Twice Upon a Marigold (3 page)

"It might, dear," Wivinia said. "But they also liked her for a long time, and they know you couldn't have had any idea how it would work out. So you'll want to keep reminding them that you're the one who figured out how to get rid of someone who, with her memory regained, would have been very unpleasant to have in Granolah. Make it seem like your idea."

"Thank you, Wivinia. I'll use that in my campaign slogan. I just hope she remembers to pay for the mules."

They watched the puff of dust that was Olympia, Lazy Susan, and the mules recede into the distance.

A few days before Olympia finally showed up, Christian, King of Zandelphia, and Marigold, formerly Princess of Beaurivage and now Queen of Zandelphia, had their first fight ever. They were sitting on the new terrace outside the crystal cave-castle at Zandelphia, enjoying their breakfast, the sunshine after all that rain, and the
Daily Discourse.
Usually Christian didn't mind Marigold reading over his shoulder and sharing her opinions on the day's news. For the whole last year, their first as a married couple, he'd loved hearing whatever was on her mind. But this morning, for reasons he only recognized later, as she leaned on his shoulder and crunched her toast in his ear, he had to restrain himself from shrugging her off. Then she said, "Look at that. Alison Wonderland has gotten lost again. That girl just never learns."

"Marigold, my blossom," Christian said through gritted teeth, "could you please stop leaning on me and chomping in my ear? Please." He added the extra "please" in an effort to sound not as irritated as he really was.

But Marigold, after years of friendship and a year of marriage, knew him too well. She knew all his tones of voice, though he had never used this particular one with her. She jerked upright, and swallowed her toast so fast she was afraid it would get stuck in her throat and prevent her from delivering the piece of her mind she thought Christian was entitled to. Fortunately it went right down, allowing her to say, "I hope you will never speak to me in that tone again, for as long as you live."

Chris pretended innocence and said, "What tone is that, precious?" Of course he knew what tone, but as so often happens, people are reluctant to own up to their own transgressions, even though they know such avoidance doesn't usually get them anywhere except in more hot water.

Marigold gave Christian a glare that he had never seen before, and said, "You know exactly what I mean.
Don't make it worse by denying it." Now she was standing, facing him with her hands on her hips.

For some reason (guilt, probably—such a troublesome emotion), this made him mad all over again. How dare she look at him like that after everything he had done for her? Including saving her from an arranged marriage, or certain death at the hands of her mother, Queen Olympia—who, thankfully, had fallen into the river before either threat could be completed. He said, "Perhaps you should pay some attention to your own tone of voice."

Marigold blinked. "What? What did you say?"

"I think you heard me," he said, making it worse.

She narrowed her eyes. "You do remember that I know witches and fairies and imps, all of whom could do you some harm if I asked them to."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Can you think of a reason why I shouldn't?"

His pride prevented him from saying, "Because you love me too much to do such a thing." It also prevented him from saying, "I'm sorry. I overreacted. I shouldn't have spoken to you the way I did." Instead, he unwisely said, "Do what you think you have to do."

She looked at him as if she didn't even know him, then turned and left the terrace, with Flopsy, Mopsy, and Topsy at her heels. He watched her go with a chill
around his heart. She
did
know witches and fairies and imps. But would she really use them against him? Didn't she love him enough not to do that? Didn't she love him at all? And how, in ten quick minutes, had they gone from a peaceful breakfast on the terrace to death threats? It was as if some toxic breeze had blown over them and poisoned the air they breathed, turning them into alternate versions of themselves, versions that were stupid and unpleasant and mean. They were acting like—like
Olympia.

On the long trip back to Beaurivage by mule and wheelbarrow, Olympia complained nonstop. She was tired, she was sore, she was sunburned, she was dirty, she was bored—and whatever was wrong, she wanted Lazy Susan to do something about it. Lazy Susan also was tired, sore (
she
was the one riding the mule, after all), etc., and after the first day she was ready to muzzle Olympia and was wondering why in the world she'd ever wanted to come with her. The queen was
nothing
like her dear friend Angie, who was so kind and modest and appreciative.

