3
Then, early one morning, Wivinia and Ubaldo Appenzeller were wakened from a sound sleep by a shriek coming from Angie's room. They scrambled out of bed, tripping over their nightshirts, their nightcaps askew, Ubaldo wielding a pitchfork that he'd kept under his bed for years in the event of an emergency that had never happened. Until now.
When they burst through the door of Angie's room, they found her sitting up in bed screaming her head off, with Fenleigh buried under a pillow, only his rear end and tail sticking out.
"What is it?" Ubaldo stood in the doorway, his pitchfork raised.
Wivinia rushed to Angie, but when she tried to put her arms around her, Angie shoved her away and screamed louder.
After a moment, Ubaldo and Wivinia could tell that Angie was screaming words. And the words were, "Where am I? Who are you?" and something that sounded like, "Get me Rollo!"
Trying to reassure her required more screaming by Ubaldo and Wivinia. This went on for a while, with nobody listening to anyone else, until all three of them were hoarse and coughing, and finally had to stop yelling.
"Who's Rollo?" Ubaldo croaked, as Angie was rasping, "Who are you?"
"Why, Angie, what do you mean?" Wivinia asked. "We're the Appenzellers. Ubaldo and Wivinia. You've lived with us for a year."
"I have done no such thing," Angie said. "And why are you calling me Angie?" She grabbed Fenleigh by the tail and yanked him out from under the pillow. "Get out of there."
"Oh," Wivinia said. "I don't think Fenleigh likes being treated that way."
"Who cares about that?" Angie said. "And how do you know his name, but not mine?"
Wivinia scratched her head. "You picked his name. And yours, too. Don't you remember?" Turning to Ubaldo, she said, "I think she's lost her memory again."
"Lost my memory?" Angie said. "What do you mean again?"
So the Appenzellers told her the story of how she had come to Granolah, and what the last year had been like for her.
"I did laundry?" Angie asked, appalled. "I swept and carried water ?"
"Well, yes," Ubaldo said. "The same as the rest of us. Why shouldn't you?"
She drew herself up in the bed and slung Fenleigh around her shoulders like a stole. "Because I am Queen Olympia of the kingdom of Beaurivage. And today is my daughter's wedding day."
Well, Ubaldo almost fell on the floor laughing. When he recovered, he said, "For goodness' sake, Angie, you had us scared to death. I have to say, this is about the best practical joke I ever heard. Queen Olympia, indeed!" And he started laughing all over again.
Wivinia, however, didn't find it so funny. She patted her chest over her heart and said, "Don't ever do that again, Angie, please. You gave me palpitations. You know we wish you could recover your memory, but this is just cruel—and so unlike you."
"Hah!" Olympia said, getting out of bed. "I have recovered my memory. And I am Queen Olympia. It's all coming back to me. I fell off the terrace of Beauri-vage Castle into the river during Marigold's wedding. And you're telling me that was a year ago? I must get back to Beaurivage immediately. No telling what's gone wrong in my absence. Get me a carriage! And something better to wear than this"—with two fingers she held out the nightgown she and Wivinia had lovingly made together—"this rubbish."
Wivinia had never seen a real queen, of course, but she'd heard plenty about their behavior from Lazy Susan. And she suspected she was witnessing some of that behavior just then. It was certainly unattractive—and nothing like the way Angie would have behaved. Wivinia said so to Ubaldo.
"You think so? Really?"
"I do. That would explain a lot about the fancy clothes and the gold coins in the dress and the way she arrived here. I think she really is a queen."
Being mayor suddenly seemed a very puny thing to Mr. Appenzeller. And thinking that a queen had spent a year sleeping in the tiny room that had once been the potato and turnip storage space made him feel a bit light-headed.
"A carriage! Now!" Olympia commanded. "Where are my clothes?"
Obediently Wivinia lifted the lid on a chest in the corner, and pulled out the single silver shoe and the white-and-gold dress Olympia had been wearing when they'd first seen her. "We did our best," she said, "but we couldn't get all the stains out." She gestured to several garments hanging from a peg on the wall. "Those are what you've been wearing."
