Juno spun around. She tugged her braid out of Vivien’s hand and tossed it over her shoulder, out of reach. “Don’t touch me,” she said coolly. “I’ve had enough, and I’m going home.” She took a little bottle of traveling powder from her robes. “If the rest of you have any dignity, you should do the same.”
There was just time for Marigold to see the expression on Elgin’s face transform from anger to alarm before the hollow filled with thick purple smoke. Shouts and bangs rang out over the thrum of the incantation, and someone shouted, “Ouch!” When the smoke cleared, Juno was gone. So were Millicent, the short and warty wizard, and at least four others. Old Skellytoes was still there, hopping with pain and shouting at Horace, whose stick had connected with his foot. Petronella had drifted skyward and was floating in the direction of the palace. “Tea cakes and garden rakes!” she called down to the others. “I’m off to have some cocoa.”
Vivien looked as if she might leap up and pull Petronella out of the sky right then and there. “They’re gone, Elgin!” she shouted. “Do something, you useless lump!”
By now, Elgin had smoothed the alarm from his face. “We don’t need them,” he said grandly. “They were never all that wicked to begin with. Our work continues.” He gestured to the remaining wizards, who were still chanting and thumping, though not quite as vigorously as before. “You won’t be mending any of these hearts, Princess.”
For the first time since they’d arrived in the hollow, Rosalind looked a little worried. She turned away from Elgin, toward the others left in the circle. “I don’t know why you left your kingdoms in the first place,” she said, “or how you came to be wicked, but if you’d ever like to talk about it, I’d be happy to listen.”
Horace scowled and put a hand over his ear, as if he were trying to block out Rosalind’s voice. Old Skellytoes dabbed sweat from his forehead. “Can’t anyone stop her?” cried the sharp-toothed wizard. “She’ll interfere with the spell!”
“She’s done that already.” Gentleman Northwinds had stepped away from the circle and was craning his neck to get a glimpse of the palace. The air all around it had started to shimmer, Marigold realized when she looked back through the trees. The big magic was taking hold. “I must confess,” Gentleman Northwinds said, “that I’m curious to see what happens now that so many intentions have been shaken. Big magic tends to follow its own rules. It might vanish the palace. It might unpick the very bindings of this world.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” Collin whispered to Marigold. “Do you think Rosalind can fix that?”
“I have no idea!” Marigold was standing up now; she was too worried to stay hidden. Rosalind was still trying to talk to the wizards in the circle, but they shook their heads and wouldn’t listen to her, and Vivien had started shrieking again anyway. The liquid inside the cauldron was golden and glowing, and it had started bubbling so vigorously that Marigold couldn’t see Pettifog’s face through the steam.
“It’s nearly done!” said Vivien. “Come on, Elgin.” She hurried toward the cauldron. “We’ve got to stir for the final verse.”
Elgin followed Vivien, and Rosalind tried to make her way to the cauldron, too, but the wizards closed ranks around it. The incantation grew louder. So did the sound of the cauldron bubbling. Rosalind rushed around the circle, looking for a way in. Bluebells sprang up wherever her feet touched the soil, but it didn’t matter; the Miseries had shut her out.
“The palace!” said Collin. “Marigold, look!”
Marigold stared through the trees. The air that had been shimmering a few moments before was as golden as the stuff in the cauldron now. It seemed to be bubbling, too, a thick soup of magic that blocked the palace from Marigold’s view and stretched halfway across the meadow. Even if the people inside the palace understood what was going on now, they’d never manage to escape before the wizards finished casting their spell. The Miseries couldn’t be stopped, Torville had said. He’d told her more than once not to try.
But Marigold still hadn’t learned to do as she was told. Wasn’t she always turning up where she shouldn’t be? Wasn’t she always disobeying orders, causing scenes? And didn’t she still have a jar of Torville’s traveling powder in her pocket? She fumbled for it and pulled out the cork.
“We’ve got to help Rosalind,” Collin said beside her. He took off running toward the cauldron. “Aren’t you coming?” he shouted over the bubbling roar of magic.
Marigold threw the traveling powder into the air. “Take me to the Thing!”
