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.
Ned came to see what was the problem, wearing the robes of King Rexford the Bold. (Of course Ned would give himself the part with the most lines, Imogene thought.) “Oh,” he said as soon as he saw Luella glaring at Bertie wearing the queen’s costume.
Luella positioned herself directly in front of Ned, with her hands on her hips, and her voice quivering with anger. “You said,” she told him, “that I would play the part of Queen Orelia.”
“No, I did not,” Ned answered, calmly for all that Luella was within range to spit at, kick, or throttle him. “I said that you had inspired me in my reconceiving of the character.”
Imogene spoke up in Luella’s defense. “You implied.”
Luella nodded in acknowledgment of Imogene’s support, then spoke through clenched teeth, telling Ned, “You said—”
“And,” Ned hurriedly added, talking over her, “I said that you would play a key role, the most important role to our success.”
“And what role would that be?” Luella demanded.
Ned stepped closer to the cart. And surely, Imogene thought, it wasn’t coincidence that this moved him farther from Luella. His hand hovered over the various painted crowns, tiaras, and jewelry that Luella had cast aside in her search through the costumes for Queen Orelia’s dress. He settled on a necklace with painted enamel beads that Imogene could only suppose were meant to be sapphires, if you stood far enough away, and he draped this around Luella’s neck. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “This piece brings out the blue of your eyes. Would you like a crown, too? I think a crown would suit you.”
Luella pushed his hand away before he could set the crown on her head. “Who am I playing?” she asked.
“Who?” Ned repeated. Then switched that to “Whom?” apparently unable to stop himself from correcting the farm girl’s grammar. “Well, I wouldn’t so much say it’s a case of whom . . .”
“Who am I playing?” Luella shouted at him.
“Since we will all be on the stage—” Ned started.
Imogene cut in by saying, “And by we, I take it you mean the actors . . .”
Ned hesitated, as though weighing whether there was a safe answer to that. He glanced back and forth between Luella and Imogene. “The men, yes,” he admitted, “we need someone”—he gestured to indicate Luella—“to pass among the crowd with the hat.”
“For the donations,” Bertie added, entirely unnecessarily. “In recognition of our performance.”
“Because,” Ned finished, “crowds are notorious for dispersing as soon as the last lines are spoken, precisely to avoid paying for the entertainment they’ve just enjoyed. But for a pretty girl like you, smiling and winking at the men, they will be willing to part with a coin or two and consider themselves the richer for it.”
“Smiling and winking?” Imogene croaked, outraged on Luella’s behalf.
Really, though, Luella was outraged enough on her own. She shouted, “You lied to me!”
“I never did,” Ned insisted. “Of course, I don’t know what Bert might have said to you . . .”
Bertie squirmed before finally admitting, “In my eagerness to have you join us . . .” He thought better of this. “. . . me—to have you join me—I might have . . . perhaps the word I’m looking for is overstated . . . a bit . . . the extent to which Ned was likely to allow you to participate . . . Maybe.”
“And,” Ned said, “I did warn you that an actor’s word was not to be trusted.”
“You’re all pigs!” Luella told them.
Imogene felt a little swinish herself, since she had suspected just such an outcome and had not warned Luella. But she wouldn’t have believed me, Imogene told herself. Still, her voice came out very little as she reminded Luella, “I’m not a pig. I’m a frog.”
“Yes!” Ned said, obviously relieved for the break in the awkward moment. “So you are! You most assuredly are! And we must do something about that.”
This should have sounded like good news, but somehow Imogene doubted it was. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“We must make you look like a crow.”
“Excuse me?” Imogene said.
“I’ve written in a part for you. You are to play the messenger crow of Stoc, the wizard dwarf. You will be a sensation!”
Luella squealed, “She gets to be in the play, but I don’t? She don’t even want to be an actor! She wants to be a princess.”
“Be that as it may,” Ned told Luella, “you, my dear, would never pass as a crow.”
“Neither would I!” Imogene cried.
“Trust me,” Ned said, which was highly unlikely, given the circumstances.
Imogene became aware that Luella was looking at her in anger and revulsion.
“How could you?” Luella demanded, and she turned and walked away from all of them.
“I . . .” Imogene said, “I . . .”
Watching Luella stomp away, Ned said to Bertie, “She didn’t take the hat. Is she going to take the hat around, or isn’t she?”
“I don’t know,” Bertie admitted.
Ned called after Luella, “Feel free to wear the necklace while you’re passing the hat. But you can leave it here when you’re finished.” Still, he said to Bertie, “I don’t think she’s going to pass the hat. She took the necklace, and she’s not going to give it back.”
“It’s just a cheap fake,” Imogene told him. “And so are you.”
“Ouch,” Ned said, but not very convincingly. He gave a smile that Imogene was certain any nine out of ten people would find charming. “Let’s go over your lines.”
Chapter 10:
A Princess Should Know How to Dress Properly for Every Occasion
(So, what’s the proper dress for improper occasions?)
Imogene’s costume was a knitted coin pouch.
A coin pouch.
Life on the stage can be SO humiliating, Imogene thought.
Already Ned’s decision to have her perform in the play had cost her the one friend that she’d currently had in the world—even if Luella could only be accounted as a temporary, sort-of friend. Now there was this pouch. The costum
e element came from a bunch of feathers stuck into the unimaginative brown lump of yarn. In addition to the fancy plumes borrowed from the hats in the costumes chest—one each of pheasant, ostrich, and peacock—were ones Ned had picked up as they walked: Imogene recognized starling and sparrow. And one that might, by purest chance, actually be crow. Two of the feathers had their shafts bent and angled and placed in such a way as to look like wings.
Assuming that a crow could have such skimpy wings.
And that one wing could be gray and the other brown and black striped.
Ned backed Imogene into the feathery pouch, then tugged on the drawstring so that the material puckered around and framed her face—the only part of her that showed. Even then, she had to hold on to the edge with her tiny frog fingers to keep the opening positioned in front of her face and to keep from disappearing entirely into the sack.
“Perfect!” he exclaimed.
“Perfectly ridiculous,” Imogene countered. “Why do I have to be a messenger crow? Why can’t I be a messenger frog?”
“Because frog doesn’t rhyme with know and snow.”
“What?” Imogene snapped.
Ned recited:
“Tell unto the king, for he needs must know,
no friends survive for to rescue him now.
Dead they lie, scattered about the meadow,
their blood like rosebuds n’er destined to bloom,
beneath the cover of the new fall’n snow.
You are alone, my king—they cannot come.
Fly, fly, and tell him thus, my faithful crow.”
Imogene repeated the lines in her head. “It could be fog instead of snow,” she pointed out.
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