Frogged (10 page)

People applauded.

“And that the best thing is the people, who are so kind. Isn't that right, Princess Imogene Eustacia Wellington?”

“Very kind,” Imogene agreed. She didn't add,
Though somewhat dense.
How could they believe she was a talking frog? Yet the adults were murmuring things like “Well, I never!” and “What will they think of next!” It was like a whole village of Luellas.

“And,”
Ned said, raising his voice to be heard above the appreciative murmurings, “and not only can this very clever frog speak, but it speaks several different languages.”

Softly, for only Ned to hear, Imogene said, “Regardless of what Luella and Bertie believe, I am not a Chinese speaking frog. I do not speak Chinese.”

Ned just smiled. He said to the villagers, “Princess Imogene Eustacia Wellington of”—he paused for emphasis—“the Frog Pond . . . can speak . . . cat. Princess?”

Unenthusiastically, Imogene said, “Me-oww.”

“And dog.”

How embarrassing. “Bow-wow.”

“And pig.”

“Oink.”

“And even rooster.”

Imogene looked at Ned levelly. “You are joking,” she said.

But the crowd laughed harder at this than they had at the other animals.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo,” Imogene said.

Looking well pleased with how the act had gone, Ned swept to his feet and bowed. Which must have been the signal for the other actors to walk amongst the crowd with their hats held out for coins. By the chinking, they collected a lot of coins. “My frog and I appreciate your kindness. And we hope you enjoy the rest of the show. Princess Imogene Eustacia Wellington?”

“Enjoy,” she echoed hollowly.

Now she understood. Ned knew she was a princess, but he figured he could make more money by showing her as a talking frog than he could by returning her to her parents.

How would she ever get home?

Chapter 9:

(Except, of course, when she isn't)

 

 

The performance consisted of various acts of juggling, tumbling, and magic. Imogene was able to watch while she kept Luella company in the back of the cart as Luella prepared vegetables for a stew that would be supper for those whose diet consisted of more than bugs on the wing.

The only thing remotely resembling acting was when Ned recited a long poem. A long, long,
long
poem. Imogene counted twenty-seven stanzas—and she only started counting after she already thought it had gone on forever. In all honesty, she felt the reciting was decently well done, with Ned's voice alternately going loud and soft, slow and fast, angry and tearful, but she suspected Ned was the author of the piece, and—based on this—she judged he would do better to stick to acting.

When it was all over—not only the poem finished, but the crowd dispersed, the money counted, the costumes returned to the cart (folding was another of Luella's jobs, it turned out), and the actors assembled for dinner—Imogene gathered from the men's good humor that they considered this a better-than-average night.

“It was a good show,” Luella acknowledged to Ned. She hesitated before handing his bowl to him, so that he was forced to look directly at her. “You and the frog. I paid attention. I can do it tomorrow.”

Imogene bobbed her head in agreement, the closest she could come to nodding with her basically neckless frog anatomy.

Ned gazed heavenward, either for patience or for the right words. “I do not judge the act to be quite ready yet for the understudy,” he told the two of them. But then, before Luella could start hurling ladlefuls of the stew, he added, “What we will be doing tomorrow as we travel is learning the lines for the play we will perform the day after. And as for the play, my lovely Luella, yours will be the key role: our success will be dependent upon you.”

Luella went from looking as though she wanted to strangle Ned to looking as though she might hug him. “Oh!” she exclaimed, her voice brimming over with happiness. But a moment later, a dab of suspicion crept in. “Do you really mean it? Is there a part for me?”

“The play,” Ned told her, “is one of my own devising. It is called:
The Valiant Adventures of King Rexford the Bold and How He Rescued the Beauteous and Virtuous Queen Orelia from the Underground Halls of the Evil Dwarf Lord Stoc of the Red Talons.
”

“Oooo,” Luella said, somewhat breathlessly.

“Oooo,” Imogene echoed. Then she added, “So is there more to the story, or do you just recite that title?”

