There came another soft rapping at the door to the royal commode where Prince Paul, first of his name, lay soaking in an oversized claw foot bath tub.

“Honey? Is everything okay? You’ve been in there for over two hours now and, well, it’d be a bit strange if you didn’t show up to your own party don’t you think?”

Ah, Princess Chloe with her heart of gold. Paul knew she meant well. She’d kissed damn near every frog and toad in the kingdom before ordering the draining of the swamp and forcing him out of hiding.

He clears his throat, but the croak is still there. “Just a few more minutes, dear!”

Yes, he knew she meant well, but she’d never understand. Paul didn’t quite understand it himself. There was the obvious: no having to tend to court matters, no speaking engagements, land disputes, or existential struggles. Was that worth giving up opposable thumbs, beautiful hair, and the love of friends and family?

They could learn to love me as a frog, he thinks. I learned to love me as a frog.

Chloe doesn’t wait. She enters the bathroom with her hair half in pins and regards her moisture-logged husband with pity.

“Come on then,” she says. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but your nephews haven’t seen you in over six months and they’ve been asking about you.”

Paul sighs and exits the tub, dries his pruned feet and dons a robe. “You know, I saw them not too long ago riding through Swamp’s Edge. If I hadn’t hopped out of Henry’s way, I’d probably still be squished into the mud.”

“See? This is why we were lucky to find you. I wish it hadn’t taken so long, but–”

“Yes, I know dear. If I’d had any of my faculties about me, I’d have been waiting just outside your door for true love’s kiss. The prey drive was just…awful,” says Paul, drying off his hair.

In truth, he had retained some of his human intelligence after that hag laid the curse on him. He could still make out the words of distant shouting huntsmen on certain swampy mornings. And in that half year as a frog, he also came to learn the language of beasts. Not that there was much of a language to learn beyond “tall bird! Take cover!” or “rain, glorious rain, let us croak and peep in celebration!” One could relish in such simplicity.

The princess leans in and kisses him on the cheek. “I’m just glad I don’t have to kiss any more of those hideous things,” she says. “But I’d do it all again to have you back.”

That could be arranged, the prince muses. All I’d have to do is upset Edith the Hag again, and it doesn’t take much. He smiles and returns the kiss.

“Well,” she says, “step to it! The feast starts in half an hour!”

“Excellent. I’m famished.” He pauses a second as the princess fusses with her hair in the mirror. “Do you think Chef Reginald will be serving any bugs?”

He sees the reflection of Chloe’s face turn into a grimace.

“Buns I mean. You know, those steamed buns he made last Christmas with the lovely mince in the middle?”

“You know,” she says, not turning away from the mirror, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you kind of liked your time under that curse.”

I suppose it's better you don't, he thinks.