Once Upon a Marigold (8 page)

"Well, I couldn't help noticing how you picked up that little dog last night—Poopsy or Nutsy or whatever its name is. I can never keep them straight. Did your hand happen to touch hers when you handed the dog back?"

"Oh no," Christian lied through his teeth. Her hand had felt wonderful—soft and strong at the same time.

"Good. Because if she touches you, she can tell what you're thinking."

When Marigold had first told him about her curse, Christian had had to ponder for a minute before he realized how bad that could be. At first all he thought was: What a lot of junk mail she must receive from other people's minds. But then he realized why people feared her—all their mean and hateful thoughts, the ones best kept to themselves, would be exposed.

He knew exactly what he had been thinking when their hands touched. Some concerns about the dog, and some uncharitable thoughts about her suitors, but mostly how happy he was to be so close to her. Not until this very moment did he consider how offensive she might have found that—a servant feeling that way about her. No wonder she'd said "Oh my," and run away.

Sedgewick went on. "Only King Swithbert doesn't mind touching her. But his head seems to be filled with nothing but harmless, woolly thoughts wishing ill upon no one. The others in the palace, I'm afraid, are not so willing to have their thoughts inspected. Well, get to work," Sedgewick said, giving Christian a basket full of the tools he'd need. "And don't forget—no touching."

The terrace wall was in worse shape than Christian expected—much worse than it had looked from the other side, through the telescope. The mortar between the stones was crumbling to powder and would have to be completely replaced before someone leaned on the wall and it collapsed, dumping them into the river below. This was a big job. He rolled up his sleeves and set to work.

He was concentrating so hard, he didn't hear when Princess Marigold came out onto the terrace and sat down to read. Not until her little floor-mop dogs began barking as they played did he turn and notice. He stood up to stretch out his back and then doffed his cap to her. On the other side of the river, a friendship with her had seemed completely natural. But here, where everyone's rank was the first thing you had to think about, he wondered how he had ever been innocent enough, or stupid enough, to think that she'd want a mere servant for her best friend, no matter how lonely she was. He felt sad and foolish.

"Good morning," she said. "You're the one who picked up Topsy last night, aren't you?"

"Yes, Your Highness," Christian answered cautiously. Was it possible she'd been too distracted to remember his thoughts? "Is she all right?"

"As you can see," Princess Marigold said, pointing to where the three little dogs frolicked. "But I was worried at first. Thank you for coming to her rescue."

"Don't mention it," he said. "I have—uh,
had—
dogs of my own, back home. I know how attached you get."

"What kind of dogs?" she asked, putting down her book.

That was his Marigold—always curious. "Oh ... a big one and a small one," he said evasively, realizing it would not be wise to describe dogs she'd be sure to recognize from his p-mail. "Mutts, I guess you'd say. Your Highness," he added quickly.

"You must miss them," she said. "Who takes care of them now?"

"My—" Christian stopped. He couldn't say his foster father. That's the way he'd described Ed to her. Princess Marigold was watching him, expectant, her head tipped slightly to one side.

"My friend Edric," Christian finally said. But he wished he could touch Marigold now so that she could see into his mind and know, without the woeful inadequacy of words, all that Ed—whom he was missing painfully just then—was and had been to him.

A
CROSS THE RIVER
, Ed stood on the ledge above the waterfall, the telescope trained on the riverfront terrace. In his desperation to know what had happened to Christian, he had decided to look for him.

Imagine his surprise when he saw Christian, splendid in his green-and-white livery with the gold braid and buttons—protected by an apron embroidered with the royal coat of arms—standing casually by the parapet, talking to the princess!

Well, blow me over with a feather! Ed thought. He'd known Christian's correspondence with her was risky, but he'd thought Chris would at least have the sense to remain anonymous once he got over there. She was a
princess,
for pete's sake, and he was just a commoner—though he was so extraordinary and talented and so special to Ed that he really couldn't consider him common in any way. But the princess would. And Ed could only think she'd be embarrassed and offended to know her p-mail pal was a lowly servant—who then had the nerve and the poor judgment to confess who he was. Why, Christian could end up in the dungeon, screwed to the rack, or locked into the iron maiden. Or worse, far worse, introduced to Madame Guillotine.

