Charming, Volume 2 Read Free

stool, the bespectacled dwarf frowned down at him. “I’m not saying it’s a universal rule. There are no universal rules in morphophonemics. There is only quasi-­regularity, and you know it.”
    The grim-­looking dwarf that had earlier called her a broad frowned. “Well, I think the problem is that you are using the term fricative too loosely. Are we talking about spirant or strident fricatives?”
    â€œDon’t be an idiot,” snapped the white-­haired dwarf gesturing violently at his fellow debaters with the book. “How could dwarf be a strident fricative; there’s no tongue involved.” He demonstrated by over-­enunciating the word dwarf . “It’s spirant fricatives we’re talking about, so stop trying to complicate the matter.”
    â€œOh,” said the angry dwarf. “So I’m an idiot now, am I? Is that it?” He took a menacing step toward the seated fellow.
    The white-­haired dwarf held up his hands. “Now, now, you know that’s not what I meant—­”
    A dwarf with a violently red nose interrupted. “Actually, dwarf is a voiceless labiodental fricative, and a word like staff can be pluralized staffs or staves , depending on whether you are talking about a group of ­people or a walking stick . . . so . . .”
    This was too much for the white-­haired fellow, who chucked his book across the room. It hit red-­nose square on his red nose, eliciting a loud sneeze from the victim and a roar of laughter from the other dwarves.
    The white-­haired dwarf straightened his glasses unnecessarily. “Now that that is settled, we can have a civilized discussion about the issue . . .”
    Liz was finding it very hard to concentrate and, besides, felt they were getting slightly off topic, so she simply cut to the point she’d been going to make. “The point is, if you are the dwarfs . . . dwarves—­whatever—­ if you are the fellows from the story, you know the one, aren’t there supposed to be seven of you? Wait—­wait, let me guess your names . . .” She studied the arc of faces. There was one with a bright red nose, and one that seemed to be continuously flushing and who, at her glance, slipped behind a nearby curtain to hide. Another was snoring soundly and softly at her feet. She laughed. “Well, he’s obvious,” she said, pointing at the sleeping figure. “He fell asleep right in the middle of our introductions, so he must be Slee—­”
    The bespectacled, white-­haired dwarf interrupted her before she could finish. “Now, wait. You see . . .” Clearly uncertain how to continue, he stopped.
    The smiling dwarf took up the thread in a high-­pitched squeak. “We don’t—­”
    â€œâ€”­that’s right,” said the bright-­nosed fellow in a nasally voice, “we don’t . . .”
    The angry-­looking fellow glared at the other dwarves in disgust. “Don’t hurt yourselves.” He climbed up onto the foot of the bed, straddling the sleeping dwarf, put his hands on his hips, and growled, “Listen, lady, we don’t appreciate being reduced to one-­dimensional caricatures. How would you like it if I decided to call you Clumsy for falling down a perfectly obvious ravine and breaking your arm, or Trampy because you are apparently perfectly comfortable receiving six men into your bedroom dressed in next to nothing?”
    Liz looked down. The odious little man was right. There she was, covers around her waist, wearing nothing but a sheer shift that, in the morning light, was, at the least, immodest. She pulled the blanket up to her chin. The angry dwarf kept haranguing her about the evils of stereotyping, but she didn’t hear any of it. Her mind was fully engaged, trying in vain to remember how she had gotten into this bed, why her arm was