Body Swap

It was a tranquil morning in Snowdrift Bay, which meant the town was only five minutes away from doing something deeply preventable.

The sky was clear. The sea breeze was mild. The gulls were behaving with unusual restraint. Cobblestone Square glowed beneath soft morning sun, and for once, no one was shouting about committee bylaws, mystery fish, dance containment, or the emotional burden of municipal sidewalks.

In his workshop behind a row of crooked pipes and enchanted pressure gauges, Zephyrus took this peace as an opportunity to make a terrible decision.

Business had been slow.

Too slow.

There were no clogged pipes. No haunted drains. No toilets speaking in riddles. No showers running backward into alternate plumbing jurisdictions. Even the old boiler beneath the town records annex had stopped whispering, which Zephyrus considered rude but manageable.

So he turned his attention to an ancient tome he had recently found wedged between two boiler manuals and a pamphlet titled So Your Sink Has Opinions.

The book was bound in cracked leather, smelled faintly of thunder, and had several pages stuck together with what Zephyrus hoped was candle wax.

He flipped through it at his workbench, his staff leaning against a rack of copper fittings.

“Let’s see,” he murmured. “Weather inversion, no. Temporary beard multiplication, absolutely not. Conversational mushrooms, tempting but legally complicated…”

His finger stopped on a page written in elaborate curling script.

ESSENTIA REVERSUS

Beneath it was a description:

A spell of spiritual clarity via realignment. For advanced practitioners seeking deeper understanding of self and other.

Zephyrus adjusted his spectacles.

“Spiritual clarity via realignment,” he read aloud.

His workshop pipes gave a quiet, suspicious creak.

Zephyrus looked around.

“Well,” he said, “that sounds healthy.”

The pipes creaked again, less supportively.

He skimmed the instructions. The spell required a wand, a circle of focus, a willingness to confront truth, and an incantation in a dead language.

Zephyrus knew six dead languages.

Unfortunately, he was only fully fluent in two of them, and one was mostly useful for arguing with antique bathtubs.

The incantation looked vaguely French.

Or possibly ancient Celestial.

Or possibly someone’s grocery list written during an earthquake.

Zephyrus lifted his wand.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” he said.

Every magical object in the room should have intervened.

None did.

With a dramatic sweep of his wand and an incantation spoken in an ancient dialect that sounded suspiciously like poorly pronounced French being pushed through a drainpipe, Zephyrus cast the spell.

For one perfect second, nothing happened.

Then his workshop exploded with light.

A shimmering ripple burst through the walls, arced into the street, split into ribbons, and raced across Snowdrift Bay like a flock of glowing eels with no respect for private property. It passed over rooftops, through windows, around lampposts, under doors, and directly through a delivery driver who would later insist he had briefly understood jazz.

Zephyrus lowered his wand.

“That seemed larger than intended.”

Then the screaming began.

Yorn woke up feeling unusually light.

This was not a sensation he associated with mornings. He was a yeti. Mornings usually involved weight, fur, and the gradual psychological preparation required to leave bed.

Instead, he felt buoyant.

He opened his eyes.

The bed looked enormous.

The ceiling looked enormous.

Everything looked enormous.

Yorn looked down.

He had no fur.

He had no hands.

He had four little inflated legs, a twisted balloon tail, and a glossy blue body shaped like a cheerful animal made by a clown with alarming commitment.

For several seconds, Yorn stared at himself.

Then he spoke.

“Oh no.”

The voice that emerged was tiny, rubbery, and squeaked at the end.

Yorn closed his eyes.

“No.”

Squeak.

He rolled off the bed, bounced once on the rug, and landed on his side.

From the hallway came a heavy, chaotic thudding.

Then a crash.

Then another crash.

Yorn wobbled upright just in time to see David gallop past the bedroom door in Clyde’s centaur body, enormous and delighted, legs moving in every possible direction at once.

He barreled into the hallway table, knocked over a lamp, spun in a circle, and whinnied.

It was a terrible whinny.

It had balloon-dog energy.

Yorn squeaked, “David!”

