Frogged (7 page)

The door was pushed open a crack. Imogene caught a glimpse of blond hair as a young man poked his head out, then in, so fast he couldn't have seen anything and might in fact have only succeeded in making himself dizzy. He repeated the movement, marginally slower. Then once again, this time sweeping his gaze over the yard.

“Gone,” he announced to Luella, still hidden somewhere behind him inside the barn, “whoever she was.”

He pushed the door the rest of the way open, and Imogene caught her first good look at them.

They were both older than she was, maybe even sixteen or seventeen years old—just about adults—which meant that the young man, Bertie, was not nearly as old as Imogene had guessed from his voice, which was deep and rich and more refined than Luella's. Imogene realized she'd been picturing someone like Sir Denley, who proclaimed the news in the town square and announced visitors to the castle on state occasions. Luella was pretty in a clean-faced, bosomy sort of way that reminded Imogene of Tolf's comment that his sister would not have trouble finding someone to kiss her. And as for Bertie . . . Imogene suspected the young man never had trouble in that area, either. His clothes were fancier than most farmers wore—especially the hat, which sported an ostrich plume.

“Hello,” Imogene said.

Luella squealed. Bertie took a step back into the barn.

“Please don't be frightened,” Imogene told them. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she could have kicked herself for saying them. Except, of course, that frogs aren't built in a way that she
could
have kicked herself. The trouble was, she knew that many adults—and, she suspected many almost-adults—didn't like to admit to being frightened. She started over again. “I'm sorry to have startled you—”

But Luella, peering over the arm Bertie had extended in readiness to slam the barn door shut, asked in a tone somewhere between fear and distaste, “What's
that?
”

“It's a frog,” Bertie said, after glancing around the yard to make sure that's all it was.

“Frogs don't talk,” Luella said.

“Well, you see—” Imogene started.

Luella continued right over her, saying to Bertie, “I ain't never heard of a frog that could talk. Have you?”

Apparently Bertie was the sort who could never bring himself to say “I don't know,” who always had to be an expert about everything and always had to have the last word. “Well, yes,” he said in his authoritative voice. “As a matter of fact, I have.”

Imogene and Luella both looked at him skeptically.

Bertie continued, as though amazed that Luella didn't know what he was talking about. “African speaking frogs?” he said.

Luella shook her head.

For that matter, so did Imogene.

Bertie said, “I would have thought news of such a marvel would have spread by now, even to a backward place like this. You see, the troupe of actors to which I belong often performs in front of emperors and kings and dukes. Such people go mad over anything new. The latest fashion is to have a parrot, which is a colorful bird from the deepest jungles of Africa. And parrots can be trained to talk. Not intelligently, like people, but they can repeat what they've heard.”

Imogene thought,
Yes, well, not all people can speak intelligently.

And sure enough, Luella, squinting at Imogene, spoke up. “I heard of parrots, Bertie. This is not
that
backwards of a place. But this is a frog, Bertie, not a bird.”

Bertie proved he was not the sort to ever back down from a debate. “I'm getting to that, my sweet. So in high society there's always one duchess who wants to out-fashion another, and the very newest thing is to have a speaking frog from remotest China.”

“I thought you said it was an
African
speaking frog.”

“No, the parrots are from Africa; the frogs are from China.”

“You said Africa.”

Bertie considered. “Yes, my treasure, but the Chinese part of Africa.”

Imogene cut into the bickering. “Excuse me for interrupting,” she said, “but actually I'm from right here. You see, I'm Princess Imogene, and—”

Luella asked Bertie, “If it's a Chinese speaking frog, then how come I can understand what it's saying? How come it don't speak Chinese?”

“My love,” Bertie told her, “it's like a parrot. It doesn't know what it's saying. It's only repeating sounds. Just as not all parrots speak African. It all depends on how they've been trained—and by whom.”

“I don't know . . .” Luella said, unconvinced.

