Thrice Upon a Marigold Read Free Page A

Mopsy and Topsy were unhappy about being relegated to their floor pillows and, come to think about it, she hadn’t even seen Bub and Cate in a long time. Oh, it was wicked of her to have neglected them so. But having Poppy had preoccupied and distracted her, and she knew she wasn’t paying as much attention to a lot of other things as she was to Poppy, even though there was a nursemaid to help with the baby.
    Marigold liked the nursemaid, a comfortably upholstered lady named Mrs. Sunday, but she would have preferred to have only herself and Christian caring for Poppy. It was unreasonable for a queen to think that way, she supposed, but that’s just how it was. There was another new servant just to do the baby’s washing—who knew such a little person could produce such heaps of laundry?—and still
another
new servant to keep track of the baby presents pouring in from all over the known world, and to draft thank-you notes. Marigold couldn’t possibly write all the notes herself, but she did want to see them, just to make sure they were properly appreciative and respectful, and to personally sign them before they were p-mailed.
    The queen was having more trouble than she’d anticipated getting her routine in order.

3
    T HE FINAL COLD RAIN of winter—or maybe the first one of spring—flung itself against the library windows, as if it were angry at not being allowed in where the fire hissed and crackled in the chimney corner and candlelight glossed the warm colors of the book bindings.
    Phoebe ignored the rain as she concentrated on the book she was reading. It was full of interesting facts, ones she’d probably never get to tell anybody else, but she liked to think that she was nevertheless keeping her mind well-furnished. Wasn’t it nice to know that robins could live twelve years, and that your fingernails could grow two inches in one year, and that most rats were right-handed?
    She closed the book. Who but she would ever care about such things?
    She jumped when the door opened and Sebastian came in, shaking off his umbrella and propping it by the door.
    â€œI brought back the King Arthur book.” His tone suggested she might not have expected him to.
    â€œThat . . . that’s good. Do you want to renew it?”
    â€œNo. I got what I nee—”
    Just then there was a terrific
thud
. Sebastian had been facing the window. “I think that was a p-mail pigeon! The storm must have blown him into the glass.” He turned and ran for the door.
    â€œWhere are you going?”
    â€œOut to get him! There’s a shortage of them already, you know. We can’t afford to lose one. And he may be carrying an important message. Get a towel ready for him!” And he dashed out, forgetting his umbrella.
    A towel? Where did he think she would find a towel in a library? And who did he think he was, ordering her around like that? And what did a poisoner’s son care about a battered pigeon, anyway?
    While Phoebe was thinking all these thoughts, she was nevertheless scurrying around looking for something like a towel. She settled for one of the cloths she used to dust the books, which she found just as Sebastian came racing back, soaking wet and shivering, with a limp pigeon in his hands.
    My turn to give orders,
Phoebe thought. “Get over there by the fire,” she commanded. “And wrap him in this.” She handed Sebastian the dust cloth. “And here. This is for you.” She flung her shawl across his dripping shoulders—big broad ones, she couldn’t help noticing. “Is it alive?”
    â€œI think so.” He wrapped the cloth around the bird and set it on the hearth, rubbing it gently. “But look. The cylinder’s broken open.”
    â€œWell, read the message,” Phoebe said. “It’s got to be important. Who would send a p-mail in this kind of weather if it wasn’t? And this pigeon’s not going