“They’re halfway across the clearing now,” said Pettifog, hurrying out of the kitchen. “I don’t know how they made it through the wildwood.”
Marigold opened the front door a crack and looked out into the darkness. The attackers, if that’s what they were, had stopped in the middle of the clearing, and their torches cast just enough light for her to see them reasonably clearly. “There are only six of them!” she exclaimed. “That’s hardly an army. And two aren’t even soldiers.” She squinted into the night. “The one in the back looks like Imbervale’s royal magician. And the one in front —” Marigold broke off as the leader of the group dismounted her horse and took off her riding helmet, letting her hair fly loose behind her. “Oh, honestly. It’s Rosalind again!”
The wizards in the kitchen had realized this, too. Some of them groaned; others hissed. “You see?” Vivien cried. “There’s your proof, everyone. Princess Rosalind’s come to attack us!”
There was a noisy muddle of agreement. “Chimney pots and lizards’ spots!” said Petronella. “What shall we do?”
“We’ll fight, of course!” That was Elgin, sounding almost giddy. “Ready your spells, dear villains! Raid Torville’s storeroom! Fetch shadowvine and shrike feathers, and guard your shriveled hearts. If Rosalind wishes you a pleasant evening, turn your back! If she compliments your robes, cover your ears! She’ll disarm you with sweetness if she can.”
Pettifog tugged at his tufts of hair. “They’re going to war in the middle of our party! Should we tell Torville? Should I change my suit?”
Marigold was already halfway out the door. “You can lock the storeroom,” she told him. “That ought to slow them down. I’ll try to stop Rosalind. And, Collin —”
Collin’s shoulders slumped. “Are you going to ask me to be the lookout?”
“Actually,” said Marigold, “I was hoping you could distract the wizards with that pie you made.”
Collin grinned. “I can try.”
When Marigold scrambled down to the edge of the moat, she could see the six travelers huddled together in the torchlight. The royal magician was waving her arms in enormous circles, and Rosalind was nodding and pointing up toward Marigold’s bedroom window. The four Imbervale soldiers had swords at their sides, and their horses pawed anxiously at the tufts of dried grass.
“Rosalind!” Since she didn’t have any of Torville’s vocal powder with her, Marigold had to cup her hands around her mouth and shout. Her voice sounded small, hardly more noticeable than the hum of insects or a splash from the Thing, but the travelers heard her anyway. The soldiers drew their swords, and the royal magician reached for her spell pouch. Then Rosalind held her hands up to all of them, as if she’d ordered them to be still.
Leaving her horse and her torch behind, Rosalind ran across the clearing. She came to a stop on the far side of the moat, just beyond the Thing’s reach. A dawn-dazzling smile lit up her face — or maybe, thought Marigold, it was just the light from the fortress windows that made her glow. “Thank goodness you’re still all right!” Rosalind said. “I’m sorry it took me so long to lead the others through the wildwood.”
Marigold squinted at her. “What are you doing here?”
“You were right when you said you couldn’t go anywhere with me,” Rosalind explained. “It would have been much too risky. So I asked Imbervale’s four best soldiers and the royal magician to come with me. I’m sure they’re more than a match for Torville. Can you get the drawbridge down without him noticing, or do you think you’ll have to swim?” She looked worriedly into the murky water. “Cook wasn’t able to spare any more legs of lamb.”
“I’m not swimming,” said Marigold firmly, “and I won’t lower the drawbridge. I already told you I don’t need to be rescued!”
Rosalind frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“That’s because you’re not listening to me!”
“Oh, Marigold, I’ll listen all the way home to whatever you’ve got to tell me, but right now we have to go.” Rosalind held out both her hands, even though Marigold had no chance of reaching them. “Please come back with me. Mama and Papa are frantic. If they’d had their way, they would have sent a hundred more troops, but I didn’t think that would be wise —”
“Of course it wouldn’t be,” Marigold snapped. “You shouldn’t have brought any troops at all. Torville’s whole social society is here, and they think they’re under attack.”
“What?” Rosalind looked up at the fortress, where some of the twenty-four wizards were still gathered near the kitchen window. “Oh, no. Is it an alternate Tuesday?”
