After that, I stuck closer to Marigold than ever. But in my far-seeing mind I began writing my paper, certain that soon the rest of the gift would be given me.
The next night, it was.
"You must try to eat, Mar," Elizabeth whispered. Catherine hovered anxiously on Marigold's other side at the long refectory table.
"I can't," Marigold whispered back. "Not with him watching me like that."
Loremaster Gwillam sat across the table. His attention had been momentarily distracted by a watchraven, which had swooped over his shoulder and stolen a piece of fish from his plate. The loremaster batted away the bird, which mumbled something unintelligible around the fish in its beak-the mumble ended in either "door" or "whore." The loremaster then returned his gaze to Marigold. Under that gaze-steady, intent, cold-the girl felt she couldn't breathe properly, let alone eat.
Or joust.
Or fence.
Or sleep.
"You must try to sleep," Catherine whispered at bedtime, squeezing Marigold's hand. Marigold nodded wanly.
Nonetheless, she was snoring when the voice came from beyond the window. "Maaarrriigggooolllddd…"
"Wake up, you stupid girl! It's her! Dame Cecilie is here!" Loremaster Gwillam shook Marigold until her teeth rattled.
Fearfully, Marigold crawled up from her pallet and peered over the windowsill. As before, the one-armed figure stood at the edge of the woods.
"What on earth is she wearing?" said one of the girls clustered behind her.
"Where's her armor?"
"That's a gown like my mother used to wear when… when… "
"She's pregnant!" Catherine gasped.
"With a horse, at least!"
"Haunts can't get pregnant!"
"No, they… can they, Loremaster?"
"Shut up," Loremaster Gwillam said. "Go out there, Marigold."
"Me? Alone? No, I-"
"Go on, you silly bitch! This is it!"
The loremaster pushed Marigold so hard she fell over. An indignant, scared murmur ran over the tyros. Elizabeth started to say quaveringly, "Loremaster, you mustn't-" when the figure by the woods made a quarter turn, and someone cried, "Oh my good heavens! Now she's got two arms!"
It was true. The haunt, undeniably dressed in a gown instead of armor, undeniably pregnant, was also undeniably bi-armed.
Loremaster Gwillam appeared to be having a fit of some kind. "Two arms! A restored arm! A reverse haunting! Oh, my paper, oh the ground-breaking, oh the scientific sensation, the-get going, girl! Get out there before the haunt decides not to teach you anything!"
"T-t-teach me… "
"Go!"
Marigold went. Shaking, and brave despite her fear, she pulled a cloak over her nightdress and stumbled alone across the dark open expanse between the castle and the wood. The tyros of the Third Bedchamber, watching, huddled together in awed silence.
Closer, closer… and then Marigold and her dead unmaimed aunt stood face to face in the gloom.
"Ooohhh," groaned Elizabeth softly, in sympathy.
"She's so brave," moaned Catherine.
"Endeavor more," said a raven.
I had it. I had it! Not from that stupid girl, who staggered back from her historical and miraculous meeting and promptly fainted. But who needed her? I went immediately to my chamber and invoked a spell pool. The pool had stood ready for days.
And there, in the inky waters, they appeared clear as morning. Marigold walking toward Dame Cecilie and, as the tyro got closer, a distinct view of the haunt herself. She did indeed have two arms-she held up both to stop her niece from approaching too close. She did indeed wear a house-gown instead of armor, and it did indeed bulge in pregnancy. All was clear except her face, partly hidden by her unbound hair as it swung forward. Yet Marigold was certain of the face. She choked out, "Aunt Cecilie… "
"Yes, child. It is I." The voice, coming from my spell pool, was low and sepulchral.
"You look… you look so… waxy… "
"I have been dead these nine years."
"That would explain it," Marigold faltered.
"Child. Learn from me. Don't-"
"Aren't you… forgive me, aunt! Aren't you… "
"Spit it out, child."
"… supposed to learn from… from…"
The stupid tyro couldn't finish. Well, the idea of anyone learning anything from Marigold was indeed hard to conceive of. Dame Cecile helped her out.
" Learn from me, child. Be willing to change your armor."
Marigold looked innocently down at herself. "But I'm not wearing armor."
"It's metaphorical," the ghostly voice said, a bit impatiently. "If you can no longer do something well, don't do it any longer. Do not go armored in failure. Give yourself to the new life completely. Not like me."
"But… I can't do anything well," Marigold said.
"Good… bye…"
Gown fluttering, the haunt of Dame Cecilie waddled backward into the woods, waving with both arms. The gown slipped back from her forearms and I could just make out, inside the right elbow, a tattoo of clasped hands. It was then that jubilance seized me; that is exactly the kind of detail that makes for memorable papers!
In the spell-pool image, Marigold gasped. Quickly Dame Cecilie said, "Say no more! Please!" and that, too, was a good detail for the paper. Dame Cecilie knew how significant her reverse haunting was, how rare, how important. It must have been a terrible strain on her materialization. She could take no more, not even another word.
The haunt disappeared into the night woods.
The pool went dark, and I hurried back to the Third Bedchamber. I doubted that the stupid girl could tell me any more than I had seen-spell pools, after all, are the exact truth-but it never hurt to be thorough.
The Third Bedchamber was full of girls, more than the eleven that belonged there. They had fluttered in from the first two chambers, clacking and fussing like the geese they were. Marigold sat in the center of this feminine maelstrom, on a chair whose back was topped by two of the tyromistress's watchravens.
"Tyro Marigold! Tell me what happened between you and Dame Cecilie!"
She did. It was precisely as I had seen in the spell pool, of course. I listened to her stumble through the account, as dim-witted in the telling as in all else. And then I was ready for the important question.
"And from your aunt's haunt-did you learn anything?"
Marigold smiled strangely. "Oh, yes."
"And what did you learn?"
She recited, in the same mechanical voice with which she recited her memorized lore in class (when she could remember it at all):
" `Be willing to change your armor. If you can no longer do something well, don't do it any longer. Do not go armored in failure. Give yourself to the new life completely.' "
"But what does it mean to you, you stupid child?"
Marigold took a long time to answer. The gaggle of girls stayed quiet, almost holding their breaths. Finally she said slowly, "It means that dung happens, and when it does, you should walk on a different path."
That, of course, I did not put in my paper, which was dignified, important, magnificent. I penned it that night, working feverishly until dawn (of course, I'd already written the "Background" and "Search of the Literature" sections). In the morning I sent it off by Feudal Express, which guaranteed that it absolutely, positively would be in Queen Eleanor's court by the next day.