, but also overwhelming. There was too much. Toomuch food, too much scent, too mucheverything. “Jack, I have to open the shop in twenty minutes.”
“The shop can wait. This is important.”
“I don’t want to know where you got the mead.”
Jack stood, moving with that kingly grace he had, and suddenly he was right there, close enough that Locke could smell the crisp leaves and magic and something indefinablyJack. His carved features shifted to something formal, almost stiff. “In my time, a proper courtship began with the offering of abundance. The harvest shared between—“
“Courtship?” Locke’s eyebrows shot up.
Jack paused. The carved mouth flickered, triangular eyes narrowing slightly. “...A gesture of appreciation. For summoning me.”
“He’s COURT—“ Pip started, zooming closer.
Jack swatted the tiny familiar out of the air without looking. Pip tumbled, squeaking indignantly, his pumpkin-hat spinning off and landing in a bowl of what looked like roasted vegetables.
“That’s what you get,” Bramble said flatly.
“Ow!”
Locke’s throat went tight. His face heated but it was not embarrassment exactly, more like the flush after unexpectedly good news. Jack had spent all night on this. For him. Was Jack trying tocourthim? With a medieval feast and a crispy roasted boar and dishes that probably took all night to prepare.
It was overwhelming. But it was possibly the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for him.
“This is... this is really sweet, Jack. It’s just... a lot. Like, a LOT a lot.”
Russet hovered closer, genuinely concerned now. “Perhaps we overdid the cornucopia?”
Locke glanced at the corner where a massive cornucopia was indeed overflowing onto the floor, gourds and grapes andapples tumbling across the hardwood in an endless cascade that seemed to defy physics. “I don’t even know what half of this food IS.”
The jack-o’-lantern face deflated slightly. The carved mouth turned down at the edges. “You don’t like it.”
“No! No, I—look, the effort is amazing. Really. But how am I supposed to eat all of this? It’ll go rotten. With so many homeless people and others starving in the world it’s kinda hard for me to enjoy it. What I liked more were the small breakfasts you made.”
Jack’s whole posture crumpled. Not physically, he still stood tall, imposing, but something in the way he held himself changed. Smaller. Hurt. “Of course.”