“Excuse me,” Imogene repeated. “I am not African or Chinese. I come from just around the corner, the castle up on that little hill. You can see the one turret from here. I've had a spell put on me . . .” This time she interrupted herself when Bertie stooped down to take her in his hand.

Hmm,
Imogene thought, wondering if it was a good idea to let him do that. But she was also thinking that—face to face—it might be easier to convince him of who she was, and what she was not.

“See,” Bertie said, holding Imogene out on his palm to Luella, who shrank back as though Imogene had sharp teeth and claws, “notice the smooth skin. Frogs from around here have warts. Chinese frogs don't.”

Imogene corrected him, “
Most
frogs don't.
Toads
have warts. But I'm not either a frog or a toad. I'm a princess.
Your
princess. Princess Imogene Eu—”

“Isn't she adorable?” Bertie asked.

Which is a nice thing to have someone say about you, whether you're a frog or a princess or someone in between.

“I suppose,” Luella said.

Before Imogene could tell them,
That's very kind of you,
Bertie got a quizzical look on his face and said, “Or he.”

Which was not nearly so nice a thing to have someone say, no matter what kind of girl you are.

Bertie picked Imogene up with his other hand and held her upside down, and that was downright humiliating as well as dizzying. He said, “Hard to tell with a Chinese speaking frog. But I suppose we might as well call it ‘she' since it sounds like a girl.”

Still upside down, Imogene told both of them, “I am most definitely a girl. I am Princess Imogene Eustacia—”

Somehow or other Bertie had talked himself into believing his own story. He interrupted once more. “She will be a sensation at our performances. Now all we need is a bucket . . .”

“Performances?” Imogene said. “Bucket?”

“See?” Bertie told Luella, finally righting Imogene. “She's learning new words, which she will now be able to repeat, just as I told you.” Then, as Luella handed him a bucket, he said, “Perfect!” and dropped Imogene in. “And the headscarf from your pack, please.”

It must have been the bucket from which the animals were expected to drink, for there was water in it. Imogene, who had not expected any of this, sputtered a bit as she came up to the surface, and she tried reason one more time, saying, “I'm sure my parents will pay you generously—”

And taking the time to say that cost her the last chance to escape, for Bertie tied Luella's scarf over the opening of the bucket, so that Imogene could breathe, could hear, could even see a tiny bit of daylight through the weave of the fabric. But she could not hop out.

Bertie said, “Now let us go, my love, before your parents return and try to stop us from embarking on our grand adventure.”

Even though he'd said
my love
, it took Imogene a moment to realize he was talking to Luella, and not her, since Imogene's parents would
certainly
try to stop Bertie from taking their daughter away in a bucket.

He asked, “Can you manage your pack while I carry the bucket?”

Apparently Luella could. “This is so exciting!” she said. “Running away from home with you to join your company of actors! I can't believe that someone the likes of me will have a chance to see the world, like you talked about! To perform in front of all them emperors and such! Won't my family turn green with envy?”

Imogene didn't bother saying that Luella and her parents didn't know the first thing about turning green. “See the world?” she screamed up through the scarf as Luella closed the barn door and started walking. “You can't take me away from my home and my family!”

“I see what you mean, Bertie,” Luella cooed, lacing her arm around Bertie's, so that the bucket with Imogene in it jostled with every step the two of them took. “She is a most clever little Chinese froggy.” Despite acknowledging Imogene as a frog, Luella said in a parroty voice, “See the world!
Awk!
See the world!” Then she told Bertie, “With your experience on the stage, and what you'll teach me about being an actor, and with this frog—we are going to make us a fortune! And we don't
never
have to come back home!”