The only thing that cheered Lazy Susan up was knowing that at the end of the journey there would
be a castle with clean sheets and hot water and good food. She could take a bubble bath to get the smell of mule off her, eat a hearty meal, and sleep for a week. Maybe two.

"Fenleigh and I are hungry," Olympia announced. "Get us something to eat."

"You already ate the last of the food we brought from Granolah," Lazy Susan said. "We have nothing left."

"Then
find
something," Olympia commanded. "We're
hungry
!"

Lazy Susan stopped the mules at the edge of a stream. Finding food and drink for them was easy enough, and required no work from her—just the way she liked it.

At the end of a path leading away from the stream was a tiny cottage with a profusion of wild roses growing up the side and across the roof. Lazy Susan balked at the idea of walking all the way up that path. And then all the way back
carrying
something. But with one glance at Olympia, her face a storm cloud, her arms crossed over her substantial chest, Lazy Susan sighed, dismounted, and began trudging, aggrieved, up the path.

She opened the garden gate, knocked at the cottage door, and waited. No one came. She knocked again, and looked back down the path at Olympia, who remained stone-faced and hungry. When still no one came, Lazy Susan decided to walk around the cottage. Perhaps there were some fruit trees or a vegetable garden.

As she rounded the corner of the building, she was stopped in her tracks at the sight of a rotund gentleman with a full head of white hair, wearing britches and a long-underwear shirt, sweating profusely as he tried to uproot a stump. A string of incomprehensible syllables issued from his mouth and, though Lazy Susan couldn't understand them, there was no mistaking their intent. Cautiously, she cleared her throat.

Startled, the man looked up from the stump and flushed a bright red. He said some more words, none of which she could understand but that seemed apologetic in tone. She shrugged and asked slowly, "Do ... you ... speak ... English?"

"Oh, yes, of course," he said. "Did you overhear me while I was wrestling with that stump?"

"I did," she said. "I couldn't understand anything you said, but I definitely got the idea you weren't happy."

"I was indeed cursing," he admitted, "and I apologize. I find it satisfying to curse in languages other than my native one, but so many travelers from different parts come along this road, I'm never sure when
one who understands the language I'm using will happen by and be offended."

"I speak only one language," Lazy Susan said, "and I'm not exactly an expert at that one. So I wasn't offended in the least."

"Is there something I can help you with?" the gentleman asked.

"Oh. Yes. My—" She stopped. She couldn't really call Olympia her friend now that she was no longer Angie, which caused a brief painful pinch to Lazy Susan's heart. "My traveling companion and I have come a long way, and we've got a long way to go yet, and we've run out of food. We were wondering if maybe—"

Before she could go any further, he said, "Most assuredly. It would be my pleasure, and a great treat for me. I rarely have anyone to dine with since I live so far from the nearest village. And while many travelers pass by, few stop for a meal. You're both much more than welcome."

He strode around to the front of the cottage with Lazy Susan trailing him. When he spotted Olympia in the wheelbarrow at the end of the path, he waved to her and then beckoned for her to join them. She didn't move. He beckoned again.

"I'll go get her." Lazy Susan sighed. By the time they'd eaten, that would make two round trips on that
same path, which was more walking than she normally did in several days.

"Where's the food?" Olympia asked as Lazy Susan approached the wheelbarrow.

"He wants us to come inside. He'll feed us in there."

"Are you crazy? We don't know anything about him. These parts are full of fairy folk and sorcerers and gremlins. If he's one, and knows who I am, who can tell what he'll do."

Lazy Susan had had enough. "I'm sufficiently hungry to take a chance. You decide for yourself."

The front door was wide open as Lazy Susan came back along the path, and the white-haired man waited on the threshold, his arms spread expansively.

"
Bok, daw-daw,
and
nark
!" he exclaimed.

Lazy Susan stopped. Maybe Olympia was right—apparently these parts
were
inhabited by some very strange sorts. "I'm sorry?" she said.

"I'm welcoming you," he said. "
Bok
is Croatian for hello,
daw-daw
is Jutlandish for hello, and
nark
is Phorhépechan for hello."

"Oh."

"I could have said
aloha
but that also means goodbye. As does
ayubowan
—that's Sri Lankan—and I don't want to be telling you good-bye so soon. Not at all."

