Thrice Upon a Marigold by Jean Ferris

them in the palms of our hands.” As he said that, both he and Boris flexed their hands—his, long and elegant; Boris’s square and meaty—as if remembering the good old times when those hands had been busier than they were at the moment.
    Poppy lay in the laundry basket, her round brown eyes moving from one face to another.
    â€œPut a blanket over that kid, won’t you?” Fogarty said to Emlyn. “I don’t like the way she looks at us. Like she’s thinking.”
    Emlyn said, “If she is, she’s doing a lot better than you are. But even if she is thinking, what’s she going to do about it? She can’t walk, or talk, or handle tools. What are you worried about?”
    Fogarty draped a blanket over the basket himself. “I just don’t like it. It gives me the whim-whams.”
    As he said that, the goat took a bite out of the back of his jacket. When he yelped and tore the fabric away, Emlyn laughed, and then said, “Looks like the goat is thinking, too.”
    Meanwhile, Poppy was wondering why it had suddenly gotten so dark. She’d thought she was figuring out this daytime/nighttime business, but maybe she’d gotten something wrong.

7
    B UB WAS ELATED TO go off to track the Terrible Twos. His feelings had certainly been hurt by the focus on the squalling bundle in the castle, but attention seemed to be on him now, which was good. He didn’t want to muff his chance to remind them of what an excellent and irreplaceable dog he had always been. He was a bit put out that Cate, Flopsy, Mopsy, and Topsy would also be coming along in nothing but a decorative capacity; they were all completely useless at tracking and would only be excess baggage. Still, he was used to having them around, so maybe it would work out all right, even if the expedition into the forest was beginning to look like a circus parade.
    Bub trotted importantly along beside Chris’s horse while Cate rode in the comfort of the king’s saddlebag, and Flopsy, Mopsy, and Topsy rode in Marigold’s. It was a long trip out to the hunter’s cabin; by the time they got there, old Bub was wondering if he would have the stamina to get home again. But he had a job to do and a wish to prove how indispensable he was. Definitely more indispensable than the decorative extra baggage.
    He ran around the cabin a few times, his nose a fraction above the mud (most of the time), sniffing like a blacksmith’s bellows. Then he sat down and looked up at Chris, his brow furrowed, his ears drooping. Maybe he wasn’t so indispensable after all.
    â€œWhat is it, boy?” Chris asked, as if he expected Bub to answer.
    Bub did his best. He shook his head so hard his ears flapped.
    â€œNo?” Chris asked. “You’re telling me no? No what? No scents? No idea which way they went? No idea what’s going on?”
    Bub shook his head again and lay down in the mud, looking and feeling mournful. The rain had washed away every scent except that of mud. If it hadn’t been so undignified he would have lifted his muzzle and howled in disappointment.
    â€œI think he means he can’t do it,” Marigold said. “I think this is a dead end.”
    Suddenly Bub jumped to his feet and began lumbering around in a circle, stiff-legged and moving his head slowly from side to side. Perhaps he could still redeem his reputation and ensure Marigold’s affection.
    â€œWhat’s he doing now?” Marigold asked.
    â€œI don’t know for sure,” Chris said. “You’re going to think this is crazy, but it looks to me as if he’s imitating Hannibal.”
    â€œHannibal? But why would he want to look like a big white elephant?”
    Chris shrugged. “Maybe he thinks Hannibal can help with this somehow.”
    Marigold just looked at Bub in disbelief, but then decided,
why not?
They were desperate and in a hurry, and why shouldn’t Bub know something they