At least, she was pretty sure she was supposed to be.
A royal holiday was declared to celebrate Rosalind’s return, and Marigold was surprised to learn that the festivities would last not just for one day but for an entire month. She was even more surprised when Rosalind insisted that townsfolk and royalty from across all the Cacophonous Kingdoms should be invited to join the celebration. Marigold couldn’t imagine her parents agreeing to this — the other nine kingdoms were full of exactly the sorts of people who weren’t allowed in Imbervale — and she nearly choked on her breakfast when King Godfrey said he supposed it would be all right, if it was what Rosalind really wanted. “But they’ve got to behave themselves,” Queen Amelia added over her teacup. “No floating shoes or headache spells. I won’t tolerate any wickedness.”
So the palace gates were opened. Visitors traveled across the mountains from Blumontaine and over the gorges from Foggy Gorge, all on their best behavior. The court jester juggled, the trumpeter blew fanfares, the royal magician cast firework enchantments, the king and queen hosted picnics and parades, and dozens of noble young people came to stay at the palace, each hoping to win Princess Rosalind’s heart.
Marigold enjoyed the first few days of the celebration well enough. The longer it stretched on, though, the less enjoyable it became. The boom and blast of fireworks kept Marigold up late each night, and the chattering of noble young people in the hallways woke Marigold up early each morning. The court trumpeter, who was not very good at trumpeting, made Marigold’s ears ring. Her tutors canceled her algebra and history lessons, which she had been enjoying, and the palace was so full of visitors that she couldn’t sneak anywhere without being noticed.
Worst of all, she couldn’t seem to fix her wrecked biplane. She’d repaired its wings, and she’d fiddled and fussed until the whole contraption looked as good as new, but no matter what Marigold tried, the propeller wouldn’t spin smoothly. When she asked her father to help her, he scratched his beard just below the left ear and said that he wished he could, but he’d already promised Rosalind that he’d spend the morning teaching her about her courtly duties. When she asked her mother, she said she had to spend the afternoon consulting with Rosalind about new anti-wizard spells for the palace. The royal carpenter was busy building parade floats, and Collin was busy preparing platters of food for all the parties in Rosalind’s honor. Marigold hadn’t seen him in days. She finally tracked him down on the palace lawn one evening, but he didn’t have much time to talk about contraptions.
“Do you think you’ll have more time tomorrow?” Marigold asked as she helped Collin set out trays of delicate cakes and pitchers of lemonade. “We could work on the biplane then.”
Collin shook his head. “There’s a luncheon for Rosalind tomorrow, and a ball for Rosalind on Saturday, and a feast for Rosalind on Sunday. Cook says we won’t get any more evenings off until the holiday’s over.”
“It’s not fair!” Marigold set two pitchers down with a thump. “Everything was all right until Rosalind turned up, and now nothing’s all right at all.”
Collin shot her a smile over a tray of cakes. “It’s only for the rest of the month.”
The trouble with Collin, Marigold thought, was that he was relentlessly cheerful. Every day in the kitchens, he cheerfully stirred soup, mopped the floors, and ran errands for Cook, and he had once cheerfully helped Marigold get unstuck from the dumbwaiter after she’d crawled inside it to see how it worked. But his constant good cheer could be frustrating when all Marigold wanted was for someone to join her in a panic.
“Even when the celebrations are over,” she pointed out, “Rosalind will still be here, joking with Papa and confiding in Mama and taking up everyone’s attention. Sometimes . . .” Marigold looked around to make sure none of the other servants could hear. “Sometimes I wish Wizard Torville would come and steal her back.”
“What?” The stack of cakes on Collin’s tray wobbled. “You don’t really mean that.”
“I do!”
“But she’s your sister!” Collin set down his tray. “I bet the two of you have lots in common. Do you think she likes contraptions?”
Marigold helped herself to a cake. “I have no idea.”
“You should ask her, then,” said Collin. “Maybe she can help you fix your biplane!”
“Fine,” said Marigold, chewing. “I’ll talk to her.”
