Once Upon a Marigold (4 page)

Walter sighed heavily as Christian clipped the cylinder to his leg. "I told her I read Greek myths, too. I told her my favorite is about Jason and the Argonauts and all their adventures. Even though it has a sad ending, it's exciting up until then. And Jason grew up in a cave, away from his original home, too."

Christian had watched Walter take off before he realized that it was way too early for anybody at the castle to be up, and Walter would have to hang around on the terrace, maybe for hours, before Marigold appeared. Oh, what a knucklehead he was. Way too stupid to be corresponding with a princess. Christian felt his lack of worldly knowledge more than ever. He might know how to address a duke or recognize an oyster fork, but he had no clue whatsoever about what went on between human males and females.

Through the telescope he followed Walter's progress. The sun was still below the horizon, but the sky had that magical deep lavender opalescence of a high-summer day that was going to be a scorcher—but later. For now all was still and pearly and perfect.

And to make it more perfect, just then Marigold, wearing something gauzy and flowing, stepped onto the terrace, yawning and stretching. She leaned on the wall, looking across the river just as Walter landed by her right elbow. He held the leg with the cylinder out to her in a long-suffering manner, but she just smiled at him and undipped it. She read the message, smiled bigger, and held one finger up to him, signaling him to wait.

When she came back, she had paper, pen, ink, and a handful of grain she scattered along the terrace wall for Walter to peck at while she pondered her answer. Mollified, he enjoyed his breakfast as she wrote three lines, waited for the ink to dry, then clipped the cylinder onto his leg. He finished the last of the grain and flapped off.

Christian hid in the bushes so Marigold couldn't see where Walter delivered the message. After Chris undipped the cylinder, Walter headed back inside, but not before executing a few carefree loop-the-loops in pure pleasure over having had a hearty breakfast and an easy job accomplished on a splendid summer morning.

Christian took one more quick look through the telescope. Just then Queen Olympia emerged onto the terrace in her full satin-dress-and-pearl-tiara regalia, with some kind of fur piece draped over one arm. She found Marigold, in what apparently was her nightie, gazing off across the river. Christian couldn't hear what the queen was saying, of course, but there was no mistaking that a scolding was taking place. Marigold stood, casting her eyes slightly above Olympia's head, looking like a thundercloud with a clamped-shut mouth.

She almost quivered with the effort not to talk back to her mother, though Christian was sure that Queen Olympia deserved a little back talk. He'd seen plenty of the way she bossed everybody around—including King Swithbert. He had to admire Marigold's self-control. Bursting out with angry words was always so much easier than maintaining one's dignity and self-respect. But not reacting often had the satisfying side effect of further enraging the person who was giving you trouble. That's what Ed's etiquette book said, though Chris had had no personal experience with such things. Just as he'd had no personal experience with just about everything—something that was becoming more of a consideration for him every day.

The first thing he wanted to do now—whether the etiquette book would like it or not—was to run over there and stick up for Marigold. What was so bad about wanting to see the sunrise in your nightie?

Christian watched Marigold until she and her mother went inside. Then he opened her note:

Do you know the story of Andromeda?

He knew he should, but there were so many of them, he couldn't remember which one that was. He ran back to the cave and flipped madly through the pages of his Greek myth book until he found it. Then he remembered Andromeda was the daughter of a vain queen who had angered Poseidon, the sea god, so much that he sent a sea monster to devour her kingdom. To save the kingdom, the king had to sacrifice Andromeda to the monster. Chained to a cliff she called on her fiancé, a prince, to rescue her, but he was too cowardly. Perseus, a poor humble youth who didn't know he was really the son of the god Zeus, showed up just in time to slay the monster. After that he and Andromeda lived happily evermore. And when they died, Zeus put them into the sky as constellations so they could be together always. There was a drawing that showed which stars were Perseus and Andromeda.

And of course, Christian recognized those constellations. He'd seen them through his telescope.

Did Marigold feel she was being sacrificed to her mother's vanity? Did she need to be rescued? Who was the monster? Was there a fiancé? Christian's mind spun with dramatic possibilities.

Or maybe Andromeda's myth was just a nice story with a happy ending and that's why Marigold liked it. Maybe she was shallow and stupid and he'd hate her if they ever met. What could you really tell about somebody from a couple of p-mails?

The answer, it seemed to him, was to send more p-mails, to get to know more about her. To find out why she liked the story.

He waited until he saw her alone again on the terrace, now wearing a proper morning dress. Message in hand, he ran to the cave, hijacking Carrie from Ed just as he was about to snap her cylinder on. "Hey!" Ed yelled as Christian grabbed the pigeon. Carrie squawked, too, but Chris hustled her out to the waterfall and sent her across the river.

It turned out that Marigold liked the myth because she loved watching the stars and liked knowing their stories. But Christian thought there was more to it than that.

He wished he could ask her. Because he felt instinctively that asking her about that would be too personal and intrusive, he decided to ask her about other things. Like when her birthday was. He wanted to know where she belonged in the zodiac.

And that was how their long p-mail correspondence began.

April
19.
I'm
17.
I'm an Aries. Why did you
decide to write to me?

—Marigold

You seemed so absorbed in your book. I
wanted to know what you were reading.

—C.