Ed looked sadly down at the dogs at his feet. "I guess that's the last we'll be seeing of him, guys. I should have been a better parent." Bub and Cate whined in commiseration. Ed lowered the telescope and tramped off into the forest. Maybe he'd find something out there today that would cheer him up, though he couldn't possibly imagine what that might be.

I
T DEFINITELY
wasn't Queen Mab, whom he came across sitting on a stump. Her wee reading glasses were perched on the end of her nose as she puzzled over a scrawled map that even Ed could see was completely incomprehensible.

"You'll never get where you're going with that thing," he said.

"Oh, what do you know?" she retorted.

"I know enough to know that map's a mess."

"I'll have you know my mapmaker is the best there is." Queen Mab turned the map around and looked at it with the other side up.

"Who says?"

"Well, he does, of course," she said, scratching her head with one of the pencils stuck in her hair.

"He's probably the only one," Ed muttered. "Why don't you admit you need some competent help?"

"Meaning you, I suppose?" she scoffed.

"How overdue are you picking up that batch of teeth?" he asked, indicating the long list of names on the stump next to her.

She snatched up the list. "None of your business."

"That's what I thought," he said. "Sooner or later, Mab, you're going to have some competition from me. Count on it."

"You're going to need a lot more support for that to happen," she said, folding the map.

"And I'll get it," he said, not at all sure that he would. "Arrogance and inflexibility aren't good for any business, you know. A closed mind gathers no moss."

"Whatever that means," Mab said, flying off.

Ed watched her weave uncertainly through the trees, and then trudged home feeling even worse than he had when he'd set out.

"I don't remember seeing you before," the princess said to Christian. "Although somehow you seem familiar. Have we met?"

How he wished he could answer that question. "I've only been working here since yesterday. I was lucky that more servants were needed because of the festivities for Prince Cyprian and Sir Magnus."

"I'm glad you got a job," Marigold said, "but I wish there weren't so many festivities." She sighed gustily and flopped back in her chair.

"You like a quieter life?" he asked politely, knowing full well that she'd like a life with equal parts adventure and hominess.

"Well, not entirely. Just one without so many suitors in it."

"Just one suitor, perhaps?" Christian suggested.

"Only if he were the right one," she said a bit wistfully. "And I think the one I want is one I'll never have."

"Oh?" he said. He felt as if his ears had perked up the way Cate's did when she heard something interesting. "How can you be so sure?"

"It's simple. If I can't meet him, I can't have him."

"But can't a princess meet anybody she wants to meet?"

"Not if he lives far away. And is a commoner to boot."

Christian's cheeks grew hot. "It sounds as if you've got someone specific in mind."

She gave him a sharp look, reminding him that he was, after all, in the presence of royalty. "Never mind," she said. "But just tell me one thing. Do you think it's necessary for a woman to marry?"

Christian's brow furrowed. Well, he was definitely the wrong person to answer that question. He knew totally zip about what went on between men and women as far as marriage was concerned. "I suppose not," he said slowly while he thought fast. "Unless there was something she wanted that she could get only by being married."

She stood up so suddenly that the book in her lap hit the flagstones. "Exactly!" she said. "That's what I must tell my parents. There's nothing I want badly enough to marry one of those ... those ... well, those suitors ... to get it."

He knew he should probably keep his mouth shut, but he wanted to make sure she'd thought of everything. He didn't want her realizing later that she'd overlooked something and blame him for giving her bad advice. Who knew how a princess's blame might express itself? The rack? The iron maiden? Maybe even ... the guillotine? "What about ... I mean, have you thought of children?"

She regarded him gravely. "Yes," she said slowly. "And even though everybody says they're a lot of trouble, and messy and demanding, I still want them. I can be a lot of trouble and messy and demanding, too, so I know how that is."

So can I! Christian wanted to add.

