31. LESSON PLANS AND A NOT SO OLD MAN.
Mibbet had a new favourite place to sleep; she had requested a nice comfy bed be laid out in an old forge room, the massive forge equipment in the corner having being scrubbed immaculate, she had even got the blacksmith to craft some rather oversized and flame resistant (nothing is really fire-proof with enough effort, anybody who claims otherwise is a dirty quitter), pet toys, which both Rascal and Alba loved to play with, (in theory this was because it was fun, but we all know their true purpose was to rack up cuteness points, they really seemed to have missed the minor detail that they were now the size of your average pony.) At one point, the blacksmith had popped round with a saddle maker and measured Alba, who eyed the tape measure with mistrust. Nothing good came of being measured up, as anybody who has ever attended a family reunion could tell you.
Mibbet’s bed was dutifully set up in the corner of what had now, with the addition of an infernal feline, quickly become the warmest room in the house. It had a nice, comfy, armchair beside it. A little table to eat at, and (so long as she could convince a servant to fill, and empty it), a sizeable little bathtub. In other words, everything a frog could ask for and then some. (Except, of course, a plentiful supply of flies nearby. Which, given the human condition, would just lead to more accidents, frankly the entire issue left a bad taste in her mouth.)
She used this space to plot out her next move, magic had proven itself to be a nuisance, so it was time to pester it right back. She might not be able to undo what had been done to her, but at the very least, she was going to take that power and wrap it round her little finger.
Melvin the Magician stepped into the princess’s quarters (chaperoned more heavily than a posh carriage in a bad neighbourhood, of course), and eyed the princess nervously.
To say he looked antsy was a fair description for him; there was definitely a certain insectile quality to him, may have been the eyes that looked like they had been glued on from a bigger model of human. The obviously terrible beard did not help much, but as a wizard, there was a way things must be done, social obligations, and expectations as to how a magician should appear, and even at 19, he was being offered the job of a wise mentor.
Wise mentors being expected to be older (for some reason, there was an expectation despite all evidence to the contrary that older by default was synonymous with wiser.) So his brown hair had been dutifully bleached to silver grey (he didn’t seem to mind that his roots were showing through), and a ridiculous patchy beard (this looked like he had eaten a particularly pasty hedgehog) was starting to sprout from his face. He carefully curated it to look as presentable as possible, but it still looked shabby. Even now though he absolutely refused to wear a fake, he had his pride after all.
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“Th... This humble Magician greets the princess,” he stammered.
“Alright, that will be quite enough of that, none of this humble servant nonsense. The powers to twist reality like a wicker basket don’t lead to humility; besides, I need somebody to teach me magic, not lick my boots. I can’t learn from somebody who can’t even tell me when I’m making a mistake, so consider this an order; when you’re teaching me, I want the arrogant bastard everybody tells me wizards are. If I’m going to be mucking about with the fabric of reality, then at the very least, I need somebody who is free to tell me when I’m being a lousy tailor. Is this acceptable? (Mibbet had, of course, let Rosalind o the talking for this bit.)
Melvin gaped for a moment before starting to bow, thinking twice, and offering a handshake instead, much to the shock and outrage of the maids. (Who mercifully dropped it after seeing the look she was giving them.)
“I don’t want to be cursed, hexed, or hit with any other spell, I can’t swing my axe at those, well, I can, but they don't work that way, it's cheating if you ask me. Everything should be subject to a good chopping, except me, of course."
"So, can we start with self-defence spells, please?” Mibbet asked pleadingly. She had considered going straight to the type of magic that had hit her to start with, but Rosalind had pointed out there was nothing to stop their attackers from trying again and that tipping them off as to what had actually happened was a quick way to be assassinated. Mibbet had quickly pointed out that so was throwing a massive temper tantrum over a shiny rock that was worth more than most people made in their lives, that literally did nothing but look shiny. Rosalind, of course, held her tongue on this point.
“I think that can be arranged, Princess; let’s begin with the absolute basics.” He pulled a massive pile of books from a magic circle and plonked them down on the table.
Until now, this poor table had been a fine upstanding specimen of a table, but when it was suddenly burdened with the weight of responsibility, it ceased to be upstanding and lay down on the job (and the floor.)
Mibbet gaped at the horror that had manifested before her in text form with absolute terror, but at a prod from Rosalind fished a textbook from the top of the wreckage, sat down next to the nice warm purring fire (usually it would be a roaring fire, but they don’t usually feature hell-cats.) Then after some reluctance, a little procrastination, and a dash of delay, she opened the book and started to read.
After some time, it became apparent to Mibbet that the “absolute basics” from the mouth of a wizard translated to “this will take your mind, drag it down a back alley, mug it for any stray thought time, nick that, then make you think about ways to save time for it to nick too. Then it will marry your gran, embezzle your inheritance, steal your first spawned, and confuse them too.”
It would seem to Mibbet that wizards were dirty, dirty liars. Still, if she was ever to get her long tongue and beautiful green skin back, then this was her best chance. She begged Rosalind and Melvin for help whenever she got confused, and thus slowly and immensely painfully (study migraines are the worst migraines), progress was eventually made.