This time, she did land in the moat. She’d taken a breath as the traveling powder whisked her away, but when she splashed down into the water, the air shot right out of her lungs. The moat was colder than she’d remembered, and quite a bit murkier. It had been a long time, Marigold realized, since anyone had fed the Thing.
The Thing glurped over to her with either hunger or delight. Marigold had never seen it quite so clearly before: it really was mostly tentacles, except for the part that was teeth, and Marigold wasn’t sure which of those parts she liked least. Kicking hard to keep herself afloat, she reached out with one hand for the nearest tentacle. The Thing splished happily and wrapped itself around her arm, tugging her closer. Its teeth grazed her ankle.
“Don’t you eat me!” Marigold said. Her head was still above water, but only just. Worse yet, she’d forgotten to cork up the jar of traveling powder. When she raised it out of the moat with her free hand and tried to tip out the last of the contents, all that came out was moat sludge. The rest of the powder was floating all around her, she realized, making an oily purple film on top of the murk. Both she and the Thing were coated in it.
Marigold kicked away another set of teeth and scooped up as much of the purplish water as she could. At least her intention was clear. “Take us,” she gulped, “to Vivien and Elgin.”
There was a sound like an undersea explosion, followed by a tremendous thump. The moat-sodden spell had worked: Marigold was back in the hollow behind Imbervale Palace, right in the center of the circle of wizards. So was the Thing. It clung to her arm, thrashing and gnashing as though it hadn’t yet noticed it was on dry land. But the Miseries noticed. They looked up from their spell-casting just as Marigold peeled the Thing away from her and launched it with all her might toward the bubbling cauldron.
The Thing wrapped its tentacles around the cauldron, and around Vivien and Elgin, too. They didn’t even have time to shout at each other. Marigold squeezed her eyes shut, but she could still hear every noise the Thing was making. It groiled. It smelched. It grunkled. It splacked. It munched, and then, contentedly, it burped.
When Marigold opened her eyes again, there was no sign of the cauldron or of the Miseries, not even a shred of robe or a scrap of shoe. The bubbles and steam of big magic were gone; the air had cooled. The Thing, full and languorous, was sprawled on the ground near Pettifog’s left hoof. Pettifog stepped over it. He took a long look at Marigold, then uncrumpled a handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of his eyes. “You could have gotten me eaten,” he said. “Reckless girl.” His voice was as stern as ever, but he didn’t wriggle away when Marigold hugged him.
All around them were the murmurs of wizards. Some were staring at the place where the Miseries had been. Others stared at the Thing, though only the sharp-toothed wizard had the presence of mind to take out her own powdered spell and send it back to its moat. Horace had fainted, and Rosalind was helping him get back on his feet. “That’s half my week gone,” Old Skellytoes complained to no one in particular. “I could have made bushels of razor-toothed mudworms in all that time.”
Collin pushed his way through the crowd to Marigold. “Did you see?” he asked, pointing through the trees. The thick golden spell around the palace had faded away; Marigold could see the outline of the east tower and the pennants flying over the gatehouse. “You saved Imbervale,” he told her. “But, Marigold, are you all right?”
Marigold looked down. Her dress was still soaked, and her legs were scraped with tooth marks, but she didn’t think Collin was talking about any of that. “I’ll be fine,” she said after a while. “I’m just a little purple.”
Then Rosalind was upon them, as bright as a summer day, embracing them and then tending to Pettifog’s bandages. “Thank goodness for you,” she said, squeezing Marigold’s hand. “If you hadn’t thought so quickly, we’d have been lost.”
“You were the one who mended all those hearts,” Marigold pointed out. “I never could have done that.”
Rosalind thought for a moment. “Sometimes you’ve got to mend hearts,” she said, “and sometimes, I suppose, you’ve got to throw monsters.”
The wizards were leaving by ones and twos now. They muttered about the dangers of big magic and grumbled that they’d better get away from Rosalind before she made them any kinder. “I can’t believe Torville put up with her for all those years,” one of them remarked as they wandered by.
Rosalind frowned at this. “Marigold? Where is Torville?”
Marigold went cold all over. “He was in Elgin’s pocket,” she whispered, wishing it weren’t true. She hadn’t remembered until now.
