Marigold tried to remember. Since the appearance of the night terror, she hadn’t been paying attention to Elgin at all. “He must have sneaked off,” she said, “while the rest of us were looking out the window. He and Vivien already tried to get into Torville’s room once tonight, but I thought they’d given up.”
Pettifog let out a snort. “If they gave up on things,” he said, “they’d be called the Inconveniences.”
Elgin had paused outside Torville’s bedroom, where the door stood open. “See, Vivien?” he said. “I’m not too cowardly to work a simple unlocking spell. I knew I’d prove you wrong.”
Vivien rolled her eyes. “It only took you hours.”
Ignoring her, Elgin stepped into the bedroom. “Come in, everyone! Gather around the mirror. There’s plenty of space; don’t squash.”
The wizards crowded inside, and Marigold had to crane her neck to see anything at all. Once she did, she could tell that Elgin must have placed the dinner plate in front of the mirror, because there was Torville, perfectly clear in the enchanted candlelight, looking gaunt and grave on the other side of the frame.
“What is it, Elgin?” Torville folded his arms. “I’ve already answered your questions. Aren’t you capable of telling our colleagues all about my sorry state without dragging me back here? You took those stairs as gracefully as an ostrich, by the way. I nearly fell off my plate.”
“It is Torville,” the thorn-scratched wizard said near Marigold’s ear. “Torville, what have you done to yourself?”
“Yes, Torville, tell us!” cried Elgin. “How did you become a blob of glop?”
A creeping dread made its way across Marigold’s toes, up her legs, and into the pit of her stomach. She wished more than anything that she could back out of the room, but there were wizards on all sides of her now, and Gentleman Northwinds himself was leaning against the doorframe. Torville would tell all the evil wizards what she’d done to him, and how she’d broken the Villains’ Bond. They’d snatch her up! They’d send her one hundred and five plagues! Would they all cast the curse together, Marigold wondered, or would each of the wizards work it separately? And if twenty-four wizards summoned a hundred and five plagues apiece, how many horrible things would happen to her altogether? There was no time to make calculations; the unkillable wasps and vampire hens would be arriving at any moment. Pettifog must have realized what was about to happen: he reached up and took Marigold’s hand.
“As my charming brother already knows, because I told him so,” Torville said, “I was casting a spell, and it went badly wrong. I must have lost track of my intention.”
“An elementary mistake!” said Vivien. “So foolish a child could have made it! You were right, Elgin. This is wonderful.”
“Yes,” said Torville dryly, “I thought you’d like that, Viv. One moment I was stirring my cauldron, cooking up a lovely curse; the next moment, I was on the floor in my current condition. Pettifog and the other servants knew nothing about it. It was my own fault entirely.”
Marigold was astonished. Every word he had said was a lie. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought the evil Wizard Torville was trying to protect her. And the other wizards seemed to believe him. Old Skellytoes was trying not to cackle, Horace wanted to know if the fortress was available to rent now that Torville was a blob of glop, and Petronella talked over everyone else, telling the story of a time when she accidentally turned herself into a sneeze. Millicent knelt down to examine the blob more carefully, and the Twice-Times Witch, whose imps had carried her up the stairs, gave Torville a scolding look and told the imps to take her back down again. The Miseries, for their part, were so delighted by their brother’s misfortune that they seemed to have forgotten all about Marigold. She looked down at Pettifog, who shrugged and dropped her hand as if it were a glowing ember from the demonic realms.
“I’m not sure I understand,” Gentleman Northwinds said from the doorway. The candles guttered as he spoke, and a draft of cold air made Marigold’s skin prickle. “You’ve turned yourself into a . . . er, well, a . . .”
“Blob of glop?” said Torville.
“Yes,” said Gentleman Northwinds, “that. But you’re not a blob of glop in the mirror. How did you manage it?”
Torville tried to smile. “Isn’t that strange? I’ve wondered about it myself! But who can understand the quirks of enchantments? I don’t have the faintest idea why I’m myself over here, and a blob of glop out there.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Gentleman Northwinds murmured for the second time that evening. He crossed the room and crouched down by Torville, examining him just as he’d studied the window ledges all through the fortress. “This magic is extraordinarily tangled. I think there may even be more than one spell wrapped around you.” He got to his feet again. “Are you certain, Torville, that you were the one casting it?”