David looked at him, eyes bright with recognition and zero coordination, then attempted to run toward him.

All four legs went in different directions.

He slid into a laundry hamper.

Somewhere else in town, Clyde woke up in Yorn’s body.

He opened his eyes and immediately knew something was wrong, because the room smelled faintly unfamiliar, he appeared to be covered in an impossible amount of white fur, and was apparently missing two legs.

He sat up.

The bed groaned.

Clyde looked down at the massive paws resting in his lap.

“Oh,” he said in Yorn’s voice.

He lifted one paw.

Then the other.

Then he caught sight of himself in the mirror.

“Oh no.”

A moment later, Fabian’s voice rang from another room.

“Well, I appear to have become a cactus.”

Clyde stood too quickly, bumped his head on the ceiling beam, stumbled into the doorframe, and knocked a framed print of Fabian wearing sunglasses into a laundry basket.

“This body is difficult to manuver,” Clyde said.

From the living room, Fabian replied, “Love, if you are somehow still taller than usual, please come here carefully.”

Clyde ducked through the doorway.

In the living room, Spike’s cactus body was positioned in front of the mirror. Fabian, trapped inside it, was staring at his own spines with a mixture of horror and theatrical curiosity.

He attempted to lift one arm.

“Ow.”

He tried to place a hand against his forehead.

“Ow.”

He tried to gesture dramatically.

“Ow, ow, ow.”

Clyde, in Yorn’s body, stared.

Fabian looked back at him.

“Clyde?”

“Yes.”

Fabian’s cactus eyes widened.

“Oh, love.”

Clyde looked down at the huge furry arms, then at the ceiling he had already struck once.

“I have shoulders in places I’m not used to having shoulders.”

Fabian raised both cactus arms carefully, avoiding his own face.

“We must remain calm.”

He took one step.

His spines caught the curtain.

“Ow. Calmly, but ow.”

Across town, Elara woke up balanced on one leg.

This was not, by itself, the worst thing that had ever happened to her. But the pink feathers were new.

She opened her eyes, looked down, and found herself standing in Fabian Flamingo’s body, one elegant leg tucked up, long neck angled toward a mirror.

For one quiet moment, Elara simply stared.

Then she lowered the foot very carefully.

“This cannot be happening.”

Her reflection blinked back at her with Fabian’s expressive eyes.

She lifted one wing.

The reflection lifted one wing.

Elara narrowed her eyes.

“If anyone says I look festive, there will be consequences.”

Meanwhile, Spike opened his eyes and immediately discovered he had become Elara.

For three seconds, he admired this.

Then he tried to roll out of bed like a cactus.

He did not have cactus weight distribution.

He fell off the mattress with a thump, tangled in black silk bedding, and shouted, “Why is everything graceful and difficult?”

In another part of town, Philip sat up and found himself encased in heavy armor.

He looked down at the polished breastplate.

He lifted one gauntlet.

The metal fingers clanked.

“Oh, no,” he said from inside Sir Reginald’s body.

He tried to stand.

The armor shifted.

His balance failed.

He crashed sideways into a chair, bounced off a wardrobe, and landed on one knee with a noise like a cutlery drawer falling down a staircase.

“Okay,” Philip said, breathing hard. “Okay. Reginald does this all day? That man is a structural miracle.”

Sir Reginald, meanwhile, had awakened in Oyuki’s ghostly form and was drifting three feet above the floor.

He looked down at himself.

Then at the floor beneath his translucent feet.

Then at the wall he was slowly passing through.

“Ah,” he said, with impressive composure. “A spectral predicament.”

He tried to bow.

His upper half passed through a bookshelf.

Books fell.

Sir Reginald floated back into the room, deeply apologetic.

“My humblest apologies, furniture.”

At the DMV, Brenda opened her eyes and found herself behind the counter in Jeff’s snowman body.

She looked down at the scarf, the rounded torso, the sticklike arms, and the employee badge.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

A patron at the counter leaned forward.

“Jeff? Are you all right?”

Brenda tried to answer.

Instead, she sneezed snow directly across the desk.

The patron’s form froze solid.

