by Allison Tebo
“Be quiet, and I’ll let you out,” Burndee whispered.
His only answer was a cold silence.
Burndee sighed and turned to eye the troupe.
It seemed that the ever money-troubled Windslow had economized even more for his son’s wedding. Or perhaps Horace didn’t have expensive tastes. Or maybe the troupe simply didn’t look as exciting without a stage and costumes. Whatever the reason, the hired entertainment was less-than-impressive.
A short, thin man with long locks of wheat-colored hair and a drooping mustache turned a narrow, merry face towards Burndee and threw out his arms as if he were greeting a long-lost cousin. “Duke Horace Windslow, I presume? It is my great honor, sir.” He offered a ludicrously elaborate bow that did not impress Burndee in the slightest. “I am the Great Raoul!” The man’s smile seemed ready to pop off his skull and hit someone in the face with its force. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me? Allow me to introduce my troupe—the Rambling Raoul Repertory Company!” He gestured grandly to the rather tatterdemalion group behind him.
That’s a redundancy, you potato. Burndee opened his mouth to inform him sharply that he was not Horace Windslow, but Raoul cut him off.
“Spare me, good sir, but a few minutes more to familiarize you with our party. This strapping great fellow is Armand, our strongman.” He looked towards an enormous man who blinked down at the world from his immense height and from behind a shaggy thatch of dust-colored hair. He didn’t appear to need a single bite of sustenance to add to his prodigious size, but he was stuffing food into his mouth when Raoul turned on him without warning.
“Armand!” Raoul clucked in disapproval. “How many times have I told you not to eat mice? You know it’s bad for your constitution.”
Burndee blinked, then swallowed, eyeing Armand as the giant sheepishly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Did you say mice—?”
Raoul sailed on with the introductions like a carriage that had picked up speed on a downward incline and would stop for nothing. “And over here we have Dalasar and Dusan, brothers famed for their dynamic balancing and tumbling act.”
Although Dalasar and Dusan were dressed in Ambian clothes, their dark skin, dusky eyes, and the signature braid half-hidden in their thick hair indicated that the brothers were from Ambia’s southern neighbor, Ashkelar. Dusan was shorter and darker than his brother, with a mouth that hung open as he gaped at his surroundings and bulging eyes that seemed anxious to locate problems. He trembled from nerves, but his blank gaze indicated a lack of brainpower to back up his energy. Dalasar, on the other hand, was tall and wiry and gave the appearance of having draped himself on some invisible resting place—Burndee had never seen someone look so utterly relaxed, lazy, and disinterested. He could hardly see these two coordinating into an act of athletic skill and daring—although, seeing them flying through the air might be amusing.
Raoul gestured to a willowy, gaudily-dressed woman with a mound of black braids and a flirtatious smile that was aimed with unwavering intensity at Kreek, of all people. “Madame Prudence. Actress, magician’s assistant, and singer.”
“Soooo charmed!” Prudence trilled, smiling sweetly at Burndee before turning her grin back towards Kreek, who looked as if he might jump right out from under his hairpiece at any moment.
“Beside her is Conrad,” Raoul continued, indicating a swarthy and thickset dwarf, who frowned at Burndee. “Conrad is our tailor, props master, cook, assistant animal wrangler—and he occasionally tries his hand at acting.”
“In a pig’s eye, I will,” Conrad mumbled.
Raoul gave a slightly forced laugh. “That’s still under negotiation, but I’m sure Conrad will soon realize he has great talent.”
“In a pig’s—”
Raoul interjected hurriedly and with increased volume. “And last, but not least, our lovely Poppy—animal wrangler and goose girl.”
A young woman of about seventeen looked around from her intense scrutiny of her surroundings. She flicked a thin, brown braid over her shoulder with a nervous, twitching gesture and darted a look at Burndee’s face before dropping a curtsy and giving his shoes her undivided attention.
Burndee thought he had misheard Raoul at first. “Goose girl?” he asked, and then he wished he hadn’t asked.
“She conducts the singing geese! We thought ‘goose girl’ made quite a clever play on words.” He elbowed Burndee chummily and laughed. “Get it? Goose girl, as in a goose herder?”
