The frog-who-was-Caspian sits where she places him, and watches as she paces, the grasses trembling around him, the pool lapping gently at his skin, soothing water.

He could swim. The whole idea of it is nothing but appealing at the moment; he could sink into cool calming water, swim away, flee Kate's pacing boots and panicked eyes and the humiliation of finding himself suddenly a fraction of his usual size.

So he tries to focus -- on Kate, not the buzzing flies humming lazily through the tall grass, because that thought is going nowhere good -- and listens, as well as he can, when every sense is flickering into terror at every flicker of her shadow over the pool.

It makes a kind of sense. He'd never heard such a story, himself, but Lucy had often spoken of enchanted princes and princesses from the stories told in her England, and this seems to fit a similar pattern, true enough, though Kate's missing a piece of the puzzle. Enough of one that the way he looks away, blinking, throat inflating and depressing again, might even seem shamefaced.

If such a thing could be said to be seen on a frog, enchanted or otherwise.