“I can’t believe I even thought of rescuing you.” Marigold gathered Torville up and stuffed him back into her pocket — the one without the coffee spoon, this time, so he wouldn’t talk back.
The kitchen was wonderfully empty of wizards. Collin was half hidden behind piles of vegetables, tossing diced potatoes into a stewpot for the dinner Vivien had demanded, and Pettifog sat, head in hands, over a glass of milk. They both straightened up when Marigold came in. “You’ve got Torville?” Pettifog asked anxiously.
“He’s all right. Are you?”
“Hardly. I’ve spent too long stirring that cauldron. I think I’ve breathed in fumes.” Pettifog took a long drink of milk. “Toasted vipers’ scales give off the most revolting smell.”
Marigold set Torville down next to Collin’s stewpot — it wasn’t much of a mirror, but it would have to do — and took up a paring knife against the pile of carrots. “Keep an eye on the doors,” she told the others. “If any wizards wander in, we’ll hide Torville under the potatoes.”
“Another winning gambit,” Torville grumbled. “Stuff me in a pocket, stick me in a pot, and never mind my feelings.” His reflection was spattered with old cooking stains, but at least he wasn’t upside down, the way he had been in the spoon.
“Please,” said Marigold, “just tell us what the Miseries are planning.”
“All right.” Torville scowled at her. “I couldn’t find out everything. But Elgin’s group is trying to dismantle as many of the protective spells around Imbervale Palace as they can find. The map they’ve got is one I stole from the royal magician years ago, but of course Elgin’s got no qualms about using my work. He never asks, you know.”
“We know,” Marigold assured him. “Are they having any luck?”
“Enough,” said Torville. “They’ve counteracted most of the spells they know about. There are plenty of newer defenses that aren’t on the map, though, and they’ve already tripped a few of those; one of the younger wizards got himself shrunk to the size of a walnut earlier today. He’s still no bigger than Pettifog, despite the Twice-Times Witch’s best curative efforts. But the others have done enough damage that a very strong curse could get through whatever safeguards are left, and Imbervale doesn’t suspect a thing. That’s what the scrying spell is for, of course: they’re watching for Imbervale’s response. So far, there isn’t one.”
“That’s because Imbervale doesn’t know what’s happening,” said Marigold. “I’m sure the royal magician never imagined that twenty-four wizards would attack the kingdom all at once.”
“And the king and queen wouldn’t notice if the Miseries picked them up and flung them into the sea,” said Collin. “They’re much too upset about . . .” He looked over at Marigold and swallowed the rest of his sentence. “About royal things,” he amended.
Marigold whittled furiously at her carrot. “So a strong curse could get through Imbervale’s defenses. What kind of curse? Do the Miseries have one?”
“I don’t know,” Torville admitted. “That’s the part I couldn’t find out.”
“It’s the spell they’re preparing in the workroom, isn’t it?” Marigold asked the others. “The one they need salt-cured turtles’ ears for, and biletree nuts, vipers’ scales, and toadstools?”
“And a full quart of dragons’ breath,” Pettifog added unhappily. “It singed my shirtsleeves when Vivien tossed it in.”
“Can you remember the other ingredients?” Marigold asked. “Maybe Torville can figure out what the spell is supposed to do.”
The blob of glop made a snorting noise. “Intention!” cried Torville. “How can you keep forgetting it’s the intention that counts? Those ingredients are in dozens of curses. I might recognize the incantation if I heard it, but I’d need to watch the spell being made to have any chance of guessing what it is. And I happen to know, since this is my fortress, that there’s not so much as the smallest crack around that workroom door. I’m sorry,” he said with obvious delight, “but I can’t give you any more help. It would be impossible.”
Collin looked up from his cutting board. “Couldn’t you ride in on Pettifog’s collar the next time the wizards ask him to stir the cauldron?”
“Actually,” said Pettifog, “he can’t. Vivien told me they won’t require an imp again until they’re ready to cast the spell. She said I should make myself useful until then by serving my betters.” He sipped his milk, then took out one of his handkerchiefs and dabbed at his mouth. “Since there’s no one here who fits that description, I’m free to do as I please. But I can’t get Torville inside the workroom.”
Marigold frowned down at her pile of vegetable peelings. “There must be another way in,” she said. “Even if you can’t squeeze under the door, Torville, I’m sure you could get a good look through the windows. Isn’t the one by the cauldron usually cracked open?”
