He was waving around the pamphlet from earlier.
“There’s a drawing on this!” he said. “People will recognize you.”
Melinda got up, troubled.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“It’s the latest news from the fire kingdom. Announcing King Topaz’s triumph over the water king.”
Melinda put her hand over her heart.
“Thank goodness.”
Finn cleared his throat.
“It also mentions Topaz’s impending marriage and his missing wife.”
Finn flipped the pamphlet to the back, which showed a drawing of Helena, and last, a portrait of herself.
“It’s really not a great likeness,” Melinda said, frowning at the picture.
“That’s not the point!” Finn shouted. “Marigold, were you riding back to the fire kingdom, now that you will be recognized by everyone here? Now that you can’t be someone new? People may try to take you back. They won’t understand.”
Marigold flashed her eyes at him.
“I was coming here,” she said. “That was my only plan. This isn’t a great time, Finn.”
“And why not?” Finn shouted.
“Sit down, son,” Melinda said.
“She’s my mother,” Marigold said flatly. “That’s why I’ve stuck around so long,” she continued, pausing because she knew such a confession would mean a lot to Melinda. “You may as well hear the story. It’ll be my first time, too.”
Marigold finally opened her eyes to look at Finn. She read shock on his face—well, she knew that would be there. But she was surprised to find sympathy as well, and concern. She sensed no impatience for her complex story, which had to be so opposite from his own. He was a well-liked boy, who grew into a well-liked, handsome man. His temperament was easy, his family perfect and supportive. He had experienced loss, yes, but had he ever been afraid of himself? Had he ever felt trapped inside his own body, desperate for a new one? Had his very being ever railed against perfectly adequate circumstances the way hers had? Had his spirit ever run roughshod over the practical and logical and good?
“I’ve been resenting you for leaving me—for not trying to contact me, ever since I was told the truth,” Marigold said to Melinda. “But how can I ever expect anyone to forgive me for leaving my children, if I can’t forgive you for doing the same? I made sure they were in good hands,” she said, now looking at Finn, “and when I left, I was like a ghost. Now,” she continued, looking at her hands, “I am a living, breathing, person. Not everyone knows what it’s like to feel as if you’ve been erased by something. You search in vain for the solution: sleep more, eat more, daily walks, more time spent alone, more time spent with people. And none of it works.”
Melinda nodded with understanding.
“And then you realize that all of those little things you think are going to help will never help. You realize that the change you need is so fundamental it’s unthinkable. It means shirking your duties as a queen and leaving in the middle of the night by yourself, and finding good, honest work for a good honest family and creating art that may never see the light of day, but that pleases you. It means daily exhaustion from riding and cooking and gardening. It means leaving children behind—for a time, at least—and so breaking your heart in two, finally, so that it can have a chance to grow back whole. That’s what a mind like mine demands, and finally I’ve accepted it.” Marigold paused and took a breath, putting her hands on her stomach.
“Today, I’ve accepted it, and I’m so happy and emotionally strung out that I’m nauseous.”
Melinda got up from her seat with tears in her eyes.
“I hardly need to tell my story,” Melinda said. “It mirrors yours so closely.”
Finn cleared his throat.
“I know that you think people in our family will not understand,” he said, “but I think every mind and body has its secret demands. Maybe the difference is, those minds and bodies don’t always wreak havoc until they get it. But,” he paused, and looked down at his hands, “looked at a certain way, it can be a good characteristic—what you call melancholy or a propensity for madness—lots of people compromise and keep themselves from true happiness. They’re able to say, this is what I want, but it’s too difficult to make a big change. It seems too dramatic, so they keep going in the same old way, without ever experiencing what they really want.”
“After all these years,” Melinda said, “I’ve come to realize that what Finn is saying is true. My injury is also my gift. I live exactly how I want because it would kill me not to. So I’m perfectly happy, and I embrace my oddities because I must. When I was pregnant with you, Marigold, I was isolated. I lived in a squalid room unfit for a child, whose father had run off. I made a few portraits, but mostly I worked as a clerk for a lender, sitting in a chair, doing sums, and then trying to paint at night. I got paid a pittance. I was lonely. When I got a Sunday off, I went to the market with the portraits I had made in my darkest hours. Solar and Sirius happened to be there, and they saw me: desperate, alone, and pregnant. Sirius found my paintings compelling, and he wanted to talk about my inspiration for them. We had dinner in a local pub, and though I hate to say it, I prayed that Sirius and Solar would pay—and they did. I told them my paintings came from a place of deep sorrow. That I had a baby on the way and a mind that wouldn’t stop focusing on how to heal itself, and so created a circus of anxiety.”
“At that point Sirius and Solar shared a knowing look, and Solar took my hand. ‘It is my greatest wish to be a mother,’ she said. “But I am barren. If you feel that you can part with your daughter, I would give her a good life, a spoiled life.’ I started sobbing in the pub,” Melinda recalled. “And I told them I would sleep on it; in the morning I said they could adopt you. They were thrilled. They spent the last weeks of my pregnancy in town, paying for my room and board, feeding me, nourishing me, and commissioning a portrait for when I was well. But we had a deal: you, Marigold, were never to know that you were adopted. Sirius and Solar feared that you wouldn’t think of them as your parents, if you knew, and also they worried it would bring you pain. I agreed. Around this time I met my husband, the baker. And I healed myself through hard work and a new life. Your birth was my rebirth.”
“How long did it take you, would you say?” Marigold asked. “How long were you unhappy?”
“Years,” Melinda said. “But only the last year was unbearable. And then, all of the sudden, it wasn’t, like some kind of magic. There was no formula. Only change, and a willingness to do something others would look down upon to save yourself. And even though I am sorry that it causes you pain to find out so late in life, I still think it was the right decision. I would have done more harm than good as your mother, in that stage of my life.