She ran to the spot where the Miseries had been standing and got down on her hands and knees, combing furiously through the grass for any sign that a blob of glop might have escaped the Thing’s clutches. “Torville?” she called. “Are you here? Of course you’re not here; I wasn’t thinking!”
“No, you weren’t,” said Pettifog. “But I was.” He reached into the pocket of his trousers and opened his hand for all to see. There, nestled in his palm, was Torville, squashy and yellow and all in one piece as far as Marigold could tell. “I swiped him back from Elgin a few hours ago,” Pettifog said with pride. “The old Misery never even noticed. We imps have delicate fingers.”
Marigold could have cried with relief. Even Collin gazed down at the blob with something like fondness, but Rosalind looked confused. “What is that?” she asked.
“That, Princess,” said Pettifog, “is a deeply evil wizard, and don’t you forget it!” He looked sideways at Marigold. “It’s a long story.”
After some cajoling, Pettifog agreed to let the royal physician examine his bandaged arm, and Rosalind and Collin led him toward Imbervale Palace. Marigold was the last one left in the hollow. She started to follow the others, but as she stepped into the meadow, a tendril of wind grazed her ankles. She turned around to see Gentleman Northwinds standing at the edge of the trees in his fur coat, his gaze creeping over her like frost on a windowpane.
He tipped his silk top hat. “Where are you going, child?”
“To the palace, I suppose.” Marigold crossed her arms against the cold. “But I’m curious. Why haven’t you sent me any plagues yet?”
“Plagues?” Gentleman Northwinds furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”
“I broke the Villains’ Bond!” Marigold said. “I got the Miseries eaten!” Hadn’t he seen the truly wicked thing she’d done? She could still hear echoes of the Thing’s glurps and munches. “And anyway, I was the one who turned Torville to glop in the first place. That means I’ve broken the bond three times over. You might as well summon up the wasps, and the clouds of poison, and all the rest.” She looked him in the eye. “I’m ready.”
For a moment, Gentleman Northwinds looked almost sorry. “Once upon a time,” he said, “I thought you might make a suitable villain, but it’s clear to me now that you’re not one of us. The terms of our bond don’t apply to you.” He made a slight gesture with his hand, and the wind he’d summoned up began to swirl around his own feet. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be on my way. I have a great deal of work to do.” The wind picked up speed, and Gentleman Northwinds opened up his long fur coat like a pair of wings. Then he rose into the sky and flew beyond the clouds, leaving Marigold alone at the edge of the trees.
Mushrooms were growing at the edge of the wildwood.
There were dozens, Marigold could see as she got closer: soft brown scallops, pale-blue teacup-shaped ones, and even a few that were lemon yellow and pointed like gnomes’ caps. Marigold didn’t remember seeing anything like them in the wildwood before, and she certainly didn’t remember them spreading into the desolate clearing outside Torville’s fortress. Nothing grew there — or, at least, nothing had before. Carefully, she pulled up one of the lemon-yellow mushrooms. She would have to ask Pettifog about it.
She had to call for him three times before he came to the door. “You don’t need to holler,” he said, clopping outside to lower the drawbridge. “I heard you the first time, but I was in the garden. Unlike some, I can’t just poof myself wherever I need to go.” He had an embroidery hoop tucked under one arm, and Marigold noticed he’d cleaned his second-best suit. “Did you come through the wildwood? You don’t look bedraggled enough.”
“It’s easier to find a path in the daylight,” Marigold said, “and there weren’t as many trees as I remembered.” The whole journey from Imbervale had taken only half as long as she’d expected. “Pettifog, do you think the wildwood might be shrinking?”
Pettifog looked out across the waste. “I suppose anything is possible,” he said as he raised the drawbridge and followed Marigold into the fortress. “You’re here, for instance. I didn’t think the king and queen would allow you back at all.”
“They almost didn’t,” Marigold admitted. She was still in a heap of trouble for running away. King Godfrey had taken to hovering around her all day with a wide-eyed look on his face, as if Marigold might disappear if he were careless enough to blink, and Queen Amelia was still poking her head into Marigold’s bedroom at all hours of the night. They’d decided that she should clean all the carpets in the castle as penance, and Marigold had agreed, although she was secretly working on a carpet-laundering contraption to make the work go faster.
