animal transformation spell. The rhymes wouldn’t do B any good; she had to spell her spells. B rested her chin on her fists, despondent. Probably all of the books in this library were written for rhyming witches. Was it the fact that she was a spelling witch that made all her spells turn out wonky?
The giant clock above the double doors chimed the quarter hour. Instead of a cuckoo bird popping out a door to do the honors, a magical mechanical peacock popped out and silently fanned its tail feathers.
Dawn would be back soon, so B would have to hurry.
The other remedies in the book seemed to suggest things B had already tried, such as trying an “undo” rhyme (she’d spelled it) or using a couplet to try to reset the animal’s species.
She kept reading and came across a section written in strange, old-fashioned language with some words spelled oddly. It wasn’t easy to make sense of it:
A Remedie for Failing Animal Reversals
…
To reverse the spell and undo
Get one from the original the brew
And hair of the beast that troubles you.
B blinked. “One from the original the brew”? She didn’t know what that meant, but at least the fix didn’t seem to involve a rhyme. Just a hair.
“Whatcha reading, B?”
B closed the book quickly and stood up. “Hey, Dawn, you all set to go?”
Her sister peered behind B’s back to look at the table. “Yeah, we can leave.
Undoing Magic Spells?
What’s the matter? Did you break a vase or something?”
B laughed — maybe a little too loudly. “Of course not. C’mon, let’s go, it’s probably dinnertime.”
Dawn showed B where to return her book. A shower of sparkles swooped up the volume and returned it to its shelf.
As Dawn whisked them back home, B chanted the words of the strange rhyme in her head.
Get one from the original the brew and hair of the beastthat troubles you.
It was like a puzzle she had to unravel.
The next morning, George wasn’t on the bus. B’s imagination conjured up the worst. Had her spell taken on a life of its own? Had his arms turned into forelegs, his hands and feet turned to hooves? B pictured George’s mother fainting at the sight of her transformed son, then rushing her zebra-boy to the hospital in an ambulance … a newspaper reporter in the emergency room, snapping a photo … and the Dismantle Squad reading the next day’s paper.
Stop it
, B told herself sternly.
He probably overslept.
In the foyer of the school, B took her latest Spirit Week addition — a plastic tiger nose that attached with an elastic strap — out of her bag and put it on while watching anxiously for George. Some kids had whiskers painted on their faces, others wore headbands with fuzzy orange ears. It was Tiger Day, since tigers were the school mascot.
“Nice nose, B!” Lisa Donahue called, passing by. B waved to her, then turned back to the window, relieved to see George galloping across the elementary school playground toward their school. In spite of her worry, B whistled in amazement. Look at him
move
! He was faster than a boy should be. With that kind of speed and power, there would be no stopping him on the soccer field.
Then she remembered, if the spell was getting stronger, it could be becoming more permanent. B was going to have to fix this — and fast.
He burst through the door, panting and sweaty.
“Where were you this morning?” B said. “I waited at the bus stop.”
George stretched his long arms over his head. “Couldn’t help it,” he said. “Had to run. I just thought, why sit cooped up in a smelly old bus when I could feel the wind rippling through my mane?”
“You don’t have a
mane!”
B hissed, glancing around to see if anyone had heard.
George laughed. “All right, my hair. It’s just an expression.”
B didn’t think it was funny.
George’s tail twitched out from behind his jeans. “Your tail,” B whispered. “It’s stripy orange!”
“Yep,” George said proudly. “I washed off the charcoal dust
The giant clock above the double doors chimed the quarter hour. Instead of a cuckoo bird popping out a door to do the honors, a magical mechanical peacock popped out and silently fanned its tail feathers.
Dawn would be back soon, so B would have to hurry.
The other remedies in the book seemed to suggest things B had already tried, such as trying an “undo” rhyme (she’d spelled it) or using a couplet to try to reset the animal’s species.
She kept reading and came across a section written in strange, old-fashioned language with some words spelled oddly. It wasn’t easy to make sense of it:
A Remedie for Failing Animal Reversals
…
To reverse the spell and undo
Get one from the original the brew
And hair of the beast that troubles you.
B blinked. “One from the original the brew”? She didn’t know what that meant, but at least the fix didn’t seem to involve a rhyme. Just a hair.
“Whatcha reading, B?”
B closed the book quickly and stood up. “Hey, Dawn, you all set to go?”
Her sister peered behind B’s back to look at the table. “Yeah, we can leave.
Undoing Magic Spells?
What’s the matter? Did you break a vase or something?”
B laughed — maybe a little too loudly. “Of course not. C’mon, let’s go, it’s probably dinnertime.”
Dawn showed B where to return her book. A shower of sparkles swooped up the volume and returned it to its shelf.
As Dawn whisked them back home, B chanted the words of the strange rhyme in her head.
Get one from the original the brew and hair of the beastthat troubles you.
It was like a puzzle she had to unravel.
The next morning, George wasn’t on the bus. B’s imagination conjured up the worst. Had her spell taken on a life of its own? Had his arms turned into forelegs, his hands and feet turned to hooves? B pictured George’s mother fainting at the sight of her transformed son, then rushing her zebra-boy to the hospital in an ambulance … a newspaper reporter in the emergency room, snapping a photo … and the Dismantle Squad reading the next day’s paper.
Stop it
, B told herself sternly.
He probably overslept.
In the foyer of the school, B took her latest Spirit Week addition — a plastic tiger nose that attached with an elastic strap — out of her bag and put it on while watching anxiously for George. Some kids had whiskers painted on their faces, others wore headbands with fuzzy orange ears. It was Tiger Day, since tigers were the school mascot.
“Nice nose, B!” Lisa Donahue called, passing by. B waved to her, then turned back to the window, relieved to see George galloping across the elementary school playground toward their school. In spite of her worry, B whistled in amazement. Look at him
move
! He was faster than a boy should be. With that kind of speed and power, there would be no stopping him on the soccer field.
Then she remembered, if the spell was getting stronger, it could be becoming more permanent. B was going to have to fix this — and fast.
He burst through the door, panting and sweaty.
“Where were you this morning?” B said. “I waited at the bus stop.”
George stretched his long arms over his head. “Couldn’t help it,” he said. “Had to run. I just thought, why sit cooped up in a smelly old bus when I could feel the wind rippling through my mane?”
“You don’t have a
mane!”
B hissed, glancing around to see if anyone had heard.
George laughed. “All right, my hair. It’s just an expression.”
B didn’t think it was funny.
George’s tail twitched out from behind his jeans. “Your tail,” B whispered. “It’s stripy orange!”
“Yep,” George said proudly. “I washed off the charcoal dust
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