“Did you lose track of time?” Marigold could feel her wickedness rising inside her then, sharp and scorching; it made her want to shriek or stamp her foot like one of the Miseries. “Did all the fireworks and parties in your honor confuse you? What made you think I’d be happy to see you? I ran all the way here to get away from you, and you still won’t leave me alone. If you really want to help me, go away and don’t come back!”
This time, Rosalind was listening. She took a step backward, away from the moat, away from Marigold. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t realize —”
From inside the fortress, there was an enormous crash, as if all of Torville’s pots and pans had gone tumbling to the floor at once. Before either Rosalind or Marigold could move, one of the kitchen windows shattered, and an enormous creature flew through it.
The creature was made of shadows and storm clouds. It was almost as big as a dragon but less solid, with tattered translucent wings and a number of legs, tails, and heads that changed from one moment to the next as the storm clouds rearranged themselves. It circled the sky above the fortress, not quite blocking out the stars. Then, with a roar, it swooped.
“Go!” Marigold shouted to Rosalind.
Rosalind took off across the clearing, heading for her horse. Marigold sprinted in the opposite direction, not daring to look behind her. Collin pulled the fortress door open for her before she’d even had time to knock, and she stumbled inside.
“Thanks,” she gasped. “What is that thing?” She could still hear its awful roar when Collin closed the door behind her.
“They said it’s a night terror.” Some of the falling pots and pans must have come down on Collin: he had shards of crockery in his hair, and his front was covered with something orange and sticky-looking that smelled disastrously of peaches. “We couldn’t keep the wizards out of the storeroom,” he said apologetically, “and they didn’t want pie.”
In the kitchen, everything was chaos. Greasy roasting pans and serving dishes were slumped in the sink, skillets and saucepans had tumbled out of their cupboards, and all of Torville’s favorite porridge bowls were in pieces on the floor. Tins and jars had toppled out of the pantry. Spices were strewn across the floor; the walls were spattered with tomatoes.
Most of the wizards were gathered by the stove, where Torville’s porridge pot had been called into service as a makeshift cauldron. It was lying on its side now, coated in foam the same shadow-gray color as the night terror. Every time a wizard elbowed it, it rolled closer to the edge of the stove, but no one seemed to care. They were all busy trying to grab the wooden spoon that Vivien held high above her head.
“Faster! That’s right!” Vivien called out the shattered window, giving the spoon a flick with her wrist. The night terror went faster. It looked almost like a horseless carriage now, speeding across the clearing toward Rosalind and her companions. Rosalind had reached her horse and was pulling on her helmet while the royal magician sent yellow sparks flying from her spell pouch. But the sparks seemed to have no effect on the night terror, which was about to squash them flat.
“Give it here!” said Old Skellytoes. He grabbed the spoon from Vivien’s hand. “I haven’t had a turn yet.” Out in the clearing, the night terror reshaped itself. The front half of it rounded out, the back half lengthened into a tail, and it grew wings again — no, fins, Marigold realized. “A shark,” said Old Skellytoes proudly, “is much scarier than a boring old carriage.” The creature opened its vast mouth and gnashed its teeth at the Imbervale soldiers, who didn’t seem to know whether to raise their swords. Their horses whinnied and shied.
But the night terror could barely move forward. Although it thrashed its tail and flapped its fins, no matter how much Old Skellytoes waved the wooden spoon over his head, its belly wouldn’t budge. “It needs water, old man!” said Millicent. “Look, the poor thing’s miserable.” The night terror was turning away from the soldiers, wriggling desperately back toward the fortress. Marigold wondered if it was trying to make its way to the moat.
“I’ll take that,” said Juno, snatching the spoon away from Old Skellytoes. The night terror stretched itself out to become an enormous snake. Juno whipped the spoon in a circle, and the snake sped back across the clearing toward Rosalind.
“Boring!” said Horace, taking the spoon. The snake grew four squat legs, two fierce horns, and a long, powerful snout.
“Give it back!” said Juno. She yanked the spoon away, and the night terror became a snake again. “Snakes are classic.”
“Snakes are dull.” Horace plucked the spoon out of her hands. The horns and snout returned.
“Snakes are real,” Juno said, “which is more than I can say for whatever that thing is.”