“Of course I’m certain!” Torville snapped. For a moment, Marigold could have sworn his reflection was looking straight at her, but his gaze flicked away before she could meet it.
“One spell or twenty, I don’t care how many he’s under.” Vivien snatched up the dinner plate. In the mirror, Torville kicked his legs as he was lifted off the floor. “He’s not going to unglop himself anytime soon, and we have work to do. Since you couldn’t keep a firm grip on the princess you captured, Torville, we’re going to stop her ourselves.”
Torville sighed. “Would you put me down, Vivien?”
“No,” Vivien said. “You’re worse than useless, and you look even more revolting than usual. I want you out of my sight.” She passed the dinner plate to Elgin. “Hide him away somewhere, would you?”
Elgin gave a mocking little bow. “With pleasure,” he said. Some of the wizards giggled.
“And the rest of you!” said Vivien. “Stop your snickering. Did you forget we’ve got big magic to perform? Go home to your hovels and gather your supplies — spell books, poisons, divining rods, and scrying pools, whatever you’ve got! Come back here by dawn tomorrow. Elgin and I will prepare the fortress.” She looked around the room approvingly. “We’ll have enough space here for all of us to work at once, and I’m sure Torville won’t mind sharing.”
The fortress belonged to the Miseries now. They swept aside Torville’s tools in the workroom, raided his spell-casting supplies, and helped themselves to his pillows and blankets. “Scrub the workroom floor, imp,” said Elgin, heaving a mop at Pettifog. “I don’t want my brother’s magical detritus interfering with my spells.”
Pettifog let the mop clatter to the floor. “I am not your servant,” he said. He drew himself up to his full height just shy of Marigold’s kneecaps. “I work for Torville, and this is Torville’s home. You and your sister have no right to be here.”
Elgin crouched down and took hold of Pettifog’s shoulders, tugging him in close. “Torville is gone,” he said in a low voice, “and I can do whatever I please. If you don’t follow my orders, I’ll report you to the greater demons. They won’t be pleased to know you’re still here without your wizard, will they?”
Pettifog trembled. His hooves were coming off the floor, Marigold realized, not because he was fluttering his wings but because Elgin was pulling him slowly upward by the shirt collar. “No, sir,” he whispered, turning purple.
Marigold didn’t stop to think. She snatched Pettifog out of Elgin’s grasp and set him down on the floor again. “Don’t you dare threaten him!” she said, picking up the mop and holding it out to Elgin. “If you want the floor cleaned, you can do it yourself.”
Elgin looked startled, as if he had not remembered Marigold was there. He shrugged and took the mop from her hands. For a moment, he held it in both of his, testing the weight of it. Then he swung it right over Marigold’s head.
There was an awful whoosh as the mop zipped past her ears, and a crack as it connected with the stone wall behind her. The wood splintered; half of the handle went flying. Marigold flinched at the sound. On one side of her, Collin took quick, shallow breaths; on the other side, Pettifog was still trembling.
“You work for me now, child.” Elgin sounded almost bored. “The boy and the imp do, too.” He tossed the ruined mop at Marigold’s feet. “Do you understand?”
Marigold couldn’t answer. Elgin was too close to her; the stink of pipe smoke and stale magic clogged her throat, and she knew that Elgin wouldn’t hesitate to crack her against the wall, just as he’d done with the mop. All she could do was nod.
Collin and Pettifog were nodding, too, which seemed to suit Elgin. “Good,” he said. “I don’t want to see any of you again until the workroom is spotless.” He turned to leave, then paused in the doorway. “And fix that mop.”
For ages after Elgin had left the room, Marigold could hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Pettifog was silent. Even Collin’s good cheer had drained away. “I didn’t mind the creatures in the wildwood so much,” Collin said, “or the Thing, or the night terror.” He took a shaky breath, looking at the spot where Elgin had been. “But he’s worse.”
“He’s wicked,” Marigold said quietly. Elgin was more wicked than she had ever been, even in her worst moments. He was more wicked than the scornful royal steward; more wicked than her parents, or Countess Snoot-Harley, or any of the others who paid wizards for curses; more wicked even than Torville with all his carefully planned creaks and shadows. Marigold wondered how many plates or vases or broomsticks had splintered around Torville’s head long ago. “What do we do now?” she asked.
“We do what the Miseries tell us.” Pettifog looked grim. “I don’t think we have a choice in the matter.”