Ned must have caught that Imogene was not as impressed as she should have been, and he was clearly peeved at her question. He announced, “If one is implying that the title is overlong, one is incorrect. Since this is a story with which most people will—at this point in time—be unfamiliar, the title must hint at the tone and content of the play while simultaneously whetting their appetites. It is a play in five acts, told in poetical form—in iambic pentameter to be exact, with the occasional heroic couplet. The company has had good experience presenting this story. It makes the audience weep; it makes them laugh; it makes their brains ache from opening up to thoughts they never had before.”

“Oooo,” Luella said again.

Imogene asked, “And your answer to Luella's question about whether there's a part for her is . . . ?”

“My dear girl . . .” Ned said. He stopped to consider, then he corrected that to “ . . . frog . . .” Then he recorrected that to “ . . . girl frog . . .”

Imogene yawned.

Ned said, “The incomparable Luella has been my muse, my source of inspiration for expanding the part of Queen Orelia, from a supporting role to”—he opened his arms dramatically—“being included in the very title.”

This was so different from what Imogene had expected that she was left with nothing else to say.

Which worked out well, for Luella spent the next several moments squealing in excitement and happiness. In fact, she was so pleased, she even agreed to wash the costumes the following day, so that they would be in readiness for the performance.

 

When that following morning came, Imogene sat by the river while Luella laundered the clothes that the actors would wear for the play, which—in the interest of saving time—they referred to as “King Rex.” Not “Queen Orelia,” Imogene noted, despite Ned's assurances that the play was nothing without her. But, since Ned also kept reminding the actors, “Timing is everything,” Imogene took this advice to heart and decided it would be best to keep her doubts to herself for now.

“Isn't this the most lovely gown you ever seen?” Luella asked Imogene, holding up Queen Orelia's dress.

Not knowing what to say, Imogene fell back on “Rrr-bitt,” because she didn't want to point out that the fabric was rather thin to begin with, now grown threadbare from many wearings; the seams were sloppily sewn; and the gems that decorated the bodice were made of thin pieces of painted wood and slivers of metal. The dress Imogene wore under her skin of frog, even though it was one of her older day-to-day dresses, was, in fact, finer.

Luella said, “I need to take the hem up on account of the last person to play this part must of been taller than me. And maybe nip it in at the waist a bit.”

But before Luella could get too carried away with her plans, Ned called over to her to hurry up because they had a long distance to travel that day, and there was no time for her to dawdle.

And tomorrow,
Imogene thought,
we'll be in Balton Keep, and I'll have word sent to the king, and finally—finally!—I'll get to go back home. And somehow or other, Father will find a way to get me back into my own body.
Her own body—even her own habitually unruly hair—was looking better and better to Imogene.

As the company of actors walked—or, in the case of Imogene, rode on Luella's shoulder—Ned told them the story of the play, taking on the roles of each of the characters and reciting many of the most stirring lines, with much dramatic waving of the arms and striking of heroic poses. There seemed to be quite a few sword fights, Imogene thought, some clever wordplay, and—in her opinion—at least one too many declarations of undying love. And all of this was without apparent thought given to
why
the characters were doing much of what they did. But maybe some of the lines that Ned
didn't
recite filled in those gaps. Imogene couldn't think of any excuse for the bad poetry.

Ned's declared philosophy was to have all the actors learn all the parts, so that they could play them interchangeably. This not only allowed for last-moment substitutions in case of sore throats or other indispositions, he explained, but over the years he had seen that with everyone knowing the play so thoroughly, there would be fewer cases of missed cues and losing track of one's lines.

The three older actors had performed this play before. Bertie had not, but he knew how to read, and Ned gave him pages to memorize. Luella did not know how to read, so various of the actors took turns feeding her lines.

“It don't make no sense for me to learn the men's lines,” Luella protested. “That's just plain silliness. And there's
so
many lines of my own to remember as Queen Orelia.”

