“What changed your parents’ minds?” Pettifog asked.
“Rosalind did.” Marigold kicked off her boots. “She convinced them that I should come today. You know how persuasive she can be.” Rosalind had talked to Cook, too, to make sure Collin wouldn’t be punished. The tale of how the wizards had nearly vanished the palace had spread around Imbervale, and both Collin and Marigold were regarded with awe by anyone who’d heard it, though Marigold suspected the story became less truthful with each retelling.
Pettifog had gone a little misty-eyed at the mention of Rosalind, but he cleared his throat, set his embroidery hoop aside, and led Marigold up the stairs. “I hear the peace treaty was signed?”
“Yes,” said Marigold, “but — well, as the Royal Highnesses were getting ready to leave, King Obin discovered that Victoria the iguana had taken a bite right out of the paper where they’d all made their signatures, and he claimed that canceled out the whole contract. Then King Theobald accused King Obin of smearing jam on the signatures to tempt Victoria to eat them, and Queen Hetty wanted to know if it was apricot jam — apparently Victoria’s got an allergy — and soon enough they were all at one another’s throats again, and Rosalind had to hurry everyone out the door before they all went back on their agreement, so I’m not sure how long the Harmonious Kingdoms will last.” Marigold shrugged. “At least the celebrations are over. Rosalind sent the noble suitors away because she didn’t have time to deal with them, and she told the royal steward to cancel the rest of the parties and give the servants a full week’s rest.”
Pettifog opened the door to the workroom. “Am I imagining things,” he said without turning around, “or is that a hint of fondness in your voice?”
“For Rosalind?” Marigold almost tripped over the threshold. It was true enough that she didn’t want to cast any more wicked spells on Rosalind — not right then, at least — but that didn’t mean Marigold was fond of her. “She’s not so bad sometimes,” Marigold said, “but she’s hopeless at table tennis.”
Pettifog must have spent days cleaning up the sludge and slime the Miseries had left behind: the workroom floors were polished, the windowpanes scraped, and all the jars of potion ingredients filled and stoppered. Torville’s cauldron had disappeared into the jaws of the Thing, but Pettifog had put the stockpot from the kitchen in its place, and Marigold hoped it would work just as well. “You’ve done wonderfully,” she told him.
“Tell that to Torville.” Pettifog nodded toward the window ledge, where the blob of glop lay under the cheese dome, draped over the remains of that morning’s porridge. “He’s been telling me all week to move things three inches to the left or half a foot backward. I couldn’t stand any more of it after a while, so I took away his mirror. You’d think a wizard would be more grateful to the imp who saved his life!” With a ruffle of wings, Pettifog turned back to Marigold. “What’s that in your hand?”
Marigold had forgotten all about the lemon-yellow mushroom. “I found it at the edge of the wildwood,” she said. “There are lots more growing nearby.”
Pettifog took the mushroom, held it up to the light, and sniffed it. “It’s not even poisonous,” he said in a low voice. “And just yesterday I saw a butterfly when I went out to feed the Thing. I didn’t tell Torville. His reputation’s suffered enough already.”
Marigold began to look through the workroom shelves, pulling out swamp mist and salt. The snail shells she’d ground to powder were still there, and so was the ragweed she’d picked. The bottle of yawns was empty, but Marigold had brought her own from the palace, along with a few more strands of Rosalind’s hair. Rosalind had pulled them from her comb without asking too many questions about why Marigold needed them. “Not even Torville deserves to be a blob of glop forever,” she had said. “Perhaps he’s learned a valuable lesson.” Marigold wasn’t so sure of that, but she’d taken the strands anyway.
Pettifog lifted the cheese dome off the dinner plate, and Marigold added her ingredients to the cauldron-pot. She took up Torville’s spoon. Then, keeping her eyes on the blob of glop, she spoke the incantation she’d thought of on her walk through the wildwood that morning. It wasn’t anything like the Overlook Curse, but if Gentleman Northwinds had been correct, that wouldn’t matter much. And its words were the ones Marigold truly intended to say:
“Repair the rift, reverse the clock,
turn back the key within the lock,
stitch up what’s torn, let fractures mend,
and be your honest self again.”