At sunset, the groundskeepers lit long strings of hanging lanterns, and guests in suits and gowns flocked to the lawn for the evening’s celebration. Marigold stood with the rest of her family as visitors from as far away as Carroway and Puddlewater clutched Queen Amelia’s hands, kissed King Godfrey’s cheeks, and embraced Princess Rosalind as if she were their own long-lost daughter. It was unseasonably cold, and none of the guests seemed interested in talking to Marigold, but she tried to smile and curtsy in just the way a princess of Imbervale should.
“Rosalind,” she whispered once the stream of guests had slowed. “Can I ask you something?”
Rosalind looked down at Marigold. “Of course. Is something wrong?”
“Not exactly. It’s just . . .” Marigold hesitated. None of her tutors had ever thought to teach her how to speak to a sister. Standing this close to Rosalind made Marigold think about the dirt under her own fingernails and the stubborn tangles in her hair. She was suddenly afraid her words would come out in a tangle, too. “Do you know anything about biplanes?” she said in a rush.
“Biplanes?” Rosalind looked confused.
“I’m making one,” Marigold explained, “but it’s broken. I think one of the pieces must be out of place.” She took a deep breath. “I was wondering if you could help me fix it.”
Rosalind laughed a little, sending three peony buds into blossom. “I’m sorry, Marigold, but I don’t think I’d be any good at that.”
Marigold frowned at the peonies. “I’ve got lots of other contraptions,” she tried again. “You could come and see them. If you wanted to, I mean.”
This time, Rosalind sighed. Even her sighs were charming. “I can’t,” she said. “I’m so busy with Mama and Papa, and all of these royal duties, and the guests — oh, here comes another group of them. I’d better say hello.” She smoothed her skirts and turned away with a little smile, the kind that was supposed to mend people’s hearts. But Marigold’s heart felt worse than ever.
Marigold was absolutely not crying. If her eyes were stinging at the corners, it was on account of the wind, which was growing colder by the minute. If her breath was unsteady, it was only because she was walking so quickly back into the palace. “Rosalind’s busy,” she muttered as she stomped up the back staircase. “Rosalind’s perfect. Rosalind doesn’t sneak through walls or clamber on rooftops, and she certainly doesn’t stomp.” Marigold stomped harder. “And I do wish that wizard would take her back, so there!” She wasn’t behaving at all like a princess of Imbervale was supposed to, but she didn’t care. All she wanted was to be alone, to read her storybooks and work on her contraptions for a few hours in peace. When she reached her bedroom, she slammed the door and collapsed onto her bed, letting the springs squawk loudly underneath her.
From Marigold’s bathroom, something squawked back.
Marigold froze. Slowly, very slowly, she sat up. As she took a step toward the closed bathroom door, the squawking noise came again from behind it, followed by a high-pitched chirp, a whistle, and an extremely distinct quack.
Marigold flung the door open.
She was certain there had been no birds in her bath earlier that day, but now there were peacocks and canaries, swans and wood ducks, robins and eagles — so many that Marigold couldn’t count them all. They perched on the light fixtures, nested in the hand towels, paddled in wooden buckets, and floated in the tub. Worst of all, when they spotted Marigold, they all began to sing:
“Welcome, dearest Rosalind!
You’ve come from far away,
and now that you are safely home,
we’ll have a holi —”
“Stop!” the royal steward’s voice cried from somewhere in the throng. “Wrong princess! Wrong princess!”
The birds all went quiet. One of them, a peacock, pecked at Marigold’s foot.
Marigold’s whole body went hot, then cold. “Steward,” she said so icily that a wood duck shivered, “why is my bathroom full of birds?”
The steward emerged from the crowd of feathers. “Princess Marigold,” he said, giving her a grudging little bow. “I apologize for the intrusion. The enchanted songbirds won’t be here long. They’ll fly out the window and sing for the crowd at the end of the fireworks display, but the royal magician asked me to keep them warm until then. There’s a bitter chill outside.”