The computer monitor cracked down the middle.

Brenda stared at it.

Then, in Jeff’s voice, she bellowed, “This is the WORST!”

Two clerks from the back room looked out.

One of them whispered, “That actually sounds like Jeff.”

At Brenda and Philip’s place, Jeff opened his eyes in Brenda’s body.

He was standing in front of a mirror.

Purple hair fell around his face.

He stared.

The face stared back.

He touched the hair.

Then he screamed.

“WHY IS EVERYTHING PURPLE?”

The scream was loud enough to rattle a shelf of DVDs.

Jeff grabbed the edge of the sink, breathing hard.

Then he looked down at Brenda’s outfit, at the boots, at the bracelet, at the horrifying absence of being made of snow.

“I have ankles,” he whispered, with venom.

Elsewhere, The Old Lady had awakened in Pierre’s body.

This produced the purest rage anyone in Snowdrift Bay had ever seen without hearing a single word.

She stood in front of a mirror, eyes blazing, mouth open in a furious scream that made no sound whatsoever.

She tried again.

Nothing.

She slapped both hands over her face.

Then she pointed at the mirror, jabbed a silent accusation at herself, mimed beating someone with a cane, and stomped across the room with enough hostile pantomime to make the wallpaper nervous.

Pierre, now in Axel Woodsworth’s broad, lumberjack maître d’ body, stood in Bistro Deluxe staring at his calloused hands.

He flexed them.

He touched his face.

His eyebrows rose.

Then he attempted one delicate mime gesture.

The large hands moved with startling grace.

Pierre paused.

Then he silently mimed relief, confusion, horror, and a brief but sincere appreciation for upper-body strength.

Axel, wherever he was, would later complain that Pierre had “used his physique for whimsy.”

By nine-thirty, Snowdrift Bay had fully noticed the problem.

Cobblestone Square filled with panicked residents in the wrong bodies.

Yorn arrived by bouncing in David’s body, each step producing a tiny rubber squeak. David, trapped in Clyde’s centaur body, followed by galloping directly into a shrub and looking very proud.

Clyde arrived in Yorn’s yeti body a few moments later, moving slowly and carefully, as if afraid he might accidentally shoulder-check a storefront by existing too enthusiastically.

“I understand your height now,” Clyde said to Yorn.

Yorn squeaked back from the ground.

Clyde looked down. “I’m sorry. I cannot tell if that was sympathy or an accusation.”

Elara arrived in Fabian’s body, walking with grave, controlled elegance and visibly refusing to let the feathers win.

Spike arrived in Elara’s body, dramatically sweeping a cape around himself.

“Okay,” Spike said, “I know this is bad, but I do understand why she stands near windows.”

Elara turned slowly.

Spike froze.

“Respectfully.”

Fabian, trapped in Spike’s cactus body, waddled into the square with several throw pillows strapped to himself.

“Do not hug me,” he announced. “I am emotionally available but physically hazardous.”

Philip clanked into the square in Sir Reginald’s armor, visor half-down, struggling to move with dignity and failing loudly.

“I can’t feel my ribs,” he said. “I know I usually can’t feel my ribs, but this is different.”

Sir Reginald floated after him in Oyuki’s ghostly body.

“Take heart, good Philip,” he said. “Armor is but a discipline one wears.”

Philip tried to turn and nearly fell into the fountain.

“I reject the discipline.”

Oyuki emerged from the crowd in Ramses’s mummy body, staring down at bandaged hands with cool displeasure.

“This is dry.”

Ramses, in Beatrice’s raccoon body, stood beside her clutching his tail with both paws.

“I have far too many instincts about garbage.”

Beatrice, in Mayor Llama’s body, stepped carefully through the square wearing the official sash and a look of mounting civic dread.

“Why do I feel responsible for everything?”

Mayor Llama, in Lindatron 6000’s robotic body, stood nearby, glowing faintly and trying to wave with mechanical precision.

“My friends,” he said, voice smooth and synthetic, “I have become extremely official.”

Lindatron, in Barnaby Blackbeard’s body, adjusted the pirate coat and looked down at her hands.

