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specifics.”
    â€œSpecifics,” he muttered, still striding away from her. But then he did finally face her again, though he continued walking—more slowly—backwards. “Specifics.”
    The way he lingered over the word made Imogene suspect that he might not know what it meant, but that he didn’t want to admit so. He
had
tried to bluff his way through “metaphor.” But he had also sort of gotten it. She said, “Who the witch was. Where the two of you crossed paths. What you were doing when—for no reason—she put the spell on you.” It couldn’t hurt to take his side. “If she said anything to you. That kind of specifics.”
    She had time for all this because he had stopped walking and she’d had the chance to close some of the distance between them. She was, however, panting from all the jumping, which was harder work than she would have ever thought. Not that she had ever thought about any of it: jumping or frogs or jumping frogs.
    Luckily, he answered—luckily because she didn’t have breath for any more questions
or
jumps.
    â€œShe’s the old lady what lives in the house down the way from where my friend Tolf lives, you know, the house behind where the cooper has his shop?”
    Imogene managed to croak out, “
Who
lives behind the cooper’s shop: Tolf or the old lady?”
    Harry rolled his eyes. “Tolf. The witch’s house is down the way from him. But before you get to the blacksmith’s shop. She has apple trees in her yard. More apple trees—more apples—than anyone could ever use.”
    Imogene had a suspicion she could guess where this story was going, but she nodded to encourage him.
    Harry said, “I heard tell she was a witch, but I figured that was talk she started herself, so as to keep people from pestering her. Either that, or people call her witch causin’ she’s as ugly as the wrong end of a wild pig.”
    Imogene didn’t interrupt to ask him
which
was the wrong end of a wild pig. That is, she supposed she knew, but she wasn’t sure, since she wouldn’t want to come face to face with either end. And the end that, technically speaking, had a face to come face to face with had nasty sharp tusks, and surely those were something most anyone would want to avoid.
    Her own parents didn’t believe in witches, not outside of stories, and they certainly didn’t believe in name-calling those who were unfortunate in their physical appearance.
    But before she could become too distracted by either of those lines of thinking, Harry finished, “And, I mean, if you were a witch what knew spells, wouldn’t the first spell you cast be to improve your looks from ugly to at least passable?”
    â€œYes,” Imogene said, because what instantly came to mind was all those princesses who were as good as they were beautiful, and she’d always wanted that. Well, truth be told: she was more interested in the beautiful part than the good part. But then she said, “Well, no, probably it would be the second thing I’d wish for.” Because—as nice as it would be to be beautiful—it was more important to be healthy and of sound body. As someone who had just had her body changed into that of a frog, she knew the importance of this. But that was selfish, because of course she’d also want her family to be healthy, so she amended her statement to “Well, actually the third.” Her mind kept spinning and bouncing off different possibilities. “Or, no, wait a minute: the fourth, because— Except . . . Maybe the fifth . . . Unless it was the sixth. Or it could be—”
    â€œPrincess,” Harry interrupted firmly, and even a bit crankily for all her dithering.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt would be one of the first.”
    She pondered that, weighing it.
    â€œIf you were a witch?” Harry sounded exasperated. “With