“All the same . . .” Ned told her.

“And I'm worried that Orelia is a bit . . . oh, I don't know . . .” Luella hesitated, and Imogene finished for her, “slow to catch on to things,” just as Ned provided the word “innocent.”

“I mean,” Luella pressed, “how can she not see that the evil dwarf king is . . . you know . . . evil?”

Imogene couldn't resist adding, “Not to mention . . . a dwarf.”

“That will be taken care of when I block out where everyone is to stand,” Ned assured them. “Orelia is trusting, and that just points to her goodness.”

“Oh,” Luella said.

“Hmm,” Imogene said.

Both
slow to catch on to things
and
trusting
sounded just as much like Luella as the fictional Queen Orelia. Imogene couldn't help but think that was what Ned meant when he said Luella had inspired him. She didn't think Luella would be pleased.

Luella continued to be trusting through their arrival in the town of Mayfield that evening, where Ned and Imogene performed an act very similar to the one they had done in St. Eoforwic—except that in this case,
Mayfield
was the most excellent village they had ever visited and had the kindest people.

And Luella continued to be trusting while her only job in Mayfield was to do the marketing before, and to lead the applause for the performers during, and to cook and clean up after the men did their acts.

And she continued to be trusting through the following day as everyone once more practiced all the lines of the play while they traveled to the bigger town of Balton Keep.

But that trust cracked open and disappeared when the actors went to put on their costumes for the play.

Imogene was swimming in the big cauldron, which was sitting in the back of the cart, when Luella frantically asked her, “Have you seen it? I can't find my dress. Oh my goodness! I didn't leave it back by the stream where I washed it, did I?” Luella flung shirts and prop crowns and various hats and wigs out of her way as she looked through the chest where she'd already looked twice. “I must have!” Luella wailed. “It's well and truly gone! Oh, Ned will be furious with me for losing it!”

Imogene noticed that Luella was more worried about what Ned would have to say than how Bertie would react—the exact opposite of the way things had been when this journey had begun. But she didn't point that out; she just reassured Luella, “You couldn't have left the dress at the stream. You were working on the hem last night.”

This observation didn't calm Luella one bit. “Then I must have left it in Mayfield,” she groaned. “Oh, what will we do? How will people ever know I'm supposed to be a queen if I'm wearing my own drab dress instead of a costume?”

“Luella!” Imogene said sharply, trying to bring the farm girl back to her senses. “The dress was on top of the pile of costumes. You've been opening the chest to look at it all afternoon. It must be here.”

Luella took in a deep breath. “Someone must of stoled it!” she said with a gasp. “It's the only explanation.”

But it wasn't the only explanation.

For in another moment, Bertie joined them, and he was wearing the costume dress, as well as a wig of long, light brown hair and a crown. “I can't believe this,” Bertie was complaining, tugging at the waist to give himself more breathing room. “How could I have gained so much around my middle since the last time I wore this? And I must have grown taller, too. This just plain doesn't fit anymore.”

Here we go,
Imogene thought. But she had no joy in it.

“Bertie!” Luella said. She tried to force a laugh, as though Bertie had put on the dress as a joke. “Bertie, what're you doing, wearing my costume?”

Bertie looked up from pulling at the dress. “It's my costume,” he said.

“No, it's not,” Luella told him.

“Yes, it is,” Bertie corrected her.

Luella stamped her foot. “You said you were the lead actor.”

Bertie raised his voice, to match Luella's increasing volume. “And I am. I am the lead actor of the female roles. As the youngest actor in this troupe, I am the one best suited to the work of portraying females.”

Luella kicked him. “But I
am
a female. I could play the female roles better.”

“Women aren't actors.”

“I practiced the lines.”

“To help us learn ours.”

“Ned!” Luella called.

“Ned!” Bertie shouted.

“Ned!” Imogene croaked, because—though she hated to see Luella's feelings hurt—this seemed like a changing point for everyone.