Slim turned on his heel to face her. They now had the attention of the entire bar. Slim was an extraordinary figure, impossibly tall in his black cloak. He took several paces toward Marigold.
“I can’t know that, as I’ve told you many times,” he said in a low voice, walking still closer. “But when I was a young boy, my mother went mad, and I had to watch. I begged her to leave me, to pursue her call and save herself, but she wouldn’t do it on my behalf. So now,” Slim continued, his voice getting steadily louder, “not only do I mourn the loss of my mother’s sanity and her general pleasure in life, but I also carry a heavy guilt on my shoulders. If you would like to do that to your children, then by all means, stay. But if you would like to save them as well as yourself, you must go. Good night, miss, that is all I have to say on the matter.”
As Marigold watched Slim slink from the bar, she stood still for some moments, stunned. The bar mistress, taking pity on her, put her arms around Marigold’s shoulders and guided her toward a bar stool. She calmly poured an ale and slid it across the table.
“On the house,” she said, and Marigold nodded her thanks, gripping the pint with rather too much force and then drinking it in large gulps.
After a silence, the bar mistress addressed her again.
“He is a marvel, to be sure, the soothsayer,” the bar mistress said of Slim, “but there’s always a certain chill in the air when he comes around, no matter how hot the weather is. And when he delivers bad news, he does it with a straight face. I’m sorry for whatever you heard, ma’am. But I would trust him, though it upsets me somewhat to say so. Take your fate as it was drawn; he tells no lies. He serves up the truth so naked and without any ornament—that it disturbs the mind—and we are not used to that. So drink up and recover. I’m sure you’ll figure out what to do.”
Marigold thanked her.
“It’s just that—I’ll have to leave my children.”
The bar mistress nodded slowly.
“That’s no easy thing,” she said.
“I’ll have to plan for it,” Marigold said, taking another gulp.
No amount of planning will make you ready,” the bar mistress warned, “though I’m sure it’s none of my business. I would go sooner rather than later. But only you can choose.”
Marigold finished her drink and drew up her hood.
“Thank you,” she said. “I feel sturdier, after the drink.”
“Good luck to you,” the bar mistress said.
Marigold stole through the night, like one pursued. She darted in and out between riffraff, ignoring the catcalls of drunken fools. She soon found her steed in the stable and mounted him, cantering fast back toward the castle. The night air was bracing. Marigold’s hood fell back around her shoulders. She raced so fast that her hair became undone and began streaming around her. Despite what she was about to do, Marigold smiled. She could taste something of freedom.
She returned her horse to the palace stables, but left his saddle on. She was determined to leave tonight before she lost her nerve. She greeted the attendant at the stables, and then ducked through a hidden passageway that led to the yard outside. She grasped at the knotted rope that hung from her window—colored navy to blend with the night—and climbed back up, her strength even amazing herself. At one time, she was the most athletic child in the yard. Her mother had marveled at how fast she was—she always said it beautiful to watch Marigold run.
Marigold found her room the same as always—pristine, undisturbed. Topaz had only ever slept with her on their wedding night, and after that, an understanding came to pass between them: when Topaz visited her bedroom, it was for purely functional purposes—to create an heir. After Marigold had twin boys, Knightley and Nestor, she hardly touched her husband more than the occasional royal duties demanded—Marigold taking his arm for instance, when they walked through the kingdom in their finery on some diplomatic purpose.
Usually, Marigold’s room was her refuge. But now, when she surveyed her bed, her décor, her heavy curtains, it seemed sterile. Had shereallylived there? Had she made any mark that was uniquelyherson this queen’s bedchamber?
It smelled of all the queens before her—that was certain—the great ones, the terrible ones. But Marigold? She felt faceless even while she still lived, even while she stared at her own portrait, which was drawn just after the heirs were born. There’s a woman who looks like nothing, Marigold had thought on first seeing it. It seems impossible, of course. But that woman, in that painting—Marigold decided—she looks like nothing at all.
She couldn’t stand being in this room for another minute. She felt that the open window was the only thing saving her from fainting right then and there. A cool breeze found her, and the air promised something: adventure, perhaps, or definition. Most of all: joy. A return to who she once was.
Marigold grabbed the bag nearest to her and began to stuff it with clothes. She had taken dinner in her room earlier that night, and there was still half of a baguette lying on her tray. She stowed that in a separate cart along with a hunk of cheese, and then, without so much as a backwards glance, she stole off toward the nursery.
It was a good thing no one questioned the queen or noticed her more than politeness demanded. The servants and other court members learned long ago that she was not one for small talk. So, when Marigold bustled through the halls late this night with suspicious-looking cargo, no one stopped her. Even the revellers let her be. They had probably seen her many times at this hour, wandering the corridors with a glass of milk in hand when she was unable to sleep—which was frequently. Why should they think that this time was any different?
Her behavior led them to believe that she was bereft of desires—that she had no need for food, which she picked at, and no need for company, which she roundly declined whenever it was offered. She was only realizing the extent of her self-imprisonment now that she was preparing to break out of it.
Marigold found Knightley and Nestor sleeping peacefully. They really were such good children—Marigold often thought she didn’t deserve them. Healthy, happy, joyful. She put her hands on their hearts and Knightley woke up.
“Dears,” she said, “I have to leave for a while. But know that I love you. And it is partially for you that I am leaving.”
“No,” Knightley said. Nestor stirred.
“Don’t leave,” he said.
Marigold’s eyes filled with tears. “I have to, darlings. But do you promise to be good?”
They nodded.
