“But the toilet is still cursed!”
“Some knots are very hard to untangle.”
Marigold stared up at the ceiling beams, which radiated from the center of the room like spokes of a wheel. If even Torville couldn’t reverse a spell gone wrong, how in the world was she supposed to manage it? “I don’t know where to begin!” she said. “I’m not a real wizard!”
“Obviously not,” said Pettifog. “I think Torville may be doomed.”
Torville, who had been resting near the letter M, began to fizz around the edges. He might have been nervous or indignant; it was hard for Marigold to guess. “Well, I’m going to try to save him anyway,” she snapped. “You don’t have to be so hopeless about it.”
“Hope,” said Pettifog, “is what the Thing eats when it’s not eating princesses.” He bent over the blackboard and nudged the blob of glop into the palm of his hand. “But I’m fond of Torville, so I’ll help you if I can.”
Marigold spent the rest of the morning plowing through Torville’s books. Most of the magical manuals in his storeroom would have taken her years of studying to understand, and even the ones that made sense didn’t bother explaining how to reverse a spell you’d made a mess of. One book (You Can Curse! Fifty Simple Spells to Cast at Home) recommended undoing your work “in the usual manner.”
“But it doesn’t say what the usual manner is!” Marigold tossed the book down on the workroom floor, feeling utterly fed up. “You’re just supposed to know. Are you sure Torville never mentioned it?”
“I’m positive,” said Pettifog through his teeth. This was the fifth time Marigold had asked him that question, and each time he answered it, he got a little crankier. “Torville didn’t discuss the workings of his spells with me. I stirred the cauldron; I didn’t ask questions. And now I need more porridge.”
Marigold passed him the last of her breakfast bowl. Pettifog had placed Torville gently on a dinner plate, set the plate on the window ledge, and covered it with a glass cheese dome he’d produced from a dusty corner of the storeroom. “So he can’t slide away while we’re not watching him,” Pettifog had explained. Not that it was likely at the moment. There was plenty of room for Torville to ooze around on the dinner plate, but he seemed exhausted from the morning’s efforts. Even now, when Pettifog put a spoonful of porridge next to him, he hardly moved.
“He’s just resting,” Marigold said, trying to sound confident for Pettifog’s sake. She supposed it wasn’t appropriate for creatures from the flames and shadows to cry, but she’d caught a glimpse of him dabbing at his eyes with his handkerchief just a few minutes earlier, and he’d lifted the glass dome to check on Torville at least twice since then. “He’ll be stronger soon.”
“He’ll still be glop.”
“Not forever,” Marigold said. But the next book in her stack (Intermediate Mustache Grooming) was completely useless, and the one under that was only a few thin pages stitched together with string. Gentleman Northwinds’ Magical Artes, someone had written on the front page in a quavering hand. The book was obviously much older than Torville; its paper was browning with age, and it crumbled a little when Marigold touched it.
Gentleman Northwinds was one of her favorite characters from the storybooks she’d read back in Imbervale. He was as old as the mountains, the stories said, and he delighted in causing trouble throughout the Cacophonous Kingdoms. When his enchanted breezes swept across the land, friends bickered and enemies brawled. He could conjure up gusts to steal children away from their families and gales to ruin heroes’ good-hearted plans. Even when the tales ended happily, Gentleman Northwinds always managed to escape on the back of a wintry wind and reappear in the pages of another story.
But this book was full of instructions, not stories, and each short section began with a title written out in the same quavering script. “‘To gather ingredients,’” Marigold murmured as she read. “‘To season your cauldron.’ ‘To hold an intention’— well, it’s too late for that now.” She turned the page, taking care not to let it crumble. “‘To reverse a curse.’ Pettifog! I’ve found something!”
“Finally,” said the imp. “So? How’s it done?”
The instructions in this section were briefer than Marigold had expected. “‘To reverse a curse,’” she read aloud, “‘if results are undesirable, perform the curse once more with every element inverted.’” She frowned at the book. “That’s it? We do everything backward?”
“It can’t be that simple,” said Pettifog. “Magic never is. The simpler it seems . . .” He paused and tilted his head. “Marigold? Are you whistling?”