"I see. And how is it you know all these words?" She stood unmoving on the path.

"I've lived alone here for a long time. Tending my garden and making little knickknacks in my workshop has passed some of the time, but learning languages, for which I seem to have a great facility, has filled the rest of it. It's been mentally stimulating, as well as allowing me to converse with any odd stranger who passes by on the road. And some of them, I assure you, have been very odd."

Lazy Susan exhaled the breath she'd been holding, and started walking again.

"Forgive me for not introducing myself," he said as she reached the door. "My name is Stan Lucasa. And you are ...?"

"I'm Lazy Susan. Sleeping Beauty is my half sister. Do you know her? She married a prince who fell in love with her while she was asleep. Doesn't that strike you as peculiar?"

"I'm sorry. I can't say that I know her or her prince. And love is a mysterious thing—something I appreciate and never question. Well, welcome, Susan." She noticed that he didn't use her adjective. He pointed to the wheelbarrow where Olympia still sat. "Your companion isn't coming?"

"I don't know," Lazy Susan said. "But we don't have to wait for her."

The inside of the cottage was a complete surprise. Lazy Susan had been expecting a bachelor environment—sparse furnishings, piles of dirty laundry, and inches of dust. Not only was the place immaculate, it was tastefully filled with lively objects that were decorative as well as functional. The walls were lined with shelves of carved birds and animals in fanciful shapes.

The round table was covered with an embroidered cloth; platters overflowed with delicious-looking concoctions. She stopped, her mouth open. "How in the world—"

Mr. Lucasa pulled out a chair with an elaborately carved back and a seat cushion made from a cheerful striped fabric. "I like to cook," he said. "Have a seat."

She sat, still speechless. Mr. Lucasa apparently liked to cook
fast.
She'd seen enough magic in her time to be glad that if his methods were magical, they produced delicious-looking food instead of noxious smoke or lightning bolts.

He handed her a heaping plate, then filled a plate for himself and sat across from her. He ate quickly and tidily, and was on his second plateful while she was still savoring her first.

Suddenly the front door was flung open so hard it hit the wall and bounced back. Olympia pushed it open again, and stood on the threshold in her stained and rumpled gown, Fenleigh draped over the shoulders. "You left me," she said, glaring.

Lazy Susan shrugged, her mouth full of delectable roasted meat. "You didn't want to come," she managed.

"Were you intending to bring me something? Or were you going to eat it all yourself?"

Mr. Lucasa had come to his feet, a large napkin in his hand, when the door banged open, but Olympia ignored him.

"This is Mr. Lucasa," Lazy Susan said, gesturing to him with her fork. "He made this feast. It's good."

"Madam," Mr. Lucasa said, "please join us." He waved his hand over the table, on which there remained plenty to eat.

Olympia's eyes glittered hungrily. "Very well." She made her way regally to the table, where she, and Fenleigh, too, ate like lumberjacks.

This pleased Mr. Lucasa immensely. "That is a special dish I invented," he said. "Squab with
flab
and
moron.
"

Lazy Susan dropped her fork and coughed. "Flabs and morons?"

Mr. Lucasa laughed a hearty laugh. "
Flab
is Gaelic
for mushroom, and
moron
is Welsh for carrot. Perfectly harmless, I guarantee it."

"And very good, too," Olympia said, her mouth full. "Quite excellent. Would you like a job at Beauri-vage Castle? We can always use another chef in the kitchens."

"We don't know anything about him, remember?" Lazy Susan reminded her primly.

"I know enough." Olympia waved her hand dismissively. "He can cook. That's all I need to know."

"I do like to cook," he agreed. "You said Beauri-vage Castle?"

"Where else did you think Queen Olympia would live?"

"You're a queen?" he asked. When she nodded, still chewing, he cast a glance out the window to where the mules stood, eating the flowers by his front gate, the wheelbarrow on its side.

Olympia saw the look, and drew herself up so haughtily that she could have been wearing a crown instead of a tattered and dirty dress. "I may not appear very royal right now, but I've just been through an extraordinary experience. I assure you that once I get you back to Beaurivage Castle you will see how regal I can be."