Frogged

by Vivian Vande Velde

  Imogene counted up the days since all of this had started. Fourteen. She’d been away fourteen days.

  Which meant that, by purest happenstance, she’d come home on her birthday.

  She remembered her mother handing her that book, The Art of Being a Princess, and telling her that there was just enough time to read it—a chapter a day—before her birthday. Wryly Imogene thought, And I haven’t read a single chapter—just the foreword.

  Still, all in all, she doubted that even her mother could find fault with that now—not under the circumstances.

  That was what she was thinking about when a familiar voice said, in ringing, slightly over-enunciated tones so that even the back rows could hear: “Hello, Luella. Hello, Princess Imogene. The troupe wasn’t the same without you.”

  Chapter 12:

  A Princess Is Never at a Loss for Words

  (Blah blah blah blah blah)

  Ned sat on the large rock by the side of the road that led to the town and the castle beyond. The rock had been left there by those who had built the road, a place for travelers to rest while getting a drink of water from the stream that was the runoff from the mill pond, or to catch their breath before climbing the final hill.

  Imogene found she needed to catch her breath, even though she had been riding on Luella’s shoulder.

  Luella took a step back and glanced around as though gauging which was her best option: to turn and run into the woods and hide; or to throw the pail of water at Ned, then hope she could dart past.

  But Ned made no threatening move toward them, nor did he rant and complain that they had abused his hospitality and broken trust with him and cost him money and reputation—as Imogene had imagined these past several days that he might.

  He didn’t even bother to stand or attempt to appear intimidating. In fact, Imogene thought he looked diminished: both he and his clothing were travel-worn and the worse for the weather since the last time she had seen him. True, then he had been wearing the crown and robes of King Rexford the Bold. Of course, he’d also been dodging airborne produce. Still, even with that going on, he’d had his customary bearing of self-importance and confidence. Now he looked mostly weary.

  He said, “I told the others that all we had to do was wait. I knew you’d be back.”

  Imogene didn’t say what she thought of the kind of person who couldn’t resist an I told you so—even to people who were not there. She went directly to “Of course we came back. This is our home. Despite your leading Luella on and kidnapping me.”

  “Well, of course, obviously you’d eventually head toward home,” Ned clarified for her. “I meant: I knew you’d make it.”

  Before Imogene could point out that by acknowledging this as her home, he also acknowledged what and who she was, Ned added, “The troupe has disbanded, which may or may not be all for the best, but however that works out, I found I could not move on until I learned how the story ended.”

  “Story?” Imogene repeated. “Story? This is my life we’re talking about.”

  Ned shook his head. “Only from your point of view. From mine, you’re the lead character in a story that’s a better adventure than the ones I’ve managed to write.”

  Once again, Imogene refrained from saying the first thing that came to her head: that, in her point of view—in her story—he was an irksome, interfering character who kept standing in her way. “In that case,” Imogene said, “I’m hoping for a good ending.”

  “Truly,” Ned acknowledged, “I’ve seen mediocre plays pull things together and thus leave a satisfying impression by a strong ending, and I’ve seen better plays sunk by a weak ending.”

  Imogene sighed. “What I was talking about,” she clarified, “is a happy ending.”

  “A comedy, then.” Ned shrugged, apparently not a fan of comedies. “Tragedies have more staying power than comedies.”

  “All the same . . .” Imogene said.

  “All the same,” Ned echoed.

  Luella looked from one to the other of them, then declared, “I have no idea what either of you is talking about.”

  Ned let the subject drop. “As for your getting back home, you’re both strong. And capable. Probably more than either of you realizes. And I never kidnapped you, Princess Imogene Eustacia Wellington. I . . . may have held on to you longer than I should have. But I never removed you from here.” He considered a moment before admitting, “Though I did, perhaps, lead Luella on a bit.”

  “Perhaps?” Luella sputtered. “A bit?”