Olympia gave her a horrified look. "You can't be serious."
Wivinia shrugged and nodded.
"Very well," Olympia said in resignation. "I'll just have to wear my old dress. Where's that other shoe?"
"In the river, I suppose," Wivinia said. To tell the truth, she was feeling pretty offended by this highhandedness from someone she'd sheltered for a whole year. She could see that her friend Angie was truly gone, and she didn't care at all for the new person who'd arrived in her place, queen or not. Wivinia was sure that if she'd been a queen, she'd have been a lot nicer to her subjects. This Queen Olympia was an example of why peasants staged revolts.
"Well, what am I supposed to wear home?"
Wivinia opened the chest again, displaying the collection of shoes from Granolah's shoemaker. None of them were as fancy as the silver one. There was no need for such shoes in Granolah, but they were certainly well made and plenty stylish enough for village life.
"I'm glad to see I didn't forget all my preferences," Olympia said, inspecting the shoes. "I'll take ... these." She pulled out a pair of red sphinx-1eather pumps with high stacked heels. She turned to Ubaldo. "You! What are you waiting for? I need that carriage!"
"Uh, we don't have any carriages in Granolah. We never go anywhere."
"Then you figure out a way to get me back to Beaurivage while I get dressed. And remember, I can sentence you to death. Or worse."
Or worse? Ubaldo thought. What was worse? Since he didn't really want to know, he turned around and went out the door, still in his nightshirt, to find some help getting this harridan out of Granolah forever.
It took him a while, since he had to explain what was going on to the first few people he encountered, including the worse-than-death threats. After that, they spread the word around the village as fast as they could. It was even juicier news than Angie's arrival. And he had to wake up Lazy Susan, to see if Angie's best friend could get her to calm down and quit making unreasonable demands and threats. Truthfully, he just wanted somebody else to deal with her since he was having such little success at it.
By the time Olympia was dressed, which fortunately took a long time, considering all the repairs she needed to make after a year of cosmetic neglect, the mayor had rounded up a couple of mules, a wheelbarrow, and Lazy Susan, also still in her nightie.
The look on Olympia's face when she came out of the cottage and saw what Ubaldo had concocted for her was something Wivinia would call to mind for years afterward whenever she needed a good laugh.
"Hi, Angie," Lazy Susan said. "What's going on? I haven't been up this early in ... well, never."
"Who are you?" Olympia asked imperiously.
Lazy Susan gave Ubaldo a look that indicated she hadn't believed him at first, but now she did. "I'm—I'm Lazy Susan. I've been your best friend for the whole last year."
"I find that very hard to believe," Olympia said. Lazy Susan looked as if she were about to cry. Then, turning to Ubaldo, Olympia said, "You expect me to arrive in Beaurivage in this contraption? Pulled by mules?"
"It's ... it's the best we have to offer," the mayor stammered. "Some of our Granolahans made great sacrifices to give you these things—their things. And they aren't too happy about it. They really should be compensated." He trailed off, sure he was wasting his breath.
To his surprise, Angie—or Olympia, or whoever she was—said, "Are you suggesting I'm a thief? I pay for whatever I take." She bent, felt the hem of her dress, and straightened, her eyes flashing fire. "Where are my gold coins? My dressmaker uses them to weight my hems so my skirts hang correctly, but I can also use them for purcha
ses."
"You've already spent them," Ubaldo said. "In the year you've been here. Mostly on shoes."
This seemed to make sense to her. "Very well. Then I'll have to compensate you once I get back to Beauri-vage. And I'll also return these"—she pointed to the wheelbarrow and the mules—"things. I certainly will have no further use for them. Now let's get started." She stepped into the wheelbarrow, rolling her eyes as she did so. Fenleigh clung to her shoulder. "Well? Who's going to drive this thing for me?" In the silence that followed, she pointed to Lazy Susan. "You!"
"But I can't," she began, and then paused. "So you want me to come with you? You did say we'd be friends forever."
"I said a thing like that?" Olympia asked, 1 n-credulous.
Lazy Susan nodded.
