All four of them stopped. Harriet tried to move, tried to speak, and discovered that she was frozen in place.
The fairy held up her wand. The star at the end had begun to glow.
CHAPTER 20
Do you think it’s easy being a fairy?” ranted the fairy godmouse. “No! It isn’t! Not when the world is full of ungrateful people who won’t be happy!”
All Harriet could move were her eyes. She looked over at Wilbur, then at Misty and Whiskerella. Nobody had so much as blinked.
“No dress? Fine!” The fairy waved her wand over Whiskerella.
A glorious dress shot up from the ground and wrapped itself around Whiskerella. The glass slippers snapped over her feet like manacles. As soon as they touched her toes, she was terribly, tragically beautiful again, the sort of beauty that people write very bad poems about.
She couldn’t talk, but it was clear from her wince that the shoes were still pinching her toes.
“No lizard? Fine!” The fairy pointed her wand at Misty.
Misty was suddenly clad in the coach-mouse’s gear, with the hat sliding down over one eye. “You’ll drive the coach,” said the fairy. “So I suppose I should let you move. But no talking. I’m not going to let your wickedness get in the way of Whiskerella’s happiness!”
Misty opened and closed her mouth a few times, but no sound came out. Whiskerella, encased in the dress and slippers, looked furious. The tips of her ears were turning scarlet with rage. Her magnificent whiskers quivered.
She managed to stamp her slippered foot and it made a high chiming sound, like glasses clinking together.
“Temper, temper,” said the fairy godmouse. “No breaking that slipper until after the ball! We wouldn’t want that spell to end early, now would we?”
She turned to Wilbur and Harriet. Wilbur was grinding his teeth and Harriet was trying (unsuccessfully) to reach her sword.
“And no newts . . . well . . . dear me . . . that is a puzzler.”
She slapped her wand into her hand. “Oh, wait.”
Harriet felt warm. Then she felt hot. Then she felt her neck doing something that necks are not supposed to do. It didn’t hurt, it was just strange and stretchy, and her hands seemed to be getting very long and strange, and so did her legs, and her lips were suddenly very long and also very stiff and . . .
She turned her head to look at Wilbur, but Wilbur wasn’t there.
Instead, there was a short, forlorn white quail standing next to her. She could tell it was Wilbur because he still had a shock of black feathers flopping down over his eyes.
“Holy mackerel,” she tried to say. “We’ve been turned into quail!”
Instead what she said was: “Qwerk!”
“That’s right,” said the fairy. “And nobody who isn’t a quail is going to understand a word you say . . .”
This was Quail for “It’s okay. It’ll be fine. We’ll sort this out.”
“But I don’t wanna be a quail!” qwerked Wilbur in Quail.
“I’m sure it’s only temporary!” qwerked Harriet.
It occurred to her that being a quail was not the worst thing she could be. She was now extremely strong, extremely fast, and capable of—if not exactly flight, at least a pretty solid flapping glide. And while she didn’t have thumbs, she now had a truly ferocious kick.
She turned toward the fairy godmother.
“Let them go!” cried Whiskerella. “Let them go! I’ll go to the ball, just turn them back and make my sister talk again!”
“No!” qwerked Harriet, but Whiskerella didn’t seem to understand her.
“You should have thought of that before,” said the fairy. “But I’ll be happy to turn them back . . .”
“Now for the coach!” she said, and snapped her fingers.
Harriet lunged forward, preparing to give the fairy a kicking that she wouldn’t forget in a hurry, but it was too late.
“Naughty quail!” said the fairy. The pumpkin coach exploded into existence, and a harness dropped over Harriet’s shoulders, or what passed for shoulders on a quail. There was suddenly a bridle around her beak, and then she ran into the end of the harness and dragged the coach (and Wilbur) several feet forward. Wilbur let out a squawk and nearly fell over.
“Get in,” said the fairy to Whiskerella. “The ball’s about to start, and the sooner you get there, the sooner you’ll be swept off your feet.”
“W-won’t the magic wear off at midnight again?” asked Whiskerella.
The fairy grinned wickedly. “Oh no. This time I’ve got something special planned. Something to keep all these people from meddling with the happy ending. No prince, no turning back from being quail! Now get in!”
Whiskerella gave Wilbur and Harriet a panicked look. Harriet dipped her head and qwerked in what she hoped was a comforting fashion.
Misty climbed onto the coach. She had no idea what to do with the reins, but that was fine. Harriet had a plan. Well . . . part of a plan.
Well . . . something definitely plan-shaped, anyway.
Harriet stepped forward. Wilbur didn’t. The carriage fishtailed. Harriet stopped. Wilbur started. The carriage swerved in the other direction and shuddered to a halt.
Harriet wondered how long it had taken the newts to figure it out the first time. She’d hate to be worse at something than a transfigured newt.
“Okay,” she qwerked to Wilbur. “Left foot first. And . . . left, right, left right left . . .”
It took them a few moments to get their feet matched. In stops and starts, lunges and lurches, they pulled the pumpkin coach around in a circle and out the gate.
Once on the road, things smoothed out a little as the two hamster-quail figured out how to work together.