Burndee stepped away from the man with a scowl and opened his mouth to let him know just how clever he thought Raoul really was.
But Raoul continued speaking before Burndee had the chance. “I’ll wager no one here ever expected to have singing geese at their wedding, eh? You bet your buttons, they didn’t. And I am Raoul, the Great Raoul, magician, actor, balladeer, comedian, and the father of my little performing family.” At a hand signal, the entire company bowed with varying levels of flair. “We are the Rambling Raoul Repertory Company!”
It was rather a waste of time trying to impress Burndee with a traveling troupe. He detested performers. A voice somewhere inside his head sniggered at him, reminding him with a pang of discomfort that he was a performer, employing his magic at the whim of humans for their own amusement. He shoved the thought aside; he had lots of practice.
“I’m not Horace Windslow,” he said at last. “I’m Lord Burndee Rosedale.”
Raoul’s ragged finery drooped visibly. “Oh!” He gave a chortle that sounded remarkably like a bad oboist trying to play a scale. “Please forgive my mistake. But thank you, good sir, for giving us the chance at a dress rehearsal for when we meet our employers.” He winked and then seemed to really look at Burndee for the first time. His brow furrowed as he took in Burndee’s apparel. “Ehhh. Excuse me, milord . . . has it been raining?”
Burndee waited a few seconds to see if Raoul would answer his own question—as he seemed fond of doing—but when the man remained expectant, Burndee said shortly, “Let’s just say it’s been wet around here.”
Raoul let loose with another one of his reedy-sounding chortles. “Oh, good one, milord. Wet around here—ha-HA! Well, rain on a wedding day is good luck, as they say. Oh, I say, that rhymed. When you’re a creative person, little things like that just slip out when you aren’t even trying. I think that might make it into the wedding ballad I am composing for the happy couple—what do you think, eh? Nothing like a wedding ballad in the moonlight to top off a marital melodrama. Hmm, that might work as the main stanza. . . .”
Where the blazes was Sir Windslow? Or Valyns? Or Horace? Or a crazed, rampaging pig? Somebody, something, to shut up this yammering minion.
Fortunately, Kreek injected himself into the conversation to do his duty.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. Allow me to conduct you to the facilities that have been made available to you so that you might prepare for this evening’s festivities.”
Raoul dipped his head in what looked to be the beginning of a long affirmative that could have been easily summarized into, “Lead on,” but he never got to speak.
A flash of movement caused Burndee to turn around, and he froze in mute horror.
Although he looked as if he couldn’t be bothered even to fully open his eyes to check the time of day, Dalasar could move with the speed and silence of a shadow and was apparently not remiss at all in sampling some of the refreshments. While Kreek had been talking, Dalasar had whisked over to the table and lifted the lid from Colin’s tray.
“No—don’t!” Burndee spluttered.
Dalasar’s sleepily complacent face looked downright lively for a moment as he stared down at Colin in shock.
Prudence was not nearly so controlled. She had edged after Dalasar and arranged herself to her best advantage near Kreek. At Dalasar’s gasp, she turned her head, took one look, and let out a horrific shriek. She was either utterly terrified of skunks—though she didn’t look like she was frightened by much—or she simply saw an opportuni
ty and took it, for she launched herself against Kreek and threw her arms around his neck. “Oh, a skunk! Save me! Save me!”
Kreek answered by giving a startled whoop as the force of Prudence’s ardor sent both of them catapulting into the table with a fearful crash.
The table tilted, and Prudence and Kreek ended up in a heap on the pavement as the dishes nearest to their end came sliding off the table and began colliding with heads and flagstones like the rippling cymbals of an orchestra’s grand finale. The dishes at the far end of the table—and, with them, Colin—were launched into the air.
Dalasar escaped the fusillade with aplomb by stepping swiftly to one side—while whisking a plate of canapés off the table before it crashed to its doom.
Prince Colin went sailing past him, all four paws kicking as he hurtled through the air along with a barrage of dishware and food.