“Manual dexterity increased. Beard maintenance requirements alarming.”

Barnaby, in Dr. Moosington’s body, ducked his antlers under the tavern sign he had somehow brought with him.

“Yarrr,” he said, in the doctor’s warm baritone. “I feel educational.”

Dr. Moosington, in the Old Lady’s body, arrived with small, careful steps, gripping the cane with clinical uncertainty.

He looked down at himself, then at the cane, then at the crowd.

“I appear to have become medically shorter.”

Zephyrus sprinted into Cobblestone Square clutching his wand and the ancient tome, robes flapping, beard slightly smoking.

“Everyone!” he shouted. “Please remain calm!”

Dr. Moosington, in the Old Lady’s body, pointed the cane at him.

“Zephyrus.”

Zephyrus stopped.

He looked at the cane.

Then at Dr. Moosington’s expression inside the Old Lady’s face.

“Oh,” Zephyrus said. “That is somehow one of the more unsettling combinations.”

“Focus,” Dr. Moosington said.

The square erupted.

“I’m a balloon!” Yorn squeaked.

“I have ankles!” Jeff yelled from Brenda’s body.

“I am experiencing unlicensed hoof authority!” Beatrice shouted from Mayor Llama’s body.

“I am still sharp!” Fabian cried.

“I have purple hair and I hate how much it moves!” Jeff shouted.

The Old Lady, in Pierre’s body, had climbed onto a bench and launched into a silent tirade so intense that several people stepped back despite hearing nothing. She mimed throttling Zephyrus, throwing him into the sea, bringing him back, and then making him fill out paperwork about it.

Then she pointed at Dr. Moosington in her own body and mimed a violent lecture about knee usage.

Pierre, in Axel’s body, silently applauded the technique.

Axel’s body made the applause sound enormous.

Zephyrus raised both hands.

“I know this looks bad.”

Yorn squeaked, “Looks?”

Zephyrus winced.

“I may have slightly miscalculated a spell of spiritual realignment.”

Elara, still in Fabian’s body, stepped forward.

“Zephyrus.”

“Yes?”

“Fix it.”

The feathers made the command look more theatrical than intended, but no less threatening.

Zephyrus swallowed.

“Yes. Absolutely. Fixing now.”

He opened the tome, flipped through several pages too quickly, then stopped.

“Ah. Reversal.”

Dr. Moosington, still in the Old Lady’s body, frowned at the book.

“Are you certain?”

“Mostly.”

The entire square shouted at once.

Zephyrus lifted his wand.

“No shortcuts,” he said quickly. “Just a clean reversal. Everyone hold still.”

No one held still.

David, in Clyde’s body, galloped in a circle. Yorn, in David’s body, squeaked warnings from the ground. Philip’s armor clanked as he tried to help and made things worse. Fabian’s cactus arms got caught in Mayor Llama’s sash, currently worn by Beatrice. The Old Lady, still mute in Pierre’s body, mimed an obscenity so elaborate that Sir Reginald drifted through a mailbox in shock.

Zephyrus closed his eyes and cast the reversal spell.

A brilliant flash filled the square.

For one hopeful second, everyone felt themselves shift.

Then the light cleared.

Nothing was fixed.

In fact, the situation had become much worse.

Yorn looked down.

He had hands again.

That was good.

They were pale, elegant hands with dark painted nails.

That was less good.

He touched his face, felt long dark hair, and turned toward a shop window.

Elara’s reflection stared back.

Yorn blinked.

“Is this eyeliner?”

His voice came out low, smooth, and unmistakably Elara’s.

He brushed hair out of his face with total confusion.

“How does she keep this out of everything?”

Elara, meanwhile, now stood in Philip’s skeleton body.

She looked down at the bones.

She lifted one skeletal hand.

Her jaw clicked slightly.

“No,” she said. “I am not doing this.”

Philip stood several feet away in Beekeeper Jones’s full protective suit.

He stared through the veil.

“I can’t tell where my face is.”

Beekeeper Jones, now in Thorvald’s Viking body, lifted both enormous arms with surprising calm.