  “But only after Bert brought you to us. What was I to do? You were glowing with happiness and anticipation that night when you arrived. Was I to inform you then that Bert had deceived you? Tell you that he had exaggerated his importance to the troupe and your importance to him, and that—whatever he’d promised you—he was only using you?” Ned shrugged. Then, despite Imogene’s wariness and Luella’s obvious distrust of him, he was suddenly on his feet, and he caught hold of Luella’s hand.

  Imogene’s back legs tensed to leap from Luella’s shoulder. I can hide in the woods much more easily alone, she thought. It wasn’t as though she’d be abandoning Luella, for surely Ned was more interested in reclaiming his talking-frog act than in holding on to a farm girl who wanted to be an actor.

  But before Imogene could launch herself into the air, all Ned did was bring Luella’s hand to his lips. “You can do much better than Bert,” he told her.

  Luella snatched her hand away. But then she appeared uncertain what to do with it. Her face flushed prettily.

  Ned said, “And I did try to warn you.”

  Imogene recalled that he had made a comment to the effect that an actor’s word was not to be trusted. Still, she told Ned, “You didn’t try very hard.”

  “I did not,” he acknowledged. “But neither did I ever mean Luella harm. And I certainly never meant to permanently hold on to you, Princess Imogene. Just long enough to make . . .” It was his turn to sigh. “ . . . a little bit of a sensation. So that people might remember me, and maybe say”—he extended his hands theatrically—“‘Now there was a showman.’”

  “Yes, well,” Imogene countered, “you might have held out for: ‘Now there was someone who rescued a princess in need.’”

  Ned nodded. Then pointed out, “Not the same.”

  “Not the same,” Imogene repeated. She studied him. “Please don’t tell me, now that I’ve made it back despite your best efforts to prevent me from doing so, that you plan to tell my parents you held me in safekeeping and so you deserve a reward?”

  “I would absolutely know better than to ever tell you that,” Ned agreed. “Still, I have to admit: Neither would I duck if someone threw reward money at me. So it’s probably best to just switch to a different conversation.” He smiled charmingly. “Happy birthday, Princess.” He had the grace not to try to kiss her hand.

  Not that, strictly speaking, she had a hand.

  “How did you know about my birthday?”

  “Overheard it. Everyone’s frantic about the princess who disappeared practically on the threshold of her thirteenth birthday. No sign of her running off, but no sign of her being carried off, either. And no especial reason to believe in disappearance through mischance. Everyone is stymied. Well”—Ned corrected himself midthought—“I’m guessing not, strictly speaking, everyone. I surmise someone must know how you became . . .” He paused to find the proper word. “Frogged? But such a someone no doubt has good enough reason to choose not to come forward.”

  “Hmm,” Imogene said, thinking of the treacherous Harry and the careless witch.

  “A world of tantalizing hints in that hmm.” Ned waited, then continued, “Search parties have looked in every room, in every cupboard, beneath every bed, and behind every dresser, desk, chair, or box in the castle. They’ve dredged the mill pond—twice—and are even as we speak scouring the woods yet again. Everyone is looking for both of you.”

  “Both of us?” Luella and Imogene both asked at the same
time.

  “It didn’t escape notice that two girls disappeared the same afternoon. People aren’t sure what the connection is, or even if there is a connection. But, for the moment, yes: They are looking for both of you.”

  Luella said, “So my parents don’t know I ran away with Bertie . . .”

  As always, Ned chose his words carefully. “There are rumors. My perception is that your family is, to a certain extent, hoping that you did run off with someone, rather than that something more dire has happened to you. But nobody can figure how the princess fits into that scenario.”

  Imogene asked, “And the rumors about what happened to me?”

  Ned shook his head. “No one thing. Abduction by an evil foreign power, or by magical beings, or by a love-crazed suitor . . .”

  “That’s just . . . ridiculous,” Imogene said.

  “Any more ridiculous than being a frog?” Ned asked. “How did that come to pass, anyway?”