Chapter 7:

(There are experiences, and then there are experiences)

 

 

Eventually Imogene wearied of shouting. The scarf Bertie and Luella had tied over the bucket's opening to keep her from jumping out made her prison a bit dark and stuffy. They'd put a rock in there so that she could climb up out of the water, but they had a terrible tendency to jostle and tip the bucket as they walked so that she kept slipping off the rock, and—once she was in the water—she became a floating target who had to dodge the rock as it bounced around the confined space. Besides, nothing she said could convince them that she was Princess Imogene Eustacia Wellington, and her throat was beginning to get scratchy. Frog throats are not meant to carry on in human language, and she saw exactly what Harry had meant when he'd complained early in their acquaintance that shouting to get her attention had given him that ticklish need-to-clear-your-throat sensation that people refer to as having a frog in the throat.

From the depths of her bucket and through her scarf, Imogene heard Luella ask, “Are we almost there yet, Bertie?”

“Almost, my dear,” Bertie assured her.

“It's just your friends seem to have chosen such an out-of-the-way spot to camp in. I'd have thought they'd stay in town. In the castle, even. Like you said they usually do when they put on a play for kings and queens.”

Imogene suspected that Bertie's acting troupe was not quite so famous and respected as he had been indicating. She spoke up, saying, “No actors have performed or are due to perform at the castle.” But even as she said it, she knew Luella wouldn't believe her about that, either.

And, sure enough, Luella ignored her comment and moved on to a different topic. “What should we name her, Bertie?” Luella asked.

Once more Imogene couldn't keep silent. “Imogene,” she croaked at them.

“She does seem rather stuck on that,” Bertie observed.

Luella said, “Which
I
think is cute, and
you
think is cute, but what if the royal family finds that offensive?” She thought for a moment. “Ooo, I know! How about Polly, like she was a parrot?” Then, in the kind of voice quite a few people use for pets and very young children, Luella said, “Can you say ‘Polly'? Say: ‘My name is Polly.'”

Imogene couldn't help herself. “You,” she told Luella, “are a twit.”

But Luella only laughed.

“Better be careful,” Bertie said. “Some parrots have picked up quite rude language. The same might be true for our Chinese speaking frog.”

Imogene told him, “You're a twit, too.”

Bertie said, “Since she's already trained to say her name is Princess Imogene, why don't we just go with that? We'll be on to the next kingdom soon, anyway.”

Imogene groaned and clung on to her constantly shifting rock.

Till finally, after the light had grown so dim Imogene feared the sun had set, and after two more
Are we there yet
s? from Luella, they found where Bertie's friends had camped.

“Oh,” Luella said, and Imogene could tell from her tone that she was surprised in a not-a-good-surprise way. “It doesn't look nearly so grand as I imagined.”

“Well, it's night,” Bertie pointed out.

“Yes, but you kept talking about the wagon, and this is just a cart, like my father uses to haul pigs and produce to market.”

“Surely you didn't think you were going to ride in it?” Bertie said in a tone that indicated if Luella
had
been thinking that, then she was more foolish than she ought to admit to. “This is to carry the costumes and props for the plays. We people of the theater always walk, which gives us the chance to rehearse our lines as we travel.”

“I see,” Luella said. But she still sounded disappointed.

“Here,” Bertie said, “let me introduce you to Ned, the leader of our troupe.”

Luella stopped walking so abruptly that the bucket with Imogene in it slapped against either Luella's or Bertie's leg. Water and rock and Imogene all sloshed dizzyingly. “But, Bertie, I thought you said
you
was the head of the troupe.”

“No, my precious. I'm the lead actor. Ned . . . is more an administrator, or manager.” They resumed walking, and Bertie called out, “Ned!”

A new voice greeted them—not warmly. “Well, Bert, you took your time getting here. You said you were going to be back early enough to help strike the set and pack from the last town and to take your turn pushing the wagon. I almost thought you'd given up on the performing life and that you'd decided to settle in as a farmer.”

Bertie ignored the complaints. “Ned, this is Luella, of whom I spoke. Luella . . . Ned.”

From the way the bucket bobbed, Luella must have curtsied. “Pleased, I'm sure,” she cooed.

Ned grunted.

Bertie explained, “Luella's parents took longer than we thought to leave to go visit the aged aunt. And then her brother took forever to feed the chickens while we were required to take refuge in the barn.”