“I feel very visible.”

Thorvald, in Roberta’s tumbleweed body, rolled across the square in a circle.

“THE WIND HAS CLAIMED ME!”

Roberta, in Chomp McAllister’s alligator body, snapped her jaws accidentally and looked startled.

“Oh. That is a lot of mouth.”

Chomp, in Pinatius Maximus’s living piñata body, wobbled on four colorful papier-mâché legs and tried to keep his broadcaster composure.

“This is Chomp McAllister, reporting live from a substantially more festive center of gravity.”

Pinatius Maximus, in Brenda’s body, looked down at his hands, then at his hair, then gave a delighted little gasp.

Brenda, meanwhile, was no longer Jeff.

She was now Mr. Henderson.

She touched the thunderous mustache on her upper lip.

“Oh my god.”

No one spoke.

Then Brenda stroked the mustache once.

“I understand power now.”

Jeff had become Pierre.

He stood frozen, mouth open, producing no sound.

His eyes widened.

He tried to yell.

Nothing came out.

For once, every person in Snowdrift Bay turned to look at Jeff and received complete silence.

The Old Lady, now in Beatrice’s raccoon body, immediately took advantage of her restored voice by climbing onto a bench and shaking a packet of seeds at Zephyrus.

“FIX THIS, YOU BEARDY BUFFOON!”

Beatrice’s body had never sounded so furious.

Pierre, now David the balloon dog, squeaked sadly and rolled in a small circle.

David, now Spike, toppled sideways, unused to cactus balance, and looked offended by gravity.

Spike, in Fabian’s flamingo body, strutted across the square with dangerous confidence.

“All right,” Spike said, “I can work with this.”

Fabian, now Yorn’s yeti body, looked down at himself in awe.

“Oh.”

Clyde, now in Mayor Llama’s body, raised both hooves and looked down at the official sash.

“Oh, this feels like responsibility I did not consent to.”

Mayor Llama, now restored from Lindatron’s body into yet another borrowed form, somewhere in the crowd, called out, “My friends, if anyone sees a mayoral presence wandering unattended, please guide it toward the podium!”

Clyde looked at the sash.

“I see why he talks more when wearing this.”

Yorn, in Elara’s body, pointed one elegant finger at Fabian.

“Do not practice gestures in my body.”

Fabian, still in Yorn’s body, looked offended.

“I would never.”

He had already started.

Zephyrus stood in the center of the square, pale.

“That,” he said quietly, “was the wrong spell.”

For a moment, no one moved.

Then the square erupted.

Again.

Philip, in Beekeeper Jones’s suit, stumbled backward.

“I don’t even know how to get out of this.”

Beekeeper Jones, in Thorvald’s body, patted his shoulder with Viking strength and nearly knocked him over.

“I recommend patience.”

“I recommend zippers!”

Jeff, in Pierre’s body, grabbed Zephyrus by the sleeve and shook him silently with such force that the wizard’s hat slid over one eye.

“Jeff,” Zephyrus said, “I understand you are upset.”

Jeff pointed at his silent mouth.

Then at Zephyrus.

Then mimed shoveling Zephyrus into a furnace.

The Old Lady, in Beatrice’s body, shouted, “That one was mine earlier!”

Pierre, in David’s body, squeaked once in artistic agreement.

Dr. Moosington, now in Ramses’ body, stepped forward.

“Zephyrus. Breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“Professionally.”

Zephyrus inhaled.

The square waited with varying degrees of patience, horror, and borrowed anatomy.

Dr. Moosington continued, “Can you fix this?”

Zephyrus looked at the tome.

“Yes.”

The entire square leaned toward him.

He raised one finger.

“But I need everyone to stop moving, stop shouting, and stop discovering things about each other’s bodies for approximately thirty seconds.”

Silence fell.

Then Whirly shouted from somewhere in the crowd, “I DISCOVERED POCKETS!”

“Thirty seconds,” Zephyrus snapped.

Whirly shut up.

