This only made Marigold feel wickeder. She hadn’t even thought of the servants.
“I didn’t realize you’d left for good,” Collin continued. “I don’t think anyone knew until the next morning. Your parents went into a panic, you know, when you didn’t turn up at breakfast. They asked everyone in the palace if we knew where you were, and I said I’d seen you run toward the wildwood. Then the king said he couldn’t believe a princess of Imbervale would do something as reckless as that, and the queen said, ‘It is Marigold we’re talking about, dear,’ and the king said maybe it was an accident, and the royal steward said it certainly wasn’t, and the king said, ‘I may scream, Amelia,’ and the queen said, ‘For heaven’s sake, Collin, would you please stop gawking and do something?’” Collin let out a long breath. “So I left right away to find you and bring you back.”
Marigold hadn’t considered that her parents might be upset to discover she was gone. They didn’t tolerate wickedness; everyone in all the kingdoms knew that. “Didn’t they banish me?” she asked.
Collin hesitated. “The steward said they should, and Rosalind said they shouldn’t. They were still arguing about it when I left.”
Marigold launched another peach in the Thing’s direction. “You were kind to come looking for me,” she said to Collin, “and I’m glad to see you, but I’m not going back to Imbervale. I don’t belong there.”
Collin squinted toward the moat, where a tentacle was snatching up the peach. He looked out at the dust and gloom. Then he looked hard at Marigold. “Are you sure you belong here?”
“I’ve been trying!” Marigold cried. Couldn’t Collin see her awful wizard’s robes? Hadn’t he noticed her impressive scowl or how her heart was probably starting to shrivel at the edges? “It’s just that everything’s gone wrong. I wanted to put a curse on Rosalind, but it didn’t work at all, and Pettifog is sure he’s about to get slurped, and I promised to help the Miseries because I couldn’t think what else to say, and I might burst into unquenchable flames or get turned into a marmorated beetle, and I’ve got to get rid of these peach trees somehow, and I have no idea what to do about Torville!” The last few words came out mostly as a wail, which was somehow the most mortifying thing of all. “Don’t you dare give me a handkerchief,” she said — fiercely, she hoped — as Collin started digging through his damp satchel.
“I won’t!” Collin promised. “But I brought you this.” From the bottom of the bag, he pulled out a mass of tangled wires and parchment: a little bent, and more than a little wet from the moat, but still unmistakably Marigold’s biplane. “You left it at the palace,” he said, passing it over. “I figured wherever you’d gone, you might be missing it.”
Marigold held the biplane carefully in the palm of one hand. Its little propeller still wouldn’t spin, and the whole thing needed more repairs than ever after its journey in the satchel, but even so, she was glad to have it back. She had been missing it. “Thank you,” she said to Collin. “You should come inside to dry off — unless you’d rather not set foot in a wizard’s fortress.”
Collin thought for a moment. He touched the spot where the Thing had tried to chomp his leg. “Is anything else in there going to eat me?” he asked.
Marigold laughed. “I don’t think Pettifog would dare.”
“Then I’ll come inside,” said Collin. “Heroes aren’t afraid of wizards.”
Pettifog was standing on a chair in the kitchen, using a long pair of pruning shears to do battle with one of the peach trees. “It’s no use,” he said from behind a branch as Marigold came into the room. “The enchantment’s too strong; these trees can’t be cut. I suppose we’ll just have to live with them.” Pettifog pushed the branch aside and peered through the leaves at Collin, who was hesitating in the doorway. “Who have you conjured up now, Princess?”
“This is Collin,” said Marigold. “He’s a friend of mine.”
“Friends of yours,” grumbled Pettifog, “are the last thing we need.” He hopped down to the floor and poked Collin with the dull end of his shears. “Are you supposed to be a wicked child, too?”
Collin shook his head. “No, sir. I’m a kitchen boy, sir.” He took a step back from the pruning shears. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir.”
Pettifog’s eyes lit up. “So polite!” he cried. “So respectful! I like this one.” He studied Collin from top to toe. “Do you know how to make peach turnovers?”
