Marigold and the Tower of Hats

Marigold had always wanted to wear the keeper’s sash, especially because it had tiny hat-shaped buttons. Every morning, she admired it hanging beside the door of the fanciful castle’s round tower. Every morning, Wyatt wore it instead.

Wyatt was the royal hat keeper. He looked after all the hats for the neighborhood parade, from the smallest bonnet to the tallest top hat. On parade day, he carried them down from the tower and delivered them to the waiting neighbors.

“I could do that job,” Marigold said, lifting her chin. Her horn poked neatly through the sash’s loop. “I’m careful. I’m royal. And I know how to say ‘hat’ in three different ways.”

“Hat,” said Wyatt.

“Chapeau,” said Marigold.

“And?”

“Very tall hat,” she said.

Wyatt laughed. “All right. You can be keeper for the day. I’ll direct the route.”

Marigold fastened the sash. Its buttons bumped against her chest as she marched into the tower. The tower was so tall and round that its staircase curled upward like a cinnamon bun. Hats filled shelves along the walls.

First came a little yellow bonnet with two ribbons. Then a wide red hat with a feather that tickled Marigold’s nose. Higher up waited a hat shaped like a mushroom, and above that, a tall black top hat with a band the color of blueberry jam.

“Which ones do we carry first?” Marigold called.

“Start with the parade hats on the upper shelves,” Wyatt called from below. “Stack them carefully, and I’ll show you the route.”

Marigold climbed to the top shelf. She set the red feather hat on the mushroom hat, then placed the top hat above them. The stack looked like a very fancy tower of its own.

“I’ve got it!” she called.

She lifted the stack. The sash buttons clicked. One feather tickled her ear. The mushroom brim slid sideways.

Marigold steadied the hats with her chin. “Easy now,” she whispered. “A royal keeper is in charge.”

The stack gave a small wobble.

Wyatt glanced up the staircase. “Maybe we should—”

“I’m fine!” Marigold said, and started down. The hats leaned one way, then the other, as the staircase curled beneath her hooves.

On the next turn of the staircase, the stack tipped toward Marigold’s horn. She tilted her head to make room. The mushroom hat slid over one ear, and the feather hat flapped like a tiny red bird.

“Hold still, hats!” Marigold said.

The hats did not hold still. The top hat rolled off the stack, bounced once on the step, and began rolling down the curved staircase.

“Top hat on the run!” Wyatt called.

Marigold set down the stack as carefully as she could. Then she raced after the runaway hat. It rolled around the tower, picking up speed. Marigold galloped along the inside edge, her sash tails streaming behind her.

“Turn left at the teapot shelf!” Wyatt called.

“There is no teapot shelf!” Marigold called back.

“There will be, if the hat reaches the kitchen!”

The hat rolled toward the open tower door. Marigold lowered her head and stepped sideways, guiding it with her shoulder. The hat bumped gently against the wall, curved around a pillar, and rolled right into her waiting hooves.

Marigold caught it.

She looked at the hat, then at the winding staircase. “I can guide you,” she told it. “But carrying you all in a tall stack is a different sort of job.”

Wyatt hurried down. “That was quick thinking.”

Marigold glanced at the hats she had left on the step. The mushroom brim was crooked, and the feather had snagged in a knot around the top hat’s button. She carefully loosened the knot and tucked the feather back into the red hat’s band.

“Wyatt, let’s trade back,” she said. “You carry the stack. I’ll direct the route. I can watch where the hats need to go and keep them from taking a walk by themselves.”

Wyatt’s face brightened. “That’s a clever way for a keeper and a guide to work together.”

He lifted the hats in a tidy stack, holding them steady with both hands. Marigold walked ahead, pointing out each turn. “Careful at the round corner. Duck under the ribbon. Now take the wide step.”

Together, they brought the hats down from the tower and out to the castle courtyard. The neighbors waited there with curious faces and empty heads.

Marigold straightened her sash. “The keeper and the guide are ready,” she announced. “And not one hat is headed for the kitchen.” Wyatt gave the stack a proud little pat.

The parade began with a drum that went bum-ba-dum, bum-ba-dum. Marigold walked beside Wyatt, her sash buttons bobbing. Wyatt carried the hats in his careful stack, and Marigold guided him along the street.

“First, for Mrs. Bell,” Marigold called, “the yellow bonnet with ribbons that dance when you walk!”

Mrs. Bell put it on and gave the ribbons a twirl.

“Next, for Mr. Nettle,” Marigold announced, “the red feather hat, perfect for a gentleman who enjoys being tickled!”

Mr. Nettle put it on. The feather brushed his nose. He sneezed a small, polite sneeze, and everyone chuckled.

Then came the mushroom hat. It was just right for little Fern, who wore it over her ears and pretended to be a walking mushroom. The tall black top hat went to the mayor, who bowed so low that its brim nearly touched his shoes.

For each hat, Marigold gave a grand introduction. Wyatt bowed to every one. He bowed to the bonnet. He bowed to the feather. He even bowed to Fern’s mushroom hat when Fern gave a little wiggle.

At the end of the parade, the neighbors waved goodbye and walked home wearing their new hats. The street grew quiet. Marigold and Wyatt carried the empty hat stand back to the castle, where it waited beside the round tower.

Wyatt unfastened the keeper’s sash and held it out. “You were a wonderful guide.”

“And you were a wonderful carrier,” Marigold said. “Especially when the hats tried to lean on my horn.”

She hung the sash on its peg. The tiny hat-shaped buttons faced outward, ready for another day. Then she and Wyatt climbed the tower stairs slowly, without a single hat to wobble or roll.

At the top, Marigold curled up on a cushion beneath the window. The moon made a pale circle on the floor, and the castle settled into its quiet nighttime sounds. Marigold tucked her hooves beneath her and smiled at the memory of hats marching down the street. Soon, she was resting peacefully, while the little sash waited by the door for morning.