Zephyrus knelt in the center of Cobblestone Square and placed the ancient tome on the ground. He took a piece of chalk from his pocket and drew a circle around himself, muttering carefully. No flair. No dramatic wand twirl. No experimental pronunciation. No ancient dialects that sounded like a tourist arguing with a pastry chef.

Just focus.

Pure, terrified focus.

He looked at the page again.

Then he turned it upside down.

His face changed.

“Oh,” he said.

Elara, in Philip’s skeleton body, tilted her skull.

“What?”

Zephyrus cleared his throat.

“Nothing.”

Yorn, still in Elara’s body, narrowed Elara’s eyes with unnerving precision.

“Zephyrus.”

“I may have been reading it upside down.”

The entire town inhaled.

The Old Lady, in Beatrice’s body, whispered, “I am going to bite him.”

Beatrice’s raccoon teeth showed.

Ramses, wherever he currently was, said, “Please form a line.”

Zephyrus raised his wand quickly.

“Fixing it now!”

He spoke the correct incantation.

This time, the words did not sound like mangled French. They sounded old, deep, and steady, like stones remembering a river.

The chalk circle glowed.

The air tightened.

A bright ring of light spread outward through the square, passing through the gathered townsfolk one by one. There were cries of “Ow!” and “Whoa!” and “MY LEGS!” and one “I miss the veil!” from Philip that he would later deny.

Then the light vanished.

For a long moment, nobody dared move.

Yorn looked down.

Fur.

Paws.

Correct height.

He touched his chest and exhaled with profound relief.

“Never been so happy to be a yeti.”

Elara stood beside him in her own body again, running her fingers through her dark hair and checking the sleeves of her dress as if making sure reality had put everything back properly.

“Never again.”

Fabian, back in his flamingo body, spread his wings, inspected his feathers, and sighed.

“I missed elegance.”

Spike flexed his cactus arms.

“Home sweet spines.”

David barked joyfully from his squishy balloon body and rolled in excited circles around Clyde, who was back in his own centaur form and looked as if he might personally install locks on every magic book in town.

Philip stood in his skeleton body, patted his ribs, then his jaw, then his hoodie.

“Oh, thank everything. I’m hollow again.”

Sir Reginald adjusted his armor with a satisfied nod.

“Once more, I am properly encased.”

Oyuki floated near the fountain, restored to herself, expression calm but frost forming faintly at the edge of her sleeves.

“I disliked having joints.”

Ramses, back in his mummy body, looked deeply relieved.

“I disliked having raccoon instincts.”

Beatrice, herself again, checked her paws.

“I’m choosing not to ask.”

Brenda ran both hands through her purple hair, then pointed at Mr. Henderson.

“You have no idea how heavy your mustache is.”

Mr. Henderson’s thunderous mustache twitched.

“I have an idea.”

Chomp, back in his own alligator body, adjusted his collar.

“I would like the record to show that I maintained journalistic composure as a piñata.”

Pinatius Maximus trotted happily around Axel’s legs, restored and cheerful.

Axel stared down at Pinatius.

“You were magnificent, my precious boy.”

Pinatius gave a delighted little bounce.

Jeff, back in his snowman body, immediately shouted, “I hated every second of that!”

Everyone turned to him.

Yorn said, “It was weirdly peaceful when you couldn’t talk.”

Jeff pointed at him. “Don’t make me nostalgic for mime prison.”

Pierre, back in his own body, placed one hand over his heart, mimed deep suffering, mimed being trapped inside a balloon dog, then performed a graceful little bow that somehow communicated both trauma and artistic ownership.

The Old Lady marched across the square, cane in hand, restored and furious.

She stopped directly in front of Zephyrus.

Zephyrus smiled weakly.

“Good news,” he said. “Everyone is back.”

The Old Lady lifted her cane and pointed it at his beard.

“Next time you decide to practice, try it on a turnip.”

Zephyrus bowed deeply.

“You have my word. No more town-wide spells.”

The square stared at him.

He added quickly, “Unless absolutely necessary.”

The staring intensified.

“No. Not even then.”

Dr. Moosington stepped beside him.

“I recommend rest, hydration, and locking that book in something heavy.”

