Frog Meets Girl

Chapter 5--Arts and Crafts Time

            The frog would have been shivering if frogs did such a thing. The crisp evening air had turned into outright cold night air. Only now, hours after the army had marched and the sun was well into its daily routine, could he begin to move with ease. His stiff legs were gradually warming in the gentle caress of the sun. It was that time of year again when he began to feel the pull of hibernation. ‘Most of the other frogs will be gone now,’ he thought to himself. Rest sounded so tantalizing. The only thing preventing him was this sliver of hope.

            He’d found another princess.

            Dwelling on the positive traits he’d seen allowed him to ignore some of the more concerning ones. She was beautiful, more beautiful than his home, more beautiful than the first blossoms of spring. She also seemed to have limited social contacts, which usually worked in his favor. Lonely people tend to be more willing to befriend frogs. That was the idea anyway. It had never exactly worked like that.

            He continued to muse. In the end, all of the beauty and loneliness in the world didn’t matter as much as her royal status. Any girl would do as long as she had a tiara.

            He sat, musing, planning and re-planning throughout the rest of the morning and into the warmer hours of the early afternoon. It wasn’t like hunting a pheasant, where you just had to get them to expose themselves so you could shoot them—he reminded himself that he should, under no circumstances, shoot a princess, because it hadn’t turned out well the first time—but more like fishing, which was something he’d never had the patience for. The attempts to mimic something harmless and the endless waiting and re-baiting had worn on him. Yet here was the ultimate, auburn-haired fish and he couldn’t go home until he had caught her.

            Somewhere in the later afternoon hours, just as the day was beginning to cool again, he heard footsteps. It was the familiar step of a small shoe on the gravel paths, but there were also others with her. Drat. He would have to continue waiting, though he did not know how long he could. Soon, the winter weather would arrive and he would either have to hibernate or die from exposure.

He stayed on the rocky shore of the pond and watched as Gabriella and her ladies in waiting stepped into view. A retinue of servants followed the ladies. Several of them were holding a canopy to shade their delicate skin from the strength of the sun. Another few servants held large fans to keep the ladies cool in the warmth of the afternoon. Just when the frog didn’t think any more servants could possibly be necessary to accompany the three ladies, he spotted the pageboys carrying easels, brushes, paints, blankets, and a basket of snacks. The very last boy carried a cat on a pillow.

The frog wondered whether the servants were castrati. He heard that they sometimes did stuff like that here and no man could respect himself while prancing around in this pampered circus.

He watched the procession pass, choking a little on the dust they kicked up on the gravel walkway. It reminded him a little of racing against Charlie. He would sometimes let Charlie get in front for a while. It bolstered his confidence. It also made it more fun when he came from behind and beat him at the last second. If his mouth weren’t already stretched wide in a grin, the frog would have grinned then as he reminisced.

He waited a moment after the parade had passed and hopped along behind them, careful to stay out of the cat’s line of sight. He kept to the greenery that lined the path—dust did unpleasant things to his skin—and followed them to a small square of grass bordered by rose bushes.

The princess’ copper hair fell in luxurious curls that bounced with her slight movements. Her emerald brocade gown looked brilliant under the subdued light of the canopy. Her face was expressionless. The frog was mesmerized.

One of the ladies was giving directions to the pages. “No, no no! That blanket goes there. Can’t you understand the words coming out of my mouth? Where on earth do you think you’re going with that fan? The princess is roasting and you’re wandering about like it’s market day. Get over here.” The princess did not look overheated. However, she was standing near the one giving directions, whose hair began dancing in the newly made breeze.

The pillow holding the cat was lowered to the blankets that had been spread on the lawn. It stretched its gruesome, squashed face into a yawn, which then extended to a stretch of the entire body—including its long claws. It began to groom its fluffy golden fur.

The lady continued to give directions until everything was just the way she wanted it. Each of the three young women were perched on a chair in front of an easel with an array of paints spread out before them. The bossy one chose one of her brushes and began to paint. The other lady-in-waiting followed. The princess looked over at their easels and back at her blank canvas. She sighed and slowly reached for a brush.

“Surely you are not going to start with that one. It is much too fine for the broad strokes you will be doing,” said The Boss in a silky tone.

Something flashed across the princess’ face. Her hand paused before moving slowly and deliberately toward another brush, which, from the frog’s perspective, looked exactly the same as the first brush. She picked it up and looked straight at The Boss, holding her gaze for a moment, before dipping the fine brush into the paint and swiping it across the canvas.

The Boss said nothing, though the frog could see her lips purse as she turned back to her own canvas and continue painting with her larger brush.

He wanted to hop closer, to see the princess as she worked, but the cat had now stretched again and left the pillow to begin exploring the bushes. He would have to be careful. At any rate, they seemed to be painting the luscious late summer flowers exploding from the beds. The Boss was meticulously copying every bloom, the other one—he began calling her a minion in his thoughts, though he didn’t know why—seemed to be making little progress on a backdrop of color, and the princess seemed to be painting something else entirely. It didn’t look like any of the plants in their little nook. Huh.

She didn’t seem entirely engrossed in the painting, either. Her left hand continually strayed to a purse she had placed in her lap, twisting the cinched tassels in her fingers and pressing the velvet to feel the shape of whatever was inside. Whatever it was seemed large enough to fill her hand. From this angle, he could see a little into the opening of the purse, but it was so hard to see from this distance into the dim opening. He leaned forward.

From his left, he heard a sudden rustling of leaves as the cat leaped toward him. Its claws narrowly missed him as his instincts took over. He leaped as far as his legs could carry him into the grassy area, jumping again as soon as he landed—which happened to be near the feet of the ladies—toward the pond. With a few more leaps, he was nearly safe, and while he was fairly sure the cat had already given up the chase, the screams of the ladies continued to follow him into the murky depths of the pond.