“Verrrry good,” said the fairy behind them, trilling the Rs happily. “Verrrry good. Now let’s all go to the ball togetherrrr!”
CHAPTER 21
By the time the pumpkin carriage reached the castle, Harriet was sweating under her feathers and Wilbur was panting.
“The interesting thing,” she qwerked, “is that quail don’t sweat. They cool off by panting. So we’re still sort of us on the inside.”
“And if you look at the carriage, it’s got kind of pumpkin vine accents,” continued Harriet. “And the newts and Stinky couldn’t talk. So the fairy can’t really change what we are, just the shape.”
“Uh-huh,” qwerked Wilbur. “Incidentally, I’m about to die.”
“Stay with me, Wilbur. We’re almost there. Now into the turn . . .”
The two quail turned into the stable yard. Ralph came out to meet them.
“Ralph!” qwerked Harriet. “Ralph, it’s us!”
Well, that was what she meant to say.
She got as far as “Qwe—” when the door of the carriage slammed open and the fairy godmouse jumped out.
Harriet clamped her beak shut and gave Ralph what she hoped was a meaningful look.
“Ma’am,” said Ralph politely to the fairy. “Are you here for the ball?”
“Oh, yes,” said the fairy. She snapped her fingers.
Whiskerella slowly climbed down. Her lower lip trembled as if she might cry. But she took a deep breath and lifted her chin.
Attagirl! thought Harriet. Keep the fairy happy until I get out of this harness! And then I’m gonna give her such a kicking!
Ralph looked at her, shifted his feet, and said, “These are different quail, miss.”
“Wobbly quail,” muttered the fairy. “Good grief. You see what I’m saving you from? Marry a prince and you’ll never have to think of quail again!”
“. . . quail foot health is important,” mumbled Ralph, but he said it under his breath and avoided the fairy’s eyes.
“Thank you for your help,” said Whiskerella, ignoring the fairy. “I took the others
to the vet because you suggested it.”
The tips of Ralph’s ears turned bright red.
Whiskerella might have said more, but the fairy waved her wand and vanished abruptly.
“I’ll be right here,” her voice assured Whiskerella. “Now, let’s go to the ball!”
Ralph gazed after them. “Fairies,” he said. “Huh.” And then, glumly, “Wobbly quail. Three times I’ve met her, and the only thing I’ve talked to her about is quail feet.” He smacked himself in the forehead. “‘You look lovely, miss.’ ‘It’s a fine evening, miss.’ ‘This is an interesting carriage, miss, where was it made?’ Ugh. No, I went straight to foot diseases. Get it together, Ralph!”
He took Harriet and Wilbur’s reins and backed them toward the carriage-yard, still talking to himself. Up in the driver’s seat, Misty looked excruciatingly uncomfortable.
Harriet had been planning on revealing her identity to Ralph immediately, but now it was going to be very awkward. She exchanged pained glances with Wilbur.
Oh, well . . . thought Harriet. “Ralph!” she qwerked. “It’s us!”
Ralph petted Wilbur’s beak morosely. He didn’t appear to hear her.
Wilbur looked startled. Having one’s beak petted is a surprising experience when one isn’t used to owning a beak at all.
“Sorry,” said Ralph.
“That’s better—” Harriet started to say—and then Ralph started scratching her beak instead.
“Didn’t mean to make you jealous,” said Ralph.
Harriet thought about pecking him very hard.
“I don’t think he can understand us,” qwerked Wilbur. “The fairy said nobody who wasn’t a quail would understand us.”
“But Ralph understands Quail! At least normally!”
“Right, well . . . I don’t think the spell will let us explain ourselves. At least, not to Ralph.”
Ralph unharnessed them and gathered up the reins. “You’re still welcome to come inside,” he said to Misty. “You don’t have to stay on the carriage.”
Misty slipped down from the seat, to Ralph’s obvious surprise. She nodded at him.
“You’re coming? Well—wonderful! Let me put these two fellows in the paddock and I’ll show you where you can get a bite to eat.”
Ralph left them in the paddock and shut the gate. Other quail looked at them curiously.
Misty couldn’t say anything. She came up between them and hugged both their necks fiercely.
“Don’t worry,” qwerked Harriet. “Don’t—oh, I know you can’t understand me! But we’ll work something out! Nobody’s getting forced into a happily ever after while I’m around to prevent it!”
Misty released them and followed after Ralph. Ralph shoved his hands in his pockets as the two slouched away.
From inside the stable, Harriet heard a familiar qwerking. She spun around, stamping her scaly feet with excitement.
“Mumfrey!” she called. “Mumfrey, it’s me! Harriet!”
CHAPTER 22
There was some thumping and rattling, and then Mumfrey emerged from the stable, looking confused. “Harriet?” he qwerked. “Boss?” He looked in both directions.
“Over here! The two white quail!”
Mumfrey stared at them, astonishment written across his beak.
“Yes! It’s me! And this is Wilbur! You can understand me?”
Mumfrey looked pained.
“Never mind the accent!” qwerked Harriet. “I’m a quail!”
“I . . . I got that, Boss . . .” said Mumfrey.
