Leon was correct—besides magic and letters, Baron did have lemons on his mind.
Autumn harvest had arrived.
“My lord, you’ve no need to overburden yourself,” Walter scolded.
“I’m far from overburdened,” Baron said. “You needn’t worry.”
He loaded another bushel of lemons into the wagon, expertly dodging the set of hands that attempted to take it from him. Most of the orchard workers were quietly accepting of Baron’s leadership, but Walter seemed to find it necessary to voice his protests in light of that fact, as if speaking for all of them.
“But, my lord, you’ve gathered more than any of us!”
“Indeed, I have!” Baron gave a roguish grin. “One can’t expect to earn a title of such significance as ‘Grand Gatherer’ without a little sweat and work.”
“That’s not official!” Corvin shouted from atop a nearby ladder. “I’m still in the running.”
“I’m three bushels ahead of you, Corvin.”
“For now!”
The boy attacked the branches with ferocity, dropping lemons to the waiting hands below. Baron chuckled, along with a few of the workers. Walter gave a long-suffering sigh. Secretly, it pleased Baron to hear the man’s protests each day.
After all, the same protests had been given to his father.
Through the nearby trees, Baron could see his father’s bench. He’d expected to grow melancholy, working in this part of the orchard, yet he found himself surrounded by the best memories of harvests with his father. He also remembered a princess in the orchard.
She was right. It was breathtaking.
The cheerful atmosphere dimmed as Mr. Huxley limped into the workers’ circle, accompanied by his ever-present manservant. He took an accounting of the two wagons so far.
With a sniff in Baron’s direction, Huxley said, “Not as productive as yesterday.”
Walter stiffened as if both his parents had been insulted at once. Some of the other workers exchanged nervous looks. Baron only pushed his hair back to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Nothing to say,my lord? You are responsible for this harvest, after all.”
“Variety is standard,” said Baron. “What matters is the accounting of one full harvest compared to another.”
“And that is on a downward trend. It seems your expensive fertilizer was a waste, as I said.”
Huxley looked up at Corvin. Though he gave no order, his disapproving gaze wilted the boy right down the ladder to the ground.
“Carry on,” Huxley said to the rest of them, motioning for Corvin to follow.
Corvin walked with shuffling steps and head down, his enthusiasm drained.
Baron’s fingers itched to throw a lemon at the back of Huxley’s head, but with great discipline—and his father’s imagined disapproval—he resisted.
More than once, Baron had considered writing to Aria about the steward, then retreated from the idea. So far, he had been honest with her as much as he could, only concealing the true nature of the twins. What could he honestly say about Huxley without betraying Corvin’s secret?
Nothing, he decided. Though he may have lost responsibility for his title, he’d not lost it for his family. This was his problem to solve.
As the light faded, the fully loaded wagons returned to the manor. A few bushels were reserved for hamlet workers and their families, and a few more were labeled for the manor’s personal use. The remainder would be taken to markets in Stonewall and Harper’s Glade. The rest of the harvest thus far had already been collected by Mr. Pembroke, who sold to the navy in Port Tynemon, since lemons popularly warded scurvy at sea.
Baron had missed dinner due to a small accident in the orchard. No permanent injury, though they were now short one ladder. He hurried into the kitchen to find Leon studying recipes from the palace cook as if they were the most sacred of religious texts.
“You’re late,” the boy grumbled without looking up.
“Corvin?”