"What I like best about them is they're so accepting and nonjudgmental."

Chris made a dubious sound.

"What?"

"I'm not sure I agree with you about that. I was pretty judgmental as a little kid." At least until he'd come to live with Ed, he remembered. After that, he'd liked just about everything.

"Well, if I get a child like you, I think I can handle it," she said.

Was she insulting him? Dismissing him? He felt as if he'd been slapped.

"Anyway, if I don't get married, I can always adopt some children," Marigold went on. "It seems like people are forever dying to get rid of them—leaving them on church doorsteps, or out in the forest, or in baskets on the river. There's never a shortage of unwanted children."

"But the succession—can an adopted child inherit the throne?"

"Why not? It would be my child, the child of my heart, and if I were queen, it would be my successor." She waved a hand. "If there's a problem with that, one of my sisters' children can inherit. They already have more than they need to take care of the successions in their own kingdoms. Who knows if a child of mine would be suited to rule, anyway? Not everybody is."

"It would be," Christian said emphatically. "With you for its mother, it would have all the right qualities."

She was bending to pick up her book, then stopped halfway down and looked at him.
Really
looked at him. "What an odd thing to say," she said. "My mother doesn't believe I can do anything right. She says I'm too democratic."

"Your mother's wrong" he said, gazing ardently into her eyes—and wondering when she would decide he was way too insolent for a servant and have the dungeon cleaned out for him.

But instead she rushed over to him and grabbed his hands in hers. Her eyes looked off over his shoulder, focusing on something that seemed inside herself. "Oh!" she cried and let go, then ran away from him to gather her book and her dogs. Just as she was dashing to the stone archway leading indoors, her parents came sweeping out, followed by Prince Cyprian, Sir Magnus, a gaggle of courtiers and hangers-on, and servants carrying folding chairs, parasols, rugs, and trays of food.

"Ah, Marigold," said King Swithbert. "So happy we've found you. We're having a lovely luncheon alfresco today and have been looking for you to join us."

"I'm afraid I can't," she said. "I seem to have developed a sick headache."

Christian couldn't be sure, but he thought she'd flashed him a glance. Was she thinking, as he was, of Bub and
his
sick headaches, the ones he got from pretending to be brave? Had she discerned who he was from holding his hands? If she had, why had it distressed her so? And why had she grabbed his hands in the first place? Wasn't that an unusual way for a princess to behave with a servant?

"A little fresh air will be just the thing, then," Queen Olympia said, herding Marigold away from the archway without actually touching her.

"Yes," Prince Cyprian said languidly. "It won't be a party without you."

"I wish you would stay," Sir Magnus said, awkwardly taking her hand—the one holding the book—and kissing it with a loud smacking sound. Everyone but King Swithbert took an involuntary step backward.

Christian was surprised to see that Magnus wasn't afraid to touch Marigold. Maybe he was thinking only complimentary thoughts. Or maybe the book in Marigold's hand somehow interfered with her ability to perceive his thoughts. Or maybe, as Christian suspected, Magnus's head was so empty, there were too few thoughts to read.

"We missed you at dinner last night," Cyprian said, stifling a yawn. "The party wasn't the same without you."

"Indeed not," King Swithbert chimed in. "Much less ... or perhaps much more ... well, you know how it is."

Christian imagined that the contents of King Swithbert's head must look like the junk pile in the blacksmith shop.

"You there," one of the other servants called to Christian. "Come help us lay out this luncheon."

Obediently, Chris unrolled carpets and carried tables and set up chairs while the guests stood around waiting impatiently for their picnic to be presented to them. Then he packed up his tools for the unfinished job on the wall, so as not to offend the royalty with signs of honest, sweaty, satisfying labor.

He was in the kitchen eating bread and cheese for lunch when Meg, the scullery maid, came in with a trayful of dirty dishes. "I swear, these royal people are useless," she said. "All they ever do is eat and change their clothes—especially the queen. That woman must wear six outfits a day. Sure, they wouldn't know an honest day's work if it bit them in the—" She stopped and giggled.