“Gotfried might know some other way to return you to your natural form,” said Anya with a sigh. “Come on, Ardent.”
Back in the library, Gotfried was whittling away at the door of the cupboard where he liked to sleep when in owl shape, making a large hole in the middle so he could fly out more easily.
“Morven won’t kiss the frog,” Anya announced. “Is there some other way to turn Denholm back into a man?”
“What? Won’t kiss him?” asked Gotfried. He shook his head. “Princesses these days … ”
“Some princesses,” Anya corrected. “Is there another way to turn him back?”
“Yes, yes,” mumbled Gotfried. He looked up at the ceiling and then across the shelves. “True love is the best dissolving agent for such spells, but there are other ways. Now, I did have a little pot of lip balm somewhere—”
“Gotfried! I really want to get this sorted out so I can go back to my reading,” said Anya impatiently. “Why do you want lip balm anyway?”
“Oh, it’s not for me,” said Gotfried. He looked along the tall shelves again. “I seem to remember I flew with it somewhere … ”
“Forget the lip balm! How can I transform Denholm back again?”
“Ah, but that’s what the lip balm is for. It’s Transmogrification Reversal Lip Balm. Almost anyone can put it on and then kiss the transformee, and it works just as if … well, almost as well as if there was true love involved.”
“Really?” asked Anya. “It’s that easy? And you’ve got some of this lip balm?”
“Oh, it’s not easy, nor a simple mixture,” said Gotfried. “It took me years to make a small jar. The ingredients are very hard to come by. The base is witches’ tears, for example. It is extraordinarily difficult to get those, witches being what they are. But I like to have some on hand, in case of … ahem … difficulties in my own situation.”
“It’s probably in your secret hiding place,” said Ardent. His legs went completely stiff and he stretched his neck out to point with his nose towards a dark corner of the library.
“What’s that?” asked Gotfried nervously. A pattern of owl feathers shimmered across his face and he began to crouch.
“Not now,” ordered Anya. “Get a grip on yourself!”
“Your secret hiding place,” repeated Ardent. “Behind the reading chair.”
“It’s meant to be secret,” hissed Gotfried.
“Just go and get the lip balm, please,” said Anya impatiently. “We’ll look the other way.”
She turned about and grabbed Ardent’s collar, dragging the dog’s head away as well. He struggled for a moment, but obeyed when she scratched his ears.
Gotfried stalked over to his secret corner and made furniture-moving and rummaging noises before returning with a small bronze pot. Unscrewing the lid, he held it out to Anya. She saw a very small amount of rather dried-up looking orangey-yellow balm inside.
“Pawpaw flavor,” said Gotfried. “It has quite a pleasant taste.”
“Pawpaw!” exclaimed Ardent indignantly. “You make it out of paws!”
“No, no, Ardent,” Anya explained. “Pawpaw is a tropical fruit. I’ve only read about them, though. I’ve never seen one.”
“Help yourself,” said Gotfried, proffering the pot. “Smear it across your lips and then kiss the frog.”
“Hmm.” Anya looked at the dried-up lip balm and then at the admittedly quite slimy frog. “Perhaps you should do it, Gotfried.”
“It will work much better for a princess,” said Gotfried.
Anya sighed. Everything seemed to work much better if a princess was involved, provided that princess was her. Every difficult task in the castle ultimately descended upon her shoulders. Like the cellar records, which Steward Hogar had got into a fearful muddle. It had taken Anya weeks to sort them out, in the process finding forty-eight dozen lost bottles of wine.
Luckily, she was equal to every task, but sometimes she wished someone else could share the work. It wasn’t easy looking after a useless older sister, combatting an evil sorcerer’s plots, and trying to get a magical education all at the same time.
Dipping her finger in the pot, she got all the remaining lip balm out and rubbed it on her lips. Though she didn’t try to taste it, a little did get to her tongue, and though the flavor was quite nice there was something kind of waxy and unpleasant about the texture.
“Ugh,” she said, picking up the frog. He kicked violently but she held him up to her mouth and planted a kiss on his head, immediately wiping her mouth afterwards. “Bleagh! Disgusting!”
The frog swelled in her hand. Anya put him down; there was a bright flash of rather orangey-yellow light and the smell of swamp gas. A moment later the frog exploded, and in its place stood a blond young man dressed in the rotten, sodden remnants of princely raiment in last year’s fashion.
“You took your time,” he said bitterly. “Do you know how long I was in that disgusting moat?”
Everyone stared at him, because he wasn’t Denholm.
“Who are you?” barked Ardent.
Anya looked the young man up and down, working through her memory.
“You’re Prince Adalbert,” she said slowly. “From last year. I think you were Morven’s November prince.”
“Don’t remind me,” snapped Adalbert. He smoothed back his long blond hair and strode towards the door. “Thanks for undoing the spell and all, but the sooner I get away from this cursed castle, your mad stepstepfather, and your faithless sister, the better!”
“Wait!” cried Anya. “My dowsing rod found you. Why aren’t you Denholm? And why did you resist being kissed?”
Adalbert turned around at the door.
“I have no idea why I’m not ‘Denholm,’ whoever he is, but part of the spell made me resist efforts to get turned back. Very thorough, the Duke. That’s why I’m leaving right now before he shows up.”