“Sometimes,” said Torville, “to let out the vapors. It’s also fifty feet up on the curved side of an unscalable turret.” He looked sternly at Marigold. “That means you can’t climb it.”
Marigold wasn’t sure that was strictly true. She’d had plenty of experience climbing on the Imbervale Palace roof, but even if she could shimmy up the side of the tower, one wizard or another would be sure to notice her. “You’re right,” she said. “I probably can’t climb to the workroom. But I’m not the one who has to.” She smiled at Torville.
“No,” he said. “I am not climbing up there.”
“Shall I go and find Gentleman Northwinds, then? Should I let him know what you’ve been up to?”
“You’re not being sensible!” Torville complained. “It’s too high! Have you seen the size of me? Squelching around in the dining room is one thing, but climbing to the top of the fortress and back would take me days.”
“And at least three bowls of porridge,” Pettifog agreed.
Torville nodded. “We don’t have days to spare. The Miseries want to act soon, and — Marigold?” He broke off. “Why does she look like that?”
Collin glanced over at Marigold and began to laugh. “That’s the look she gets when she’s dreaming up a contraption.”
Late that night, Marigold got to work. She rummaged in the wardrobe until she felt her old biplane beneath her fingertips. In the flickering green light at the farthest end of the hallway, she examined it again. Its wings had disintegrated in the moat, and its propeller was still useless; she pulled off the bent piece of wire and tucked it away in her pocket. The rest of the skeleton was sound enough to be repaired, though, and Marigold had planned improvements: a spool of string tied to its underside, a place for Torville to sit, and wings wide and strong enough to catch the breeze. She would need paper, lots of it. A little reluctantly, she fetched Evil in Twenty-Three Minutes a Day from under her bed and began to pull out the binding.
Marigold had hoped she might have the fortress to herself in the darkest hours before morning, but voices murmured behind the workroom door all night long, punctuated by the occasional bang of a wizard traveling back from Imbervale. At one point around daybreak, she heard a stampede of feet in the hall downstairs; a few hours later, a great whooping cheer went up from the wizards in the dining room, and Marigold knew she had to work faster. She kept pasting paper, knotting string, and twisting wire, letting her hands find a rhythm as natural as a heartbeat. “You’ll fly,” she told the biplane sternly. (Although she was making a contraption and not a spell, it seemed like a good idea to weave in a strong intention.) “You’ll carry Torville safely up to the fortress roof and down again. Don’t even think about misbehaving.”
Pettifog came to check on her in the late afternoon. “Aren’t you done yet?” he whispered. “Collin and I have been picking up all the tasks you’re not doing, and the Miseries are running both of us ragged.”
“I’m almost finished,” Marigold said. “Has anyone missed me?”
“Vivien did, about an hour ago. She wanted to know where the annoying rat-faced child had gone.” This memory seemed to cheer Pettifog up.
Marigold added glue to the weights that would keep the plane steady once Torville was inside it. “I’ve just got to wait for the contraption to dry,” she said, “and then I’ll run a test —”
“We don’t have time for tests!” Pettifog hissed. “The last time I poured coffee for Elgin’s group, they were rolling up their map, and they all looked much too pleased with themselves. They’d better not harm Princess Rosalind while you’re busy fussing with your toys.” He ran his hands through his tufts of hair. “Having the Miseries here is almost as unpleasant as being back in the demonic realms.”
Marigold touched his hand. “At least there aren’t any vampire hens.”
“A small blessing,” Pettifog agreed.
By nightfall, the biplane was ready. It was a little larger than Marigold had planned, and much too big to hide in the folds of her dress, so she had to wrap it up in the soft green blanket from her bedroom. Collin volunteered to set one of Torville’s eels loose in the dining room, which caused such a commotion that Marigold had no trouble sneaking outside unnoticed.
It was a blustery evening, as it always seemed to be now that Gentleman Northwinds was in residence. With her bundle tucked under her arm, Marigold lowered the drawbridge and hurried across. The wind was coming from the east, behind the fortress, where the dismal brown wasteland faded into the trees. To her relief, only a few of the fortress windows looked out in this direction, and most of them were dark. Up in Torville’s tower workroom, however, the lights were blazing.
