Marigold was fast, that was sure. Finn had always considered himself a good rider, but next to Marigold he was second rate. He could only barely keep her in sight. She was headed for the main roads, into town.
When he arrived in the town proper, he sighed with relief. Marigold was dismounting her horse in the local stables. He saw her disappear into Melinda’s house.
Now, at least, she had stopped moving.
Finn knocked on the door to Melinda’s house like a madman, and still it seemed that there was some delay in anyone answering the door. He was sure that it wasthisdoor that Marigold had disappeared into. When the door finally opened and Melinda was behind it, she greeted him with a sigh.
“It’s not a good time,” she said. “I have a guest.”
“I know you do,” Finn said, “but please. If she’s thinking about leaving–she can’t leave.”
Finn pushed past Melinda in a feat of rudeness that surprised even himself. He rushed into the sitting area and found Marigold, her face wet with tears, her hands tensely gripping her knees.
“Mari,” he said. “Are you alright?”
Marigold took one hand up to her face to elegantly wipe away her tears.
“No, I’m not really alright,” she said. “I came here to talk to Melinda–not you. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Why not?” Finn asked hotly.
Melinda had come to stand in the doorway with her arms crossed.
“Marigold, don’t be ashamed,” she said. “I have been ashamed before, too.”
Finn looked from Melinda to Marigold, and from Marigold to Melinda. The similarities were striking.
“What’s going on here?”
Chapter Nine
Marigold
Marigold was still not used to seeing Melinda as her mother when she looked her in the face. She feared she would never come to see her as anything more than an eccentric woman of whom she was fond.
But now, Marigold felt that she needed her. For who else was around that could understand the twists and turns of a troubled mind? A mind prone to trap a body, to spin like a top, unable to lift itself out of misery by logical, internal arguments?Youshould be happy, she told herself, over and over again. You are a queen, not a peasant. You aren’t hungry, you’re full. You aren’t sick, you’re healthy.
Even as a child, Marigold was prone to fits of melancholy—they were easier to get out of, though, before her parents died and a criminal had had his way with her.
Melinda had once talked about going mad once before. It all began to make sense: this peril of the mind was inherited, not from her leisurely, mild-mannered and aristocratic step parents, but from her wandering, eccentric artist birth mother.
She couldn’t possibly expect Finn to understand the decision she had made—to leave a life in the palace with her children. Other minds wouldn’t rebel so hard against their circumstances. Hers was different though, and there was no changing it. At last, racing toward Melinda in the hot summer air, Marigold accepted this truth.
There was power in embracing her difference.
Her knock was swiftly answered by Melinda who, Marigold knew, was desperate to get to know her daughter better. A smile broke out across her birth mother’s face. Marigold hadn’t visited often, and when she had, she kept her visits brief, and usually came to request to purchase more painting supplies.
She wasn’t ready to talk about the reasons why her mother abandoned her. So, they talked painting. Melinda had always painted portraits. She was interested in people’s faces and their expressions most of all. Marigold was the opposite. She looked at nature as if it was a face. In her room on the top floor of Finn’s house, she was painting wild, made-up landscapes, as well as realistic depictions of the farm, and she was working on one in particular, even though it pained her to: a portrait of the palace grounds at night, with the tower in the background.
“Back for more supplies already?” Melinda said. Marigold insisted on paying for the paints with her earnings, but she suspected that Melinda gave her the most precious paints she had in stock at a reduced price.
Marigold knew her face must be full of sorrow, and Melinda recognized it immediately, guiding her to a chaise lounge in a parlor.
Marigold lay on it and closed her eyes. Without opening them, she asked Melinda, “Tell me about your madness and why you gave me up.”
Marigold didn’t open her eyes—she didn’t want to see the shock on her mother’s face. But just then someone entered the shop without knocking.
Finn.