Several people went lunging in various directions, and painful midair collisions ensued between troupe members and Windslow’s staff. Burndee stubbornly remained where he was, refusing to run, and while none of the dishes struck him, some of the contents did splatter against his clothes.
The flying Colin struck the nervous Dusan full in the face, and the former saved himself from falling by grabbing the tumbler by the ears.
Dusan froze as he found himself eyeball to eyeball with a skunk and only reacted once the scrambling Colin accidentally kicked him in the teeth. Dusan broke into a spasmodic jig as if hoping to shake Colin loose. Alarmed, Colin held on even tighter.
Poppy, the goose girl, ran forward to pry Colin from Dusan’s face, but Colin jumped free of her arms and landed on another table. Armand pounced at him, but Colin ducked nimbly away from the giant’s clumsy fingers. Armand lunged after him, tripped over his own shoes, and went crashing into the table.
The table threw its contents into the air with the aggressive thrust of a catapult, but this time the missile was a five-layer, golden-raspberry cream cake from the Magic Pumpkin Bakery—one of Burndee’s offerings made specifically for the wedding rehearsal dinner.
Burndee closed his eyes for a breath of time and then opened them again, only to still be confronted by the horror of seeing his creation fly through the air.
Burndee let out a tortured yell and began gesticulating wildly for someone to do something, accidentally slapping Raoul in the face. Burndee rushed forward, gabbling insensibly, and took a flying leap, his hands outstretched. He hit the ground stomach-first, stretching desperately, and the cake landed neatly in his hands—the wrong side up.
Burndee stared at the mess oozing between his fingers and turned to pin Colin with his gaze. “C-C-Col . . . You!” he spat.
Colin, panting and back on the table again, held up his paws like a man preparing to surrender. “Don’t worry! I’ll eat it.” He glanced at the pavement. “What’s left of it.”
Burndee’s heart thundered. There was still enough chaos going on around them to disguise who was really speaking, but had someone seen Colin’s muzzle move? He was going to give them both away and ruin everything more than he had already if he didn’t keep quiet.
“Shut up!” Burndee shouted frantically, leaping to his feet. He shunted a teacup savagely out of his way and stomped towards the table. “Shut up, shut up, shut up! Why don’t you ever listen to me when I give you an order? If you had just stayed in the bushes, none of this would have happened! What are you trying to do? Destroy the wedding?”
Burndee was suddenly painfully aware of the strained silence around him that was so marked he could hear the teacup brushing against leaves as it rolled into the bushes.
Raoul twirled his mustache nervously and eyed Burndee, edging away from him. “Er, I say, milord . . . the skunk can’t understand what you’re saying, you know.”
Colin had been blinking at Burndee after his outburst, but now he bristled with indignation and swiveled towards Raoul. The deafening quiet had returned, and everyone was looking at Colin. If he opened his mouth now, everyone would know categorically that he was a talking skunk. They would know that he was enchanted, that Burndee was a fairy godfather, and—possibly—perhaps . . . that Burndee was a failure.
Burndee did the only thing he could think of to keep Colin quiet, short of using his censored magic. He threw the cake in his hands as hard as he could.
The blow leveled Colin completely and plastered him to the table. Nearly everyone turned to stare at Burndee, and a few gave cries of disgust, but Burndee focused on Colin as he ran up to the table.
Colin slowly pulled himself upright with an audible sucking sound. Covered in white icing, he looked like an albino skunk with a thick winter coat. For once in his loudmouthed life, Prince Colin was utterly speechless.
Burndee grabbed Colin from the table and stomped out of the courtyard, leaving the shambles and the confused staff and troupe behind him as Kreek tried to restore some order by firing orders at the bevy of confused maids.
Colin used the backs of his paws to make eye holes in the frosting that decorated his face and looked at Burndee with a dangerous expression. “How . . . dare you.”
Burndee barely even knew what he was saying anymore. The whole day was unraveling. He aimed a vicious kick at a pinecone. “You should be honored, Colin. You were hit with the best cake in Ambia.”
“Only you would say something so completely inane!”
“Well, what do you want me to say?” Burndee snarled.
