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like a wet dog, and dirt sprayed out in all directions; it was then she saw his left ear was missing.
    “Just give me a moment to gather my thoughts, and I’ll move the castle like you wanted,” he said.
    There was another thunderous explosion, and part of the castle wall to Miranda’s left cascaded downwards, shattering the glass roof of the aviary. A flock of brightly-coloured birds, including her favourite gryphon, took wing, rising over the wall and scattering on the wind.
    “I’ve decided that I like it here,” Miranda said. “I think we should stay.”
    “Stay? No, don’t be silly.” Poopsie bent down and placed his hand on the ground at Miranda’s feet. “Brace yourself,” he said.
    But before he could do anything, Miranda seized his hair and, in an instant—and at the cost of her big toe—transmutated him to a parrot with a tiny wooden leg.
    “Awk!” Poopsie squawked, flapping his wings and hopping about on his one good leg.
    “There!” said Miranda petulantly. “Now you shan’t be able to work your magic until I release you!”
    Another explosion rocked the castle, and Miranda stepped up to the wall, placing her palm on it.
    “Awk! Miranda, wait!” Poopsie screeched, but it was already too late, for her long raven locks were melting away as she worked her magic, running down her cheeks and neck like trails of blackened butter, leaving streaks that shone darkly in the sun.
     
     
    Bertwold watched as a fourth projectile misfired, shattering uselessly against the wall and dropping to the ground in a curl of smoke. Already there were two large gaps near the summit of the wall, and an irregular tear where the third bomb had hit beneath the tower. He did a quick count of the remaining ammunition—fourteen missiles—and decided that it would be sufficient to finish the job. He ordered the men to concentrate their fire to the right of the largest breach.
    “Fur!” Lumpkin shouted.
    The bomb tore up and away, dwindling to a small dot. It struck—but much to Bertwold’s consternation, it neither fell nor detonated. Instead it stretched the dark surface of the wall as if it were made of rubber. A moment later, the wall snapped back in their direction and the black dot began to grow rapidly.
    Oh, oh , Bertwold thought.
    Lumpkin bolted down the road, leaving a trail of florets in his wake. Bertwold overtook him just before the bomb struck.
    He was pitched, head over heels, into a deep ditch they’d been using as a latrine. A series of rapid explosions followed. The ground shook beneath him. Dirt rained down, then smoking bits of debris, sizzling as they extinguished in the fetid water. A moment later a dark cloud boiled around him, choking him and making his eyes water. He struggled to his feet.
    “Sur?”
    Bertwold blinked back tears.
    “Butwuld?”
    The smoke dissipated, and Bertwold could make out the blurry face of Lumpkin, who stood on the bank above him. Lumpkin’s clothes were singed and torn, and the tip of his broccoli was blackened, but otherwise he seemed unhurt.
    “The catapult?” Bertwold asked, grabbing Lumpkin’s shirt and bunching the material in his fist. Then, before Lumpkin could answer, Bertwold pulled himself up the shallow embankment, throwing his foreman off balance, so that, with a yelp, Lumpkin tumbled into the latrine.
    Bertwold staggered up the slope of the bank. Before him, where the catapult and stockpile of ammunition had been, there was an enormous, smoking crater.
     
     
    “Got them!” Miranda lifted the hem of her gown and did a little jig. “Maybe now he’ll understand who he’s dealing with!”
    Poopsie shook his head ruefully, ruffling his feathers, scratching behind his left ear with his tiny wooden leg. “I wouldn’t count on it,” he squawked, and flapped onto Miranda’s shoulder. “Please, Randy, just change me back and I’ll get us out of here. Let’s leave before something serious happens . . .”
    Miranda shooed him away with a wave of