"Hmmm," Olympia mused. "Well, all the better. You can be my maid as well as the driver. But you'll have to ride one of those." She pointed to the mule. "This"—she patted the side of the wheelbarrow—"is all mine. And Fenleigh's, too, of course."
"I need to get dressed," Lazy Susan said. "And I know I can get you to Beaurivage. I was there once before with Beauty." She sneered at the name. "For the triplets' weddings."
"You were at that wedding?" Olympia asked. "Wasn't it lovely? My daughters may not be the smartest girls, but they did marry well. Didn't I look splendid in that peach mousseline?"
"I have no idea. I was so far back in the crowd I couldn't see a thing," Lazy Susan said, hurrying away to dress and pack.
Olympia drummed her fingers on the side of the wheelbarrow until Lazy Susan returned with a gunny-sack full of her clothes, which she tied onto one mule. Then she mounted the other one.
"Good-bye, everyone," Lazy Susan said, waving. "I'm going to the castle at Beaurivage with Queen Olympia. You can tell that to Beauty if you see her. Ciao!"
Once the wheelbarrow procession reached the edge of town, which took only a few minutes, Ubaldo turned to Wivinia and said, "I hope we never see that woman again. I wouldn't ever be able to trust her to stay whoever she said she was. Do you think everybody will blame me for rescuing her from the river? Do you think that will hurt my chances for reelection?"
"It might, dear," Wivinia said. "But they also liked her for a long time, and they know you couldn't have had any idea how it would work out. So you'll want to keep reminding them that you're the one who figured out how to get rid of someone who, with her memory regained, would have been very unpleasant to have in Granolah. Make it seem like your idea."
"Thank you, Wivinia. I'll use that in my campaign slogan. I just hope she remembers to pay for the mules."
They watched the puff of dust that was Olympia, Lazy Susan, and the mules recede into the distance.
4
A few days before Olympia finally showed up, Christian, King of Zandelphia, and Marigold, formerly Princess of Beaurivage and now Queen of Zandelphia, had their first fight ever. They were sitting on the new terrace outside the crystal cave-castle at Zandelphia, enjoying their breakfast, the sunshine after all that rain, and the Daily Discourse. Usually Christian didn't mind Marigold reading over his shoulder and sharing her opinions on the day's news. For the whole last year, their first as a married couple, he'd loved hearing whatever was on her mind. But this morning, for reasons he only recognized later, as she leaned on his shoulder and crunched her toast in his ear, he had to restrain himself from shrugging her off. Then she said, "Look at that. Alison Wonderland has gotten lost again. That girl just never learns."
"Marigold, my blossom," Christian said through gritted teeth, "could you please stop leaning on me and chomping in my ear? Please." He added the extra "please" in an effort to sound not as irritated as he really was.
But Marigold, after years of friendship and a year of marriage, knew him too well. She knew all his tones of voice, though he had never used this particular one with her. She jerked upright, and swallowed her toast so fast she was afraid it would get stuck in her throat and prevent her from delivering the piece of her mind she thought Christian was entitled to. Fortunately it went right down, allowing her to say, "I hope you will never speak to me in that tone again, for as long as you live."
Chris pretended innocence and said, "What tone is that, precious?" Of course he knew what tone, but as so often happens, people are reluctant to own up to their own transgressions, even though they know such avoidance doesn't usually get them anywhere except in more hot water.
Marigold gave Christian a glare that he had never seen before, and said, "You know exactly what I mean. Don't make it worse by denying it." Now she was standing, facing him with her hands on her hips.
For some reason (guilt, probably—such a troublesome emotion), this made him mad all over again. How dare she look at him like that after everything he had done for her? Including saving her from an arranged marriage, or certain death at the hands of her mother, Queen Olympia—who, thankfully, had fallen into the river before either threat could be completed. He said, "Perhaps you should pay some attention to your own tone of voice."
Marigold blinked. "What? What did you say?"
"I think you heard me," he said, making it worse.
She narrowed her eyes. "You do remember that I know witches and fairies and imps, all of whom could do you some harm if I asked them to."
"Are you threatening me?"
"Can you think of a reason why I shouldn't?"