They arrived back at the fountain where the original damage had been done, and Burndee set Colin down on the fountain’s rim with a thump. Colin shook his ears and glared at Burndee as he leaned over the fountain to dip his paws in the water to scrub his face clean of frosting.
Burndee glared back at him. “If you had stayed here and remained hidden as I told you, I wouldn’t have had to hit you with a cake!”
Colin finished washing his face and spanked his paws dry on his doublet. “I demand that you stop running around and pay some attention to this problem!”
“Someone has to explain why you aren’t around!”
“If you would just fix me, I could be around!”
Burndee went stiff, cringing under that invisible weight, his muscles twitching. He could restore Colin—he was fairly certain he could—but would that be the last bit of magic he was able to perform until this cursed restraining spell expired? Would he be . . . powerless for the next twenty-four hours?
Colin stabbed the air emphatically with his paw. “Look at me, Burndee—I’m a skunk!”
“I know you’re a skunk.” How could he forget?
He did have a responsibility to restore Colin to his natural form; there was no choice, even though every ounce of self-preservation screamed at him to conserve his magic.
“Well?” Colin groused, rubbing the top of his head in frustration until his fur stood on end.
Burndee began, gropingly, “I . . .” but then he paused in panic as he heard voices approaching from the other side of a rose-covered wall.
“Quick!” he gasped, diving forward to seize the startled Colin and then crash headlong over a bench and through bushes to hide in a shallow of mossy shadows.
“What are you—” Colin began.
“Quiet!” Burndee hissed.
“Oh, Mister Kreek!” Madame Prudence’s voice struck the nerves with the same appeal as a broken violin string. “Yoo-hoo, over here!”
There were slow footsteps and then Kreek’s sonorous voice said hesitantly, “Can I do something for you, Madame Prudence?”
“I just wanted to thank you for saving me from that horrible creature! I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there.”
“He didn’t do a thing!” Colin whispered indignantly. “Except catch her, I suppose. And send me flying!” His fur bristled.
Burndee shushed him.
“It—it was nothing,” Kreek stammered.
Colin rolled his eyes.
“Oh, Mister Kreek, you’re too modest!”
Kreek ma
de a sound somewhere between an urgent bleat and a nervous laugh. “I’m glad I could be of service, miss. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I must report to Sir Windslow, as the princess will be arriving at any moment—”
Prudence sounded as if she were pouting. “Oh, surely you can spare me a few minutes to chat. Here’s a nice bench for a good, long talk.”
Burndee and Colin exchanged agonized glances.
“I’ll wager a man like you isn’t fully appreciated here, Kreek,” Prudence cooed. “Why, someone with your talents, quick wit, and handsome face—”
Colin started to laugh, and Burndee put a hand over his muzzle.
“—I think would be far better suited to, say . . . pursuing fame and fortune in a traveling troupe.”
“Well,” Kreek admitted, “I have performed in some amateur theatricals.”
Prudence gave a dainty gasp of delight. “Oh, recite something for me now!”
Burndee dared to part the bushes and groaned inwardly. They’re sitting down, he mouthed to Colin before thumping his forehead repeatedly against a nearby tree trunk.
Colin rolled up the sleeves of his doublet with an impatient gesture. “A prince has to do everything.” Before Burndee could react, Colin had leaped clear from the bushes and up onto the bench between Prudence and Kreek.
The reaction was spectacular, and the bower was cleared in less than thirty seconds, leaving nothing but the echoes of Prudence’s shrieks.
Burndee poked his head out further, and Colin spun on the bench to face Burndee, paws on hips and a surprised smile on his face.
“That was rather fun,” he remarked with the tone of someone making an important discovery.
Burndee started to climb out of the bushes. “All right, now that they’re gone, let’s try—” The sound of voices approaching caused him to break off in dismay, and he groaned, “Take cover!” before throwing himself back into the bushes. Colin performed an impressive swan dive off the bench, and Burndee caught him and set him upright beside him.
“. . . they’re not very well organized here, are they?” It was the anxious voice of Dusan, the bug-eyed tumbler. “We haven’t even seen our employer yet, and everything seems rather—”