  Imogene saw no reason to hide what had happened, either from him or from Luella. “A frog told me he was a prince under an enchantment, and that I could return him to his true form by kissing him. What he didn’t say was that the spell would switch over to me and make me a frog.”

  Ned said, “There are a couple of princes running around at the moment: your brother, Will, and someone named . . . Malcolm?”

  “The son of some friends of my parents.” Imogene had forgotten that King Calum and his family had been invited to participate in her birthday festivities.

  Ned told her, “My impression was that both seemed genuinely worried about you. They passed by here early this morning, among the groups of people looking for you in the woods.”

  Imogene realized why Ned was sounding confused. “The frog wasn’t either one of them. He wasn’t a prince at all. Just a village boy.” She turned to Luella. “Actually, a friend of your brother Tolf’s: Harry.”

  “Harry?” Luella practically spat out the name. “Harry, the wainwright’s boy? That Harry? He’s as big a nuisance as someone who ain’t related to you can be.” She paused as a thought came to her. “And, Imogene, he ain’t even good-looking. I have to admit: You surprise me.”

  “I didn’t kiss him because he’s good-looking!” Imogene protested.

  “No joking!” Luella scoffed.

  “I kissed him because I thought that would be the end of the spell. I had no idea it would bounce back onto me.”

  Once more, it was Ned who brought them back around to the topic. “So, I’m guessing by the fact you’re still a frog, lo this fortnight later, that this spell doesn’t wear off. It needs to be . . . kissed off?”

  Imogene grasped hold of the first part of what he’d said. Could the solution be as simple as that? “Do spells wear off?” she asked. It would be just like the old witch to have not known that—or to have forgotten to mention it.

  Or, at least, Imogene liked to think so.

  But Ned was shaking his head. “Don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve had no personal experience with magic until now. I wrote a play, once, where time was the solution.”

  Imogene’s patience snapped. “You also wrote a play with a flying crow portrayed by a very non-flying frog.” When Ned only shrugged, she said, “So you just made up the wearing-away thing? There’s no reason to believe that will happen in this case?”

  Ned said, “There are time frames that appear repeatedly in the old stories, which might be significant, or might mean nothing: One entire day. Three days. One week.” Perhaps reluctant to be the bearer of bad news, he hesitated before adding, “A year.”

  “A year?” Imogene squealed, trying hard not to imagine this.

  Ned broke eye contact before finishing, very quietly, “A hundred years.”

  Ever a faithful friend, Luella said, “Well, that’s just wrong.” But she didn’t offer any reason behind that sentiment from which Imogene might take hope.

  In the silence where they realized nobody had anything left to say, Imogene could now hear the distant voices of people in the woods that surrounded them. They were calling her name.

  “Well,” she said, “standing here gains us nothing. Luella, can you please bring me up to the castle? I’m hoping my father, or one of his advisors, can think of something.” But she suspected this was wishful thinking.

  Before Luella could move, Ned said, “You could wait for him there. Or you could wait for him here, which would be quicker.” To Imogene’s blank look, he explained, “I told you: Everyone is in the woods looking for you.”

  And a moment later, she realized that the voices were getting closer. One of the search parties was coming back in, either to refill their water skins at the stream or maybe to break for the evening meal.

  When they emerged from between the trees, it turned out to be the group Prince Malcolm was leading. She recognized him immediately, even though it had been two years since she’d last seen him—when her family had done the traveling, to celebrate his eleventh birthday. Wow! she thought. He’d changed a lot in the interval between eleven and thirteen, having grown taller, with his face leaner and his body filled out nicely. She chided herself for noticing, asking herself, What am I thinking? I’m not interested in boys.

  Well . . . not yet.

  But if I was . . .

  Luella, she thought, would approve of this one.

  She even thought: Good thing he’s too young for her.

  But that was self-wounding nonsense. Because the circumstances were that she had changed more than he. And any change that involved turning green was not a change for the better.