For some reason, he was reluctant to tell her his name. The more anonymous he stayed, the bolder he felt—as if he were someone else, an alternate version of himself, a version who casually corresponded with a princess. A version who couldn't tell her his own birthday because he didn't know it.

You can see me?

—Marigold

PS. What does C. stand for?

He thought her first question sounded a bit alarmed, as most people would be if they found out they were being watched. But the fact that she'd added a P.S. meant she was curious about him, which he took as a good sign. He debated for a long time about how to answer.

Sometimes I can see you. C. stands for my
name.

He knew he was being tricky and evasive, but he
could
see her only sometimes. He couldn't see her if she wasn't on the terrace. He couldn't see her at night even if she was. He knew the thing about his name might be sort of irritating, too, but he wasn't ready to tell her his real name—he liked being his alternate, bolder self—and he didn't want to lie to her ever.

She sent the pigeon back with an empty cylinder that time, so he knew she had backbone. But he wasn't at all glad that might be the last thing he'd ever find out about her. He waited a few days, brooding and grumpy, and then shanghaied both birds and four cylinders for a try at an apology.

I'm sorry. I can see you from afar with my
telescope. I'm shy about telling you my
name.

Besides, using C. instead of my whole
name saves space for other things I want to write to you
about. Okay?

Can't we leave it at C. for a while?
It's a perfectly ordinary name,
anyway.

I didn't mean to sound smart-alecky. I
hope you'll write back. You are such a
good correspondent.

—C.

To Chris's great relief, Carrie came back with a message.

Charlemagne? Crispin? Colin? Cosmo?
Christian? Chauncey?

—Marigold

He told her she'd guessed his name, but he didn't tell her which one it was.

Charlemagne: Can you see the stars with
your telescope? Can you see Perseus and
Andromeda? I envy them.

PS. I know that one time out of six I'll
have your name right.

—Marigold

Why do you envy them?

—C.

He couldn't think of anything else he wanted to know just then.

Crispin: Because they had a grand
adventure together, and because they knew
great love and because they were each

other's companions and best friends
and bulwarks.

—M.

He had to look up
bulwark
in the dictionary that Ed had found in the forest just a few days before. It meant (1) a defensive wall or rampart and (2) any safeguard or defense; anything that protects or shelters. Suddenly he wanted to have a bulwark, a protection and shelter—other than Ed, that is. And he wanted to be one for someone else.

Colin: Has anybody ever tried to marry
you off? What did you do about it?

—M.

No. But here's what I would do if they
did—be as unpleasant and as undesirable
as possible.

—C.

Christian: You're a genius! It worked! I
picked my nose and didn't brush my hair
and wiped my hands on Flopsy, one of

my dogs, after I ate. That boring suitor
left in a hurry after dinner.

—M.

Christian loved that this message had his name on it. And he laughed when she told him what she'd done. But he suspected that this wouldn't be the last suitor to show up. He'd seen how Queen Olympia had paraded suitors through for the triplets, and he knew that scoldings would follow whenever Marigold scared away any of her parade.

Cosmo: As punishment my mother says I
must pick out all the bollixed-up ladies-
in-waiting embroidery. I
hate
that.

—M.

Marigold: When I have to do something I
hate, I whistle. Then at least my mouth is
happy.

—C.

It gave him a funny feeling in his stomach to think about her mouth.

Chauncey. I tried the whistling, which
drove Mother absolutely
mad.
She says it's
undignified and unladylike. I'll use it on

the next suitor. He arrives next week. I
don't want to be dignified or ladylike
for him.

—M.

Marigold: How do you know? Maybe you'll
like him.

—C.

Christian hated to even suggest this, but he needed to know how she could be so sure she'd want to drive him away.

Colin: I don't want to marry anybody who
thinks of me only as a dowry and an
alliance instead of a partner and a best

friend. Royal marriages are arrangements,
not love matches. Except for my sisters,
who are lucky in everything.

—M.

He wanted to tell her that if she needed a best friend, he could be it. But of course he didn't. No matter how bold his other self might feel, he was still a forest commoner and she was a princess.

Charlemagne: Whistling worked, but I
can't use it again. My punishment this time
is 3 hours a day at the harpsichord—

she can hear if I stop. I have to play the
same tune all 3 hours. Can you hear me?

—M.

He tried. He whipped up an ear trumpet from random items in one of the storage rooms and, once in a while, thought he heard a few tinkling notes above the sound of the river. But maybe he was only imagining it.

Colin: Where do you live? What is your
family like? Do you have pets? What's your
favorite thing to eat? Can you swim? Can

you ice-skate? I've never been out of this
castle. What is the world like?

—M.

What a lot of questions! He could answer all but the last one. He lay awake that night thinking that he knew almost as little about the world as she did, even if he could swim and ice-skate and eat artichokes and invent things and harmonize with his dogs.

Marigold: I live in a cave with my foster
father

It had taken him a long time to decide how to describe Ed.

and two great dogs who can sing. I
can swim and ice-skate and I love

artichokes. The world is ... big. And
complicated.

He took a deep breath and added:

And I wish we could explore
it together.

—C.

Walter came back with empty cylinders that time.

Oh no, Christian thought. I've offended her. She probably thinks I'm one of those gold-digging princes who keep coming around.

He waited a few days, then sent a message.

Marigold: Have I offended you?

—C.