“Oh, you’re alive!” she exclaimed. “You’re a real puppy!”
Abernathy sighed. This was turning out about the way he had expected it would—about the same as the rest of his day.
The little girl had come forward again, eyes wide. “You poor thing! Locked in that case like that, no food or water or anything! Poor puppy! Who did this to you?”
“An idiot who fancies himself a wizard,” Abernathy replied.
Now her eyes really opened wide. “You can talk!” she whispered in a voice of conspiratorial elation. “Puppy, you can talk!”
Abernathy frowned. “Would you mind not calling me ‘puppy’?”
“No! I mean, no, I wouldn’t mind.” She edged closer. “What’s your name, puppy? Uh, I’m sorry. What’s your name?”
“Abernathy.”
“Mine’s Elizabeth. Not Beth or Lizzy or Liz or Libby or Liza or Betty or anything else, just Elizabeth. I hate those cute abbreviations. Mothers and fathers just stick you with them without asking you what you think about it, and there they are, yours forever. They’re not real names, just half-names. Elizabeth is a real name. Elizabeth was my great-aunt’s name.” She paused. “How did you learn to talk?”
Abernathy frowned some more. “I learned as you did, I imagine. I went to school.”
“You did? They teach dogs how to talk where you’re from?”
Abernathy was finding it hard to stay patient. “Of course not. I wasn’t a dog, then. I was a man.”
Elizabeth was fascinated. “You were?” She hesitated, thinking. “Oh, I see—a wizard did this to you, didn’t he? Just like Beauty and the Beast. Do you know the story? There was this handsome prince and he was changed into an ugly beast by a wicked spell and couldn’t be changed back again until he was truly loved.” She stopped. “Is that what happened to you, Abernathy?”
“Well…”
“Was the wizard a wicked wizard?”
“Well…”
“Why did he change you into a dog? What kind of dog are you, Abernathy?”
Abernathy licked his nose. He was thirsty. “Do you suppose you could open the door to this display case and let me out?” he asked.
Elizabeth hurried forward, curls bouncing. “Oh, sure.” She stopped. “It’s locked, Abernathy. These cases are always locked. Michel keeps them that way to protect his things. He’s very mistrustful.” She paused. “Oh, oh. What’s happened to the bottle that was in there? There was a white bottle painted with dancing clowns and now it’s gone! What’s happened to it? Are you sitting on it, Abernathy? Michel will be furious! Is it under you somewhere, maybe?”
Abernathy rolled his eyes. “I have no idea, Elizabeth. I cannot see anything under me because I cannot move out of the way to look. I will probably never see anything under me again if I do not get out of here!”
“I told you, the door’s locked,” Elizabeth repeated solemnly. “But maybe I can get a key. My father is steward of Graum Wythe. He has keys to everything. He’s gone right now, but let me check his room. I’ll be right back!” She started away. “Don’t worry, Abernathy. Just wait here!”
Then she was gone, out the door like a cat. Abernathy sat quietly in the silence and thought. What bottle was she talking about, who is Michel, where is Graum Wythe? He had known a Michel once. And a Graum Wythe. But that was years ago, and that Michel and that Graum Wythe were best forgotten….
He felt a sudden chill steal up his spine as the almost forgotten memories took shape once more. No, it couldn’t be, he told himself. It was just a coincidence. Probably he heard wrong. Probably Elizabeth said something else and he misunderstood.
The minutes slipped away, and finally she was back. She appeared noiselessly through the door, crossed to the display case, inserted a long iron key into the lock, and twisted. The glass and iron-mesh door opened, and Abernathy was free. Gingerly, he extricated himself.
“Thank you, Elizabeth,” he said.
“You’re welcome, Abernathy,” she replied. She straightened the upended vases, searched about in vain for the missing bottle, and finally gave up. She closed the display case door and locked it once more. “The bottle isn’t there,” she announced solemnly.