  She’d had time to think all that as twenty or so tired, mud-spattered, twig-bedecked people followed Prince Malcolm out of the woods. Two of them stopped short. The woman squealed, “Luella!” and then she and the man with her ran forward with their arms outstretched.

  Realizing she was about to get squashed in a three-way hug, Imogene jumped in the only clear direction: from Luella’s shoulder to Ned’s.

  Ned looked as startled by her decision as Imogene felt, but he stepped clear to give room to Luella and her family. Luella cried; her mother cried; her father blew his nose in a handkerchief and stared down at his feet as though this would prevent anyone from noticing that his eyes, too, were wet. Tolf was there also, though he’d hung back a bit. Now he gave Luella’s upper arm a brotherly punch.

  It was Prince Malcolm who cut things short. “Your daughter?” he asked, his voice already deepening into the tones of a man. But obviously he could already see that and was just using the question as a politeness, an excuse to step forward and intrude on a family’s reuniting. He said to Luella, “Mistress Luella, we are all indeed delighted to see you safely returned to your family, and we look forward with eager anticipation to the chance to hear your story in great detail. But, first, I must ask: Any news of Princess Imogene?”

  Oooh, nicely handled, Imogene thought, admiring the ease with which Malcolm took charge. A natural king, that boy, she thought. Had such ability come with his thirteenth birthday? At eleven, he’d been rather full of himself and somewhat irritating.

  Luella started, “Ta—” then stopped short. Clearly, she had been too preoccupied to realize Imogene had jumped away. She turned her head to look at her right shoulder, where Imogene had been riding, and her face went white. “Nobody move!” she ordered, and she hurriedly searched the ground down among all the feet surrounding her.

  Imogene cleared her froggy throat. “Here,” she announced.

  People hurriedly glanced all over the clearing before some finally settled on her.

  “Ta-dah!” Luella said, although the moment had already lost some of its drama.

  “Imogene?” a shaky voice asked.

  A voice Imogene recognized as her mother’s. Except her mother wasn’t here, only these peasants with Prince Malcolm . . .

  Ned’s words came back to her. “Everyone,” he had said. “Everyone is in the woods looking for you.”

  And only after all that did
Imogene recognize the dirty, sweaty, tired-looking woman who stepped forward from the others. In her snagged and ripped dress, with no makeup, and her hair tied back, she had not one stitch of regality about her.

  “Oh, Imogene!” her mother said, able—amongst all of them—to focus in on her daughter’s voice, and to recognize it from one word, despite Imogene’s improbable amphibian appearance. She cupped her hands and gently, gently—and not the slightest bit squeamishly—picked Imogene up off Ned’s shoulder. “I am so glad you’re safe,” she said, which hardly seemed a reasonable comment, given Imogene’s current condition.

  But Imogene guessed that her mother had been imagining even worse.

  And she herself was left with more feelings than words. In the end, she settled for “I’m sorry you were so worried.”

  “What happened?” her mother asked.

  “Well,” Imogene said, “I got turned into a frog.”

  “Yes . . . ?” her mother prompted. “How?”

  Imogene noted that Harry was amongst the searchers. The sneaky, lying wretch. She saw him catch her looking at him, and his eyes darted back and forth as he no doubt weighed trying to slip off quietly against simply bolting. She considered telling the whole story but decided that the whole story, really, wouldn’t gain her anything. The word Ned had used earlier came back to her. “Mischance,” she said. “Magical mischance.”

  Luella’s father said, “But what does that have to do . . . ?” His gaze bounced from Imogene to Luella and back. “Because her mother and I kind of thought Luella—”

  His wife smacked his arm to keep him from announcing to the world that they’d feared their daughter had run off with a man.

  Tolf, Imogene noted, was looking hard at her, no doubt remembering the frog who had come to him for help, claiming to be a princess. Now he was about as green as a person who wasn’t a frog could be.