Elgin winced. “Don’t get him all worked up again, Vivien. He was right to say that we shouldn’t touch Rosalind. All the kingdoms love her. Getting rid of her would only bring them together more quickly, and we’d end up with our heads on pikes.”
“Yours isn’t doing you much good on your neck,” Vivien grumbled.
Elgin glared at her. “You can’t even make a bottomless pit without big magic. You’d need at least ten other wizards to help you.”
“I’ll make one under your feet if you’re not quiet!”
“Can’t you get them to go away?” Pettifog whispered to Marigold. “I can’t take much more of this.”
Marigold couldn’t, either. She hated watching the Miseries argue, she was tired of pretending to be Torville, and she wasn’t sure she could last another five minutes sweltering under the hood of her robe. “ARE WE DONE?” she asked. “I HAVE A LOT OF EVIL THINGS TO DO.”
“More schoolchildren to frighten?” Vivien arched an eyebrow. “I’m sure they can wait, Torville. We need you to go to Blumontaine and do something to pull Queen Hetty out of the peace negotiations. She hasn’t left for Imbervale yet, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to stop her.”
“Just what we need,” Pettifog grumbled. “Another impossible task.”
“MAYBE YOU SHOULD BE THE ONE TO GO, VIVIEN,” said Marigold quickly. “YOU’RE SO GOOD AT BEING WICKED.”
Vivien stared at Marigold for a long and awful moment. Being on the opposite end of this stare, Marigold discovered, was not a nice experience. She felt as if Vivien were rummaging through her insides, searching for something. “Queen Hetty is your client, Torville,” Vivien said at last, “and you’re the one who said we should act with subtlety. Besides, Elgin and I can’t go anywhere near her. She’s still upset about that tarantula incident.”
“I can’t think why,” said Elgin. “They were very small tarantulas.”
“Tell Blumontaine that Foggy Gorge has hired you to send them another molasses flood,” Vivien went on, “or leave a box of moon snakes on Queen Hetty’s doorstep and make it look like it came from Tiskaree. Elgin will deal with Hartswood and Carroway, and I’m going to Stickelridge to steal their king’s prize hunting dogs. When I set them loose in Puddlewater Palace, Stickelridge will think Puddlewater’s to blame. They’ll be back at each other’s throats in minutes.”
“And you’ll be able to get your ghoul out of the garden shed,” Elgin added. “I think it’s breaking pots in there. We’ll talk to you in two days’ time, Torville?”
“TWO DAYS? DO YOU REAL-ly think —” Marigold’s voice soared up three octaves, and she clapped the too-long sleeves of her robe over her mouth. Was the spell wearing off? Had the Miseries noticed? She couldn’t toss more of Torville’s red powder in the air; they’d certainly notice that.
There was Vivien’s long, awful stare again. “Torville? What were you saying?”
Marigold poked Pettifog in the side.
“Ouch!” said Pettifog. “Er, I mean, yes. Two days’ time. Torville will be here. He’s perfectly fine. Perfectly wicked, I mean. Goodbye!” Pettifog gave the gazing ball three quick taps, and the usual clouds spread over its surface, hiding the Miseries from view.
What were you thinking?” Pettifog cried. “Why in all the realms did you say yes to the Miseries?”
“I didn’t know what they were asking!” said Marigold. “And neither did you.”
“The question doesn’t matter,” said Pettifog. “Whatever the Miseries ask, the answer is always no.”
“Well, you could have told me that.” Marigold pushed off her hood, unfastened her robes, and rolled up the sleeves of the work dress she was wearing underneath. She was getting tired of wearing Torville’s old clothes, and Rosalind’s, too. Nothing fit properly, and everything itched. “Do you think Rosalind can really make peace among all the kingdoms?” she asked Pettifog.
“If anyone can do it,” he said, “Rosalind’s the one. She’s a remarkable girl. The Miseries are right to be worried.”
“I don’t understand why they care so much.” The Miseries had spoken as if an outbreak of peace was more to be feared than all the plagues of the Villains’ Bond put together. “Even if the kingdoms aren’t fighting, the rest of us can keep being wicked.”