Collin nodded eagerly and said that he did, Pettifog complained that his own turnovers always leaked butter, and the two of them fell into an earnest discussion of pastry dough that Marigold had no hope of understanding. She put away her contraption materials, tucked the biplane into her wardrobe, fetched a towel and a mug of warm milk for Collin, and tried her own hand at pruning the peach tree in the kitchen, though she wasn’t any more successful than Pettifog had been.
“Wizard Torville!” someone shouted from outside the fortress. “Wizard Torville!”
Marigold wobbled on the kitchen chair, and Collin almost dropped his mug. Even Pettifog fell silent.
“Is it the Miseries?” Marigold asked. “I thought we had more time!”
“That doesn’t sound like Vivien.” Pettifog shoved Marigold aside so he could see out the wide window. “Ah. It’s only Countess Snoot-Harley. She’ll be wanting Torville to give her that spell he promised her.”
“The garlic potion?” Marigold had almost forgotten about that.
Pettifog nodded. “You’d better go and fetch it from the workroom. And try to get rid of her quickly. She’s nosy — like you — and I don’t want her poking around. If she finds out what happened to Torville, the news will be all the way to Foggy Gorge by midnight.”
Collin looked interested. “What happened to Torville?”
“Never mind!” called Marigold. She was already heading for the workroom.
By the time Marigold had found the little bottle of garlic potion, hurried back downstairs, and slipped out the front door, Countess Snoot-Harley was running out of patience. “Wizard Torville!” she shouted again from the far side of the moat. “I won’t be kept waiting any longer. Lower the drawbridge at once!” She stamped her foot on the dirt. Either the Thing was full of peaches, Marigold guessed, or it wasn’t interested in eating someone as bad-tempered as Countess Snoot-Harley. She couldn’t say she blamed it.
Marigold turned the crank to lower the drawbridge, and the countess strode across it as though the fortress and everything inside it was hers to command. Her nettle-green gown was made of the most lustrous silk, and her hair was arranged in elaborate loops and swirls on top of her head. Even the dust and dirt didn’t dare to stick to her shoes.
“Countess Snoot-Harley?” Marigold stepped in front of her. “I’ve got your spell here.”
She held out the little bottle, but the countess didn’t take it. She did stop walking, though. “Who are you?” she asked Marigold. “Torville didn’t mention he was getting a new imp.”
“I’m not an imp.” Marigold tried to stand a little taller. “I’m — er — Torville’s student.”
Countess Snoot-Harley wrinkled her nose. “I hope you aren’t the one who made my halitosis curse.”
“Of course not.” Marigold guessed that was what the stuff in the bottle was called. “Torville made it himself — though Pettifog and I did help with the mincing. I’m sure it works wonderfully.”
“It had better,” the countess said. “I’ve been waiting all day for it. Torville was supposed to deliver it to my home in Whitby by noon, but he never showed up. I specifically told him I needed the potion before Duchess Teasewhistle’s party tomorrow.” She plucked the bottle from Marigold’s hand and swirled the golden liquid inside. “I want to have a word with him about my expectations. Where can I find him?”
“You can’t!” said Marigold. “He’s busy.”
“Not too busy to speak to a paying customer, I hope.” Countess Snoot-Harley gathered up her nettle-green train and swept past Marigold toward the fortress door. “I won’t be paying Torville if he won’t come down to see me. And I’ll tell all my friends in the kingdoms to take their business elsewhere.”
“You don’t need to do that!” Marigold scrambled after the countess. “There’s no charge for the potion. Torville is very sorry about the delay.”
“He’s sorry?” Countess Snoot-Harley frowned at Marigold. “That doesn’t sound like him at all.” She reached the door and rapped her fist against it. “Wizard Torville!”
Marigold tried to wriggle between the countess and the door. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“If Torville had done his job properly,” the countess snapped, “then I could have stayed at home. Believe me, I didn’t relish the journey. There’s a dismal swamp between here and Whitby, and I had to leave my coach on the far side of it.” She stood on her toes and tried to look through the peephole. “Is Torville going to answer the door?”
