20
‘I’m a butterfly,’ I said in wonder.
No, I didn’t. I tried to speak, but seeing as I was lacking the right mouth parts, nothing much emerged.
I was also wrong, as soon became apparent, for no butterfly had gnarly, greeny-browny, webby toes and a fierce hunger for fresh, juicy flies.
‘I’m a toad,’ I said. ‘With wings.’ No words emerged that time either, but my tongue did. It went a long, long way out, and returned with a fly stuck to its tip.
I didn’t want to swallow that fly, but I did.
Yuck.
Pros to the situation: me and my bosom companions (and Miranda) were no longer pinned at the edge of the hilltop of Mount Vale, a steep drop behind us and an angry mob before us. We were airborne; soaring through the dulcet skies; wafted upon wings wrought of Orlando’s weird magick. (Did it
