Mearsies Heili Bounces Back by Sherwood Smith

closer we got to the central palace (which was several
stories tall, with four big towers above the slanted golden roof) the more
stone statues we met. Just about everyone was frozen in the act of bustling
away from the palace, some looking back over their shoulders.
    “Evil Mage, you think?” Gwen asked, after we passed another
one.
    “They don’t look surprised,” Seshe observed.
    “What do you mean?” Dhana asked, frowning into the face of a
tall, gaunt man, who scowled worse than PJ when Mumsie-dearest didn’t instantly
give him what he wanted.
    Seshe completed a circle around one. “Like they tried to
outrun something.”
    Once she said it, I saw what she meant. None of them had
that look of “What’s happening?” you’d expect of someone confronted by an Evil
Mage saying, I’m gonna turn you into stone, har har! They looked more
annoyed, like “You can’t do that to me! ”
    We walked over a bridge larger than most, its arched
supports and rails edged with carvings of festooned garlands. Here, we found
more statues. Most were adults, though a few kids were there, too. We passed
one girl who looked like a spoiled brat—she’d been frozen mid-flounce, a fancy
dress flying out, her nose in the air, her mouth turned down.
    “That,” Gwen said, “looks like a princess of the worst kind.”
    “Makes me wonder how the spell knows who’s or what’s
royalty. Like, is it kings only? Is a new princess okay? How about an archduke?”
Klutz asked.
    Id looked at her, his eyes wide under his unruly mop of
blond hair. “Archdukes?”
    “Sure! I remember somebody blabbin’ about ’em in Paris. They
had a lot of ’em in that other empire, the one to the east.”
    ‘Hey, there’s somebody in there,” Puddlenose said,
interrupting this talk. Just as well, because I couldn’t figure out whether to
worry or not, and Sherry looked scared again.
    We entered a huge room that looked like a throne room, a low
couch cushioned with embroidered satin pillows at the far end, surrounded by
lots and lots of bright color. The color, we saw as we got closer, was
contained in round and oval and cylindrical shapes—vases and bowls and urns.
    On the couch sat a plump little man, surrounded by paint
supplies. The white marble of the room contrasted with all the tables and
shelves full of containers of various sizes, and cups, and fire screens, all
painted in what people call lapidary style: tiny, brightly glowing patterns and
shapes, as if bejeweled. I rarely took much notice of such stuff, but these
were beautiful.
    The little man was busy painting a half-done vase, his pudgy
fingers holding a tiny paint brush that looked like it had three hairs in it.
Blue paint glowed at the end like a gem. He carefully touched it to a bunch of
tiny cherries, and the contrast of blue and crimson made the colors seem to
sparkle. Then he bounded to his feet, and addressed us in the local lingo.
    “Can’t understand,” I said, mentally reviewing the pie
spell. If we threw enough of them, maybe he’d slip and slide, and couldn’t
chase us ...
    “Are you here to break the spell?” He’d switched to
Mearsiean, that same accent used by that girl we’d met the day before.
    And he looked straight at me.
    I turned to the others. The gang shrugged, sidled looks that
meant You’re the princess, you do the talking , so I said, “Maybe.”
    He sighed. “Well, I hope so.”
    “What?”
    “What?”
    “What?” (etc)
    He snorted a laugh, then sat down, and pointed at a golden
tray full of tarts and biscuits stuffed with cheese. “Here. Have something to
eat.”
    Sherry stretched out her hand toward the tray, then snatched
it back. “Are you the Evil Mage?” She pointed at the food, which smelled so
good, my stomach was growling. “I don’t want to get turned into a frog!”
    “I’m supposed to be a mage. And I learned what I had to, but
oh, I do so hate magic. But I’m bound here until the spell is broken. I hate it
here. It’s