Pettifog shook his head. “It’s not as simple as that, Princess. Why do you think there are so many evil wizards and second-rate sorcerers and witches-for-hire on the outskirts of the Cacophonous Kingdoms? All the bickering keeps them in business! If Hartswood’s not feuding with Carroway and Whitby’s not breathing down the neck of Quail Gardens, no one will need an itching powder or a sword-rusting spell to send to their enemies. Tiskaree will stop putting curses on Imbervale’s crops, and Blumontaine will clear up all the fog in Foggy Gorge. There’ll be no work for wizards. And wizards just aren’t suited for other sorts of jobs. Can you imagine Torville behind the counter in a bookshop or a bakery?”
Marigold tried to. “He’d curse all the customers, or at least he’d twirl his mustache at them.”
“Torville would hate peace,” Pettifog agreed. “And since the Miseries think you’re Torville now, you’ll have to help them stop it.”
“But I’ve got no idea how to —”
“If you’d said no to the Miseries, you could have sat around the fortress all day in perfect comfort. But you said yes, and now you’re stuck with them.”
Marigold glowered. “Not quite.” She picked up Gentleman Northwinds’ Magical Artes and waved it at Pettifog. “Torville’s stuck with them, and I’m going to get him back.”
Performing a spell backward, Marigold discovered, wasn’t as simple as it sounded. All her ingredients from the morning’s curse had vanished, so she had to grind more snail shells, pour out more swamp mist, and retrieve another pinch of salt. She hadn’t stored away any first yawns of the morning — but if everything in the curse was supposed to be reversed, should she collect the last yawn of the evening instead? Should her ragweed be gathered under a full moon, not a new one? And what was the opposite of Rosalind’s hair? “I’m not waiting for a full moon,” Marigold muttered to herself, “or for the end of the day.” She picked the ragweed, yawned into a bottle, and pulled a hair from her own head, figuring she was as close to Rosalind’s opposite as anyone was likely to get. Then she put it all in a basket and went back up to the workroom.
Pettifog had gone off somewhere, but Torville was still on the window ledge. He’d eaten all the porridge they’d left for him, and he oozed to the edge of his plate to watch Marigold unpack her basket. “Good news!” she told him. “I’m going to turn you back into a wizard now.” She stared down at her ingredients, then into the empty cauldron. “I think I’m supposed to say the incantation first this time, and then add the ingredients, is that right? Or do I put all the ingredients in the cauldron and then take them out one by one?”
Torville seemed to sigh. He spread himself into a puddle again.
“All right, then. I’ll figure it out myself.” Marigold took up the long wooden spoon and dipped it into the empty cauldron. The Overlook Curse had instructed her to stir counterclockwise with her left hand, so she stirred clockwise with her right. And she read the lines she’d copied down backward on a sheet of paper — or at least she tried to read them. “Eb uoy yam os!” she said with feeling. “Serac decitonnu s’dlrow eht lla dna.” A good deal of the backward spell was impossible to pronounce, but Marigold did her best not to trip over the words. At least her intention was clear: she wanted Torville to turn back into himself, and she wanted it now. She couldn’t stand worrying that the Miseries would guess what she’d done and that they might send a curse to make her toes fall off. She couldn’t stand listening to Pettifog insist that he could feel the Archdemon tugging at his hooves. And she couldn’t stand to think about how much of a failure her first attempt at real wickedness had been. I will turn you back, Torville, she thought as she stirred. I will fix this mess.
“Serehps eht fo gninnips eht ekil!” she finished aloud. Then she set down her spoon, leaned over the cauldron, and tipped the spell’s ingredients into it: first the ragweed, then the yawn, the hair, the swamp mist, and the powdered snail shells.
The air in the cauldron turned pinkish orange. It started to swirl, and within seconds, it had overflowed, spilling out a sunset-colored haze and a sweet, ripe scent that reminded Marigold of the palace cook’s summer pies. It wasn’t exactly a wicked haze, but as it filled the workroom, Marigold felt a little thrill of triumph. Something magical was definitely happening.
“Has the spell worked?” she called out to Torville. She couldn’t quite see him through the pinkish-orange air. “Are you a wizard again?”
“Marigold!” That was Pettifog’s voice at the foot of the staircase. She could hear his hooves clacking up the steps and the workroom door creaking open. “What are you doing? What have you done?”
“You don’t need to sound so worried,” Marigold called back. “I’m rescuing Torville!”
Pettifog was silent for a moment. “Then why is there a fruit tree growing at the foot of my bed?”