Marigold wasn’t, but she heard the noise, too: a faint, high whine coming from a corner of the workroom. “It’s getting louder,” she said. “And look at the gazing ball!” The glass ball on the pedestal had turned from cloudy white to gray, as if a storm were brewing inside of it.
“Oh, brimstone!” said Pettifog. “It’s the Miseries! Torville said they were going to call.” The whine of the gazing ball was reaching full teakettle pitch, and Torville himself was writhing miserably under his cheese dome.
“He can’t talk to them in this state!” Marigold shouted across the room. “What should we do?”
Pettifog had clapped his hands over his ears. “What sticky shoe?”
“No, no!” Marigold marched over to Pettifog and pulled his hands away. “We can’t answer the gazing ball, or the Miseries will want to know what’s happened to Torville, and they’ll send me plagues of wasps and things.”
“Then we’ll ignore them!” shouted Pettifog over the din. “They can’t keep this up forever!”
Marigold shook her head. “Torville said if we ignore their calls, they’ll come to visit!”
For a moment, Pettifog stood perfectly still. Then his wings started to flap, he rose three feet in the air, and without another word, he flew across the workroom and out the door.
Marigold stared after him. “You’re leaving?” She stomped over to the stairs. “You can’t just fly away and leave me here to deal with the Miseries!” But she knew perfectly well that he could. A full minute later, Pettifog still hadn’t returned. “What are you doing down there?” she shouted down the staircase. “Embroidering your pot holders?”
Pettifog finally reappeared at the bottom of the stairs. “If you must know,” he said, “they’re tea towels!” He hurried back up to the workroom, on his hooves this time, and thrust a small glass jar at Marigold. “Here. Toss a pinch of this.”
The stuff in the jar reminded Marigold of the purple dust Torville used to poof himself from place to place. This dust, however, was a fiery red. Marigold unscrewed the lid and sniffed. “What does it do?”
“Hurry!” Pettifog hollered. “Unless you enjoy the sound of a hundred mice screaming in the walls?”
Marigold didn’t. She reached into the jar, pulled out a pinch of red powder, and tossed it into the air in front of her. I hope this works, she thought, whatever it is.
There was the usual bang that went along with Torville’s transportation spell, and the usual puff of smoke — red this time, not purple. But when the air cleared, Marigold was still standing in the workroom.
“WAS I SUPPOSED TO GO —?” Marigold stopped. She cleared her throat. She tried again. “WAS I —? WHAT’S HAPPENING? IS THAT MY VOICE? I SOUND TERRIFYING!”
“It’s the powder,” Pettifog said happily. “Don’t look so upset; it’s a temporary spell. Torville uses it when he wants to make a particularly evil impression.”
“I SEE,” Marigold boomed. Her voice was an octave lower than her father’s and somewhat hoarse. Like a giant with a chest cold, Marigold thought.
“Pull up the hood of your robe,” Pettifog said, trotting toward the gazing ball. “You’ll be in shadow then, and they won’t be able to get a good look at your face.”
“YOU WANT ME TO TALK TO THEM?” Marigold hurried after him. “I CAN’T. I WON’T! WHAT WILL I SAY?”
“I don’t know,” said Pettifog, “but if you don’t convince them that you’re Wizard Torville, you’ll have a hundred and five plagues after you and I’ll be on my way back to the demonic realms. So think quickly!” He tapped three times on the gazing ball. Marigold yanked up her hood.
Under Pettifog’s fingers, the storm inside the gazing ball began to clear, and the shrieking sound faded away. In the surface of the glass, where Marigold might normally have seen her own reflection, two other people’s faces appeared instead. One was a woman with long curls of graying black hair. She had a wart on the side of her nose, and her lips, painted a deep shade of red, were entirely occupied with frowning. The other person in the glass, a man who reminded Marigold of an older, clean-shaven version of Torville, didn’t look happy, either. “I told him twelve o’clock, Vivien,” he was saying to the woman. “Don’t go blaming me. You know he’s stupid about time.”