There was no bang or blast, no smoke rising up from the cauldron-pot. At first, the only change seemed to be the scent of honeysuckle that filled the workroom. It was so strong for a moment that Marigold could hardly breathe. Then the scent began to fade, the ingredients in the pot simply vanished, and Torville stood up.
He wrinkled his nose and fanned the air with his hands. “Good magic,” he said, pulling a face. “Disgusting stink. I’ll have to air out the whole fortress.”
Marigold pushed the pot aside to get a better look at him. All of Torville was present and accounted for, even his foul old robes and his appalling mustache. She’d never felt happier to see an evil wizard. Pettifog, who’d taken flight and was turning loops around the workroom, seemed to feel the same. “She did it!” he crowed. “I thought she never would!”
“Astounding, isn’t it?” Torville brushed off his robes, stretched his arms above his head, and wiggled his fingers. “I was betting she’d turn me violet or make me sprout horns like yours, my friend.”
Marigold shot him a glare. “I’m having a hard time remembering why I wanted to turn you back.”
“Don’t be mistaken, Marigold; I’m very grateful.” Torville was bustling around the workroom now, pulling things out of jars and tossing them into the empty stockpot. “Without your quick thinking, I’d still be stuffing my ears with cotton wool to block out the Miseries’ shouts. And I quite enjoyed flying in that contraption of yours once I got used to it.” A glug of something sticky went into the pot. “It was the crashing I didn’t care for. Where’s my mixing spoon?”
Marigold handed it to him. “What are you making?”
“A spell,” said Torville, “that’s long overdue.” He gave the pot a few quick stirs and muttered a couplet under his breath. Then he leaped backward. Before Marigold could do the same, the stuff in the pot exploded.
When Marigold came back to her senses, she was staring at Torville’s foot. At least she thought it was Torville’s. It was much bigger than it should have been, and her eyesight wasn’t very good. She swept her antennae over it, catching a whiff of wicked magic.
The wings on her back, thankfully, seemed to work without practice. Marigold unfolded them and zipped away from the foot as if she’d been born flying. She alit on the workroom rafters, then plunged down again in Torville’s direction. He and Pettifog were bickering about something, and he squirmed when she landed on his head. Good, Marigold thought.
“Torville!” she shouted down. “Stop arguing with Pettifog and tell me why I’ve got so many legs.”
Torville plucked her out of his hair and held her in an enormous palm. “You, Princess,” he said solemnly, “are now a marmorated beetle.”
Marigold groaned. “You can’t be serious, Torville. Turn me back!”
“I’ve left you your hearing,” Torville said, “and your magnificently annoying voice. I could have been much less generous. Don’t you remember the terms of the test we agreed upon?” He lifted her up to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, Marigold, but you’re simply not wicked.”
“I know,” said Marigold. “But I’m not good, either — not really.”
Torville looked surprised at this. “You saved all those souls in Imbervale Palace, didn’t you?”
“But I didn’t save Vivien or Elgin.” Marigold folded her legs, all six of them. “I didn’t even want to.”
Torville considered her. “Bluebells may not spring up underneath your footsteps,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean you can’t do a great deal of good in the world if you choose to — or a great deal of wickedness, if you’d prefer.” He shrugged, a motion as vast as an earthquake. “Of course, as a beetle, you won’t be doing much of either.”
“As I said, Torville, you’re not remembering properly.” Far below, Pettifog raised his voice. Marigold inched to the edge of Torville’s hand to get a better view of him. “The terms of the agreement were that I should decide whether Marigold is wicked.”
“He’s right!” said Marigold, remembering. “You said it was up to Pettifog!”
“Did I?” Torville sighed. “I don’t see why it matters when we all know the plain truth. But go ahead, Pettifog. Make your pronouncement.”
“Thank you,” said Pettifog with dignity. “In my opinion — which is the only one that counts — Princess Marigold is the wickedest creature I’ve ever met.”
“What?” Torville threw up his hands, sending Marigold flying. “That’s ridiculous!”
Even Marigold, who’d landed by Pettifog’s hoof, had to agree. “The wickedest you’ve ever met?”
