Tad was feasting on the last of the cold roasted carrier pigeon. Felicity did her best not to gag. He let out a great froggy burp and leaned against the padded chair with a satisfied air. The princess took a deep breath.
‘Tad, we need to talk.’
‘Oh, no. You’re froggist, I knew it,’ he sighed.
‘Tad, you’re a frog. A genuine, dyed-in-the-wool-not-gonna-be-anything-else frog, aren’t you?’ She tapped a finger on the table.
‘I might…you never know with these things, really…’ he said lamely …
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