His pride prevented him from saying, "Because you love me too much to do such a thing." It also prevented him from saying, "I'm sorry. I overreacted. I shouldn't have spoken to you the way I did." Instead, he unwisely said, "Do what you think you have to do."
She looked at him as if she didn't even know him, then turned and left the terrace, with Flopsy, Mopsy, and Topsy at her heels. He watched her go with a chill around his heart. She did know witches and fairies and imps. But would she really use them against him? Didn't she love him enough not to do that? Didn't she love him at all? And how, in ten quick minutes, had they gone from a peaceful breakfast on the terrace to death threats? It was as if some toxic breeze had blown over them and poisoned the air they breathed, turning them into alternate versions of themselves, versions that were stupid and unpleasant and mean. They were acting like—like Olympia.
5
On the long trip back to Beaurivage by mule and wheelbarrow, Olympia complained nonstop. She was tired, she was sore, she was sunburned, she was dirty, she was bored—and whatever was wrong, she wanted Lazy Susan to do something about it. Lazy Susan also was tired, sore (she was the one riding the mule, after all), etc., and after the first day she was ready to muzzle Olympia and was wondering why in the world she'd ever wanted to come with her. The queen was nothing like her dear friend Angie, who was so kind and modest and appreciative.
The only thing that cheered Lazy Susan up was knowing that at the end of the journey there would be a castle with clean sheets and hot water and good food. She could take a bubble bath to get the smell of mule off her, eat a hearty meal, and sleep for a week. Maybe two.
"Fenleigh and I are hungry," Olympia announced. "Get us something to eat."
"You already ate the last of the food we brought from Granolah," Lazy Susan said. "We have nothing left."
"Then find something," Olympia commanded. "We're hungry!"
Lazy Susan stopped the mules at the edge of a stream. Finding food and drink for them was easy enough, and required no work from her—just the way she liked it.
At the end of a path leading away from the stream was a tiny cottage with a profusion of wild roses growing up the side and across the roof. Lazy Susan balked at the idea of walking all the way up that path. And then all the way back carrying something. But with one glance at Olympia, her face a storm cloud, her arms crossed over her substantial chest, Lazy Susan sighed, dismounted, and began trudging, aggrieved, up the path.
She opened the garden gate, knocked at the cottage door, and waited. No one came. She knocked again, and looked back down the path at Olympia, who remained stone-faced
and hungry. When still no one came, Lazy Susan decided to walk around the cottage. Perhaps there were some fruit trees or a vegetable garden.
As she rounded the corner of the building, she was stopped in her tracks at the sight of a rotund gentleman with a full head of white hair, wearing britches and a long-underwear shirt, sweating profusely as he tried to uproot a stump. A string of incomprehensible syllables issued from his mouth and, though Lazy Susan couldn't understand them, there was no mistaking their intent. Cautiously, she cleared her throat.
Startled, the man looked up from the stump and flushed a bright red. He said some more words, none of which she could understand but that seemed apologetic in tone. She shrugged and asked slowly, "Do ... you ... speak ... English?"
"Oh, yes, of course," he said. "Did you overhear me while I was wrestling with that stump?"
"I did," she said. "I couldn't understand anything you said, but I definitely got the idea you weren't happy."
"I was indeed cursing," he admitted, "and I apologize. I find it satisfying to curse in languages other than my native one, but so many travelers from different parts come along this road, I'm never sure when one who understands the language I'm using will happen by and be offended."
"I speak only one language," Lazy Susan said, "and I'm not exactly an expert at that one. So I wasn't offended in the least."
"Is there something I can help you with?" the gentleman asked.
"Oh. Yes. My—" She stopped. She couldn't really call Olympia her friend now that she was no longer Angie, which caused a brief painful pinch to Lazy Susan's heart. "My traveling companion and I have come a long way, and we've got a long way to go yet, and we've run out of food. We were wondering if maybe—"
Before she could go any further, he said, "Most assuredly. It would be my pleasure, and a great treat for me. I rarely have anyone to dine with since I live so far from the nearest village. And while many travelers pass by, few stop for a meal. You're both much more than welcome."