There was a momentary pause while Harriet and Mumfrey and Wilbur all looked at one another.
“Are you going to ask why we’re quail?” asked Wilbur.
“Because you finally realized that being a quail is awesome?” Mumfrey frowned. “But wait, who’s going to bring me birdseed? We can’t all be quail!”
Harriet stifled a sigh. Quail do not think quite like hamsters do. They aren’t dumb, but it is perhaps most accurate to say that they are mostly intelligent about things that matter to quail.
“It’s a fairy curse,” said Wilbur. “And we can’t seem to talk to people. Err . . . non-quail people.”
“And we need to get into the castle to the ball!” said Harriet. “And stop that fairy!”
Most quail would have given up in bafflement at this point. But Mumfrey was an extraordinary bird, hardened by battle, and by years of living with Harriet. He nodded.
“There’s a door in the garden,” he qwerked. “It should be big enough . . .”
The garden door led to the scullery, which is the room where people do dishes. (Harriet had been bitterly disappointed to learn that it had nothing to do with skulls.) The dedicated dishwashers were known as “scullions,” and one was staring at them right now.
“Bob!” he called over his shoulder. “Bob, there’s a . . . a bunch of quail here . . . ?”
“Do they need washing?” shouted Bob.
“I don’t know. Do we wash quail?”
Harriet had had enough. She stomped up to the door, pushed the startled scullion aside, and tried to work the lower doorknob with her beak.
“Bob, it’s trying to open the door!”
“. . . gnrnrrggh . . .” Harriet muttered into the doorknob. It was like trying to grab a slippery ball with a pair of tongs. She felt an intense longing for her missing thumbs.
“I’ll do it,” qwerked Mumfrey. He leaned over and turned the doorknob neatly, then pulled the door open.
“Where did you learn to do that?” asked Harriet, amazed.
“Bob, the door’s open,” reported the scullion.
“Well, close it, then!” shouted Bob.
“The quail are in the scullery, Bob!”
“Then get them out!”
“Errr . . . I don’t think they want to leave, Bob . . .”
The scullery was full of dishes. Then it was full of quail. Then it was full of crashing noises and broken dishes. Harriet, Wilbur, and Mumfrey squeezed through the door, one after another, leaving a trail of smashed crockery in their wake.
CHAPTER 23
Harriet charged from the scullery, past the kitchen full of startled cooks, and into the castle proper. The kitchen led to a long hall, which led to the dining rooms and the ballroom.
“This way!” cried Harriet. “Quick!”
Wilbur and Mumfrey were right behind her, all of them running down the hallway.
A servant saw them coming, let out a squeal of terror, and dove out of the way.
As a quail, running on a rug was . . . complicated. The rug kept trying to slide out from under Harriet’s enormous clawed feet.
She managed to skid around a decorative table with a couple of candlesticks on it. She was just congratulating herself on this when she heard a crash and a “Qwerrgghaaaaak!” and Wilbur wiped out on it.
Mumfrey was quite good at running as a quail, having had a lifetime of experience, and so dodged around Wilbur easily. Unfortunately, he yanked the rug sideways when he did, pulling it completely out from under Harriet.
Harriet found herself flying through the air, and remembered, belatedly, that she had wings.
I can fly?
Wait, I can fly!
Flapping madly, she turned her fall into a long, out-of-control glide. She decapitated a vase full of flowers and knocked a portrait of her great-great-great-grandmother off the wall, but she did not—quite—fall.
Like an enormous Ping-Pong ball, like a feathery blimp with no steering, she bounced off the walls, careened around a corner, and there was the entrance to the ballroom.
The herald who announced people’s names stared at her with his mouth hanging open, but Harriet didn’t care. She could announce herself perfectly well. She swept the herald out of the way and flung herself into the ballr
oom. There was a squawk behind her as Mumfrey ran over the herald.
“Stop the happily ever after!” shouted Harriet.Which naturally came out “QWERK!”
Princes and princesses, dukes and duchesses, marquis and viscounts and earls, all stared at her.
So did Ratpunzel, Harriet’s parents, and Whiskerella.
The music faltered. The band stopped playing. The couples stopped dancing. You could have heard a pin drop in the ballroom.
There was a second, muffled squawk as Wilbur, still wearing most of the end table, ran over the herald.
“Oh, I say!” said the bat ambassador, sounding delighted. “There’s quail in the ballroom!”
“Was this part of the entertainment?” asked Harriet’s mother weakly.
“If it’s Mumfrey, Harriet’s around here somewhere,” said the hamster king. He helped himself to another sandwich.
“That doesn’t mean that there’s going to be less damage!” said the queen.
“Oh, no,” said her father. “Quite the opposite, I expect.” He sounded resigned about it. “I told you we should just name her Collateral Damage, but you said Harriet was a much better name for a girl.”
The bat ambassador put a claw over his mouth to keep from laughing.
Harriet looked around wildly. There was no point in trying to talk, was there? Everybody was just going to see a quail, and the spell would keep her from qwerking an explanation to those people who actually understood quail-qwerks.
She ground her beak in frustration. So much for subtlety. It was trampling time.
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