Barnaby, restored to his own body and somehow wearing two hats, raised a hand.

“I’ve got a chest at the tavern.”

Elara shook her head. “No.”

“It’s got a lock.”

“No.”

“A dramatic lock.”

“Especially no.”

Zephyrus tucked the tome under one arm.

“I will secure it responsibly.”

From the back of the crowd, Jeff snapped, “That’s what you said before you made me a mime.”

“I did not say that specific thing.”

“You implied it with your face.”

Mayor Llama, back in his own body and visibly relieved to have the sash sitting correctly again, stepped forward.

“My friends, today has been trying. We have walked, floated, rolled, bounced, and in several cases complained inside one another’s lives. But perhaps there is a lesson here.”

Everyone waited.

Mayor Llama lifted his chin.

“Perhaps we have learned empathy.”

A long silence followed.

Then Brenda said, “I learned Mr. Henderson’s mustache has weight distribution.”

Mr. Henderson closed his eyes.

Philip said, “I learned armor is a prison with hinges.”

Sir Reginald nodded. “A noble prison.”

Jeff said, “I learned silence is oppression.”

Pierre raised one hand.

Everyone looked at him.

He smiled.

Jeff glared. “Don’t.”

Fabian draped one wing around Clyde.

“I learned that Yorn’s body is magnificent but difficult to accessorize.”

Yorn stared at him.

Fabian smiled.

“Respectfully.”

Clyde leaned slightly toward Yorn.

“For what it’s worth, I learned your body is very inconvenient indoors.”

“Thank you,” Yorn said. “I think.”

Elara said, “I learned I do not care for feathers.”

Fabian gasped.

Clyde sighed. “Here we go.”

Mayor Llama lowered his hoof.

“Perhaps the lesson will require further discussion at a town hall.”

The square erupted in immediate protest.

“No!” shouted Brenda.

“Nay!” cried Sir Reginald.

“Absolutely not,” said Elara.

“Hard pass,” said Spike.

Jeff pointed at the mayor. “I will become a mime again before I attend that meeting.”

Pierre looked offended.

Mayor Llama paused.

Then he smiled gently.

“Very well. No town hall.”

The relief that followed was almost as powerful as the spell.

Slowly, Snowdrift Bay dispersed.

People returned to homes, shops, offices, and taverns, checking themselves as they went. Hands flexed. Legs stretched. Reflections were studied with suspicion. Several residents apologized to bodies they had borrowed badly. One confused tourist asked whether this sort of thing happened often and received six different answers, all of them tired.

Zephyrus returned to his workshop carrying the ancient tome with both hands. He placed it on the highest shelf, wrapped it in chain, locked it in a box, then put the box inside a larger box labeled:

DO NOT OPEN UNLESS PLUMBING-RELATED

He stared at it for a long moment.

Then he added another label:

NO SPIRITUAL CLARITY

Outside, life resumed.

Yorn and Elara walked home with David trotting happily between them, squeaking with every step.

“You okay?” Elara asked.

Yorn looked down at David.

“I have a new respect for him.”

David barked.

Yorn nodded. “Yes. And for furniture being large.”

Elara smiled faintly.

“I have a new respect for Fabian’s balance.”

“I’m not telling him that.”

“Neither am I.”

Across the square, Fabian was already telling Clyde that his brief time as a cactus had been “texturally educational.” Clyde, still shaken from being a yeti, ducked under a shop awning out of habit and said nothing.

At the edge of the fountain, Philip watched Pierre perform an elaborate silent reenactment of the entire event, beginning with Zephyrus opening the book and ending with Jeff’s expression upon discovering silence.

Jeff watched for twelve seconds.

Then he shouted, “That is not what my face did!”

Pierre repeated the face exactly.

The crowd applauded.

Jeff stormed away.

And somewhere in the quiet of his workshop, Zephyrus heard the ancient tome shift slightly inside its box.

He froze.

The box went still.

Zephyrus slowly picked up a boiler manual and sat on top of the lid.

“Absolutely not,” he said.

For the rest of the afternoon, nothing else happened.

In Snowdrift Bay, that was practically a miracle.