“Oh, yes,” Pettifog assured her. “The bone-eating volcano toads of the demonic realms are an absolute delight compared to you. Did you know, Torville, that this girl dropped me into a muddy field on the outskirts of Blumontaine and then looked on without mercy as I was attacked by an iguana?”
Torville snorted.
“And that wasn’t her worst scheme!” Pettifog looked as if he were fighting off laughter. “I shouldn’t even need to mention the kitchen boy she persuaded to join her, the battle she provoked on the grounds of this very fortress, or the fact that she turned my dearest friend into a blob of glop and left him that way for weeks.”
“I did do all that, Torville!” Marigold skittered across the floorboards. “You can’t deny it.”
“Worst of all,” said Pettifog — he really was laughing now — “she painted our spare bedroom the color of midnight. No one can go in there without bruising a shin. The child’s as wicked as they come, and you’ve got to change her back.” He flicked his tail. “Because I say so.”
“I should let her writhe under a cheese dome for a month or two,” said Torville. “But if you’re going to be such a bully about it, fine.”
After ten more minutes and an excessive amount of eye-rolling from Torville, Marigold’s proper number of legs had been restored. “Please understand,” said Torville as he helped her to her feet, “that I did this only because Pettifog made me, not because I like you.”
Marigold grinned at him. “But the reversal wouldn’t have worked if you hadn’t really wanted it to.”
“Pettifog!” howled Torville. “Get this wretched child out of here! Drop her in the moat!”
Pettifog didn’t. “You should fix the cursed toilet next,” he said.
“No.” Torville glowered at them both. “I’ve gotten fond of it.”
Marigold was pulling on her boots to leave when the fortress was filled with the most cacophonous noise she’d heard in any of the ten kingdoms. It was louder than a yowl, sharper than a shriek, more persistent than a whine, more startling than a sneeze, and it seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. Marigold gritted her teeth and covered her ears. “Torville?” she shouted into the kitchen. “What’s going on?”
Torville strode into the entryway, still holding a porridge ladle. He went to the front door and looked through the peephole. “Pettifog!” he called. “You’d better get in here. We’ve got company.”
Pettifog looked as if he might be sick. He stood very close to Marigold. “What do we do?” he asked.
“We open the door,” said Torville, doing just that, “and we discuss the matter like reasonable people. Hello, Archdemon.” He gave a little bow to the creature in the doorway. “I wish you’d simply knocked.”
The Archdemon, ten feet tall and made of flames, didn’t look to Marigold like a reasonable person, but at least the awful noise had stopped. “WIZARD TORVILLE?” said the Archdemon in a deep and thundering voice. “WE HEARD YOU MET A TRAGIC FATE.” The Archdemon looked a little confused. “WE HEARD YOU WERE A BLOB OF GLOP.”
“Yes,” said Torville, “I was, but I’m not anymore.”
“I SEE,” the Archdemon said. “IT TAKES NEWS A WHILE TO REACH THE DEMONIC REALMS.” The Archdemon leaned through the doorway, looking around. “SO THE IMP PETTIFOG REMAINS IN YOUR EMPLOYMENT?”
“He certainly does.” Torville looked over his shoulder at Pettifog, who’d slipped behind the folds of Marigold’s dress. This seemed to settle a question in Torville’s mind. “And I’d appreciate it, Archdemon, if you wouldn’t frighten my friend in the future by coming to our home and threatening to slurp him back. No matter what my condition may be, or whether I continue to employ him, Pettifog should be able to stay in the human realm for as long as he chooses.”
“BUT THE CONTRACT —”
“Curse the contract,” said Torville firmly. “I think I’ll feed it to the Thing. Good day, Archdemon.” Then he closed the door in the Archdemon’s face.
Marigold wondered if the yowling would start up again, but when she looked through the peephole herself, she could see the Archdemon trudging back toward the clearing, crossing the moat in one stride. Pettifog was still standing in the middle of the entryway, looking up at Torville in stunned silence.
“I’ve been thinking,” Torville said presently, “that we should take a trip.”
This seemed to stun Pettifog even more. “A — a trip?”
“Yes, you heard me right. I’m in no mood to whip up sneezing powders and heartbreak spells at the moment, and I’m sick of the sight of this fortress. What do you say we leave the waste for a while and go to the seashore? You can paint watercolors; I’ll tread on children’s sandcastles — we’ll have a marvelous time.”
Pettifog began to smile. “It does sound appealing.”
“And don’t you dare say a word about this.” Torville wagged a finger at Marigold as she made her way out the door. “As far as anyone else knows, I’m here in this fortress, just as dismal as ever.”
“Of course you are,” Marigold agreed. She let down the drawbridge and made her way down the hill, where new mushrooms were already appearing.
“I’m still extremely wicked!” Torville called after her. “Make sure to tell everyone in Imbervale so!”
Marigold only laughed. It was an ordinary laugh, but it seemed to her that it caught the breeze and took flight across the clearing, soaring over the wildwood into all the kingdoms beyond.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
If there’s true magic in the world, an oversize heap of it must lie within the talented people who bring books to life. Thank you to Miriam Newman, this book’s ideal reader and editor, who understood the shape of the story before I could see it myself, and to Ainslie Campbell-Schwartz for her smart perspective and good humor. I’m tremendously grateful to the whole team at Candlewick Press, including Hannah Mahoney, Erin DeWitt, Shasta Clinch, Martha Dwyer, Jenny Freilach, Maria Middleton, Nathan Pyritz, Angela Dombroski, Jamie Tan, Kate Fletcher, Liz Bicknell, and Karen Lotz. Jennifer M. Potter created the gorgeous jacket art and brought Marigold and her friends to life.
Allison Hellegers has been Marigold’s most steadfast supporter and a wonderful companion for all adventures through the wildwood. Thanks also to Rosemary Stimola, Peter Ryan, and everyone at Stimola Literary Studio.
Sarah Davies gave early editorial guidance and encouragement. Tara Dairman, Hannah Moderow, Will Taylor, Nick Courage, Clare Beams, and Jonathan Auxier were endlessly kind and patient as they listened to me talk about this book. Thanks to friends and family near and far, particularly Jane and Chris Carlson, Maureen and Leo Pezzementi, Jonathan Carlson, Kelsey Hersh, and Willa and Quinn Carlson.
And thank you to Zach, Nora, and Owen Pezzementi, who make my world magical every day.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2024 by Caroline Carlson
Cover illustration copyright © 2024 by Jennifer M. Potter
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
First electronic edition 2024
