“No,” I say quickly. “We have to stick to the plan. You guys need to get married. And Jonah and I need to get home.”

“We’ll think of something, Abby,” Jonah says. “We will.”

I am not feeling very hopeful. I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

A beast stares back.

Chapter Seventeen: Three Fingers Are Not Enough Fingers

By four o’clock I still have no plan.

And I am still a beast.

My fur is making me really itchy.

My shoes don’t fit.

My bottom lip is sore because I keep biting it with my fangs.

My clothes are too tight and too short.

Also, I am starving.

“Time for linner,” Mike tells me. “You’re going to want a lot of meals. Beasts need a lot of fuel. Let me make you some spaghetti.”

Jonah and I are sitting on stools in the kitchen. Beauty is downstairs in the basement, still sorting the books.

“Okay,” I say with a pout.

There are all kinds of things baking in the ovens and boiling on the stoves right now. Mike is cooking up a storm for the wedding, which will be in just a few hours.

He hands me a plate of spaghetti and a fork.

“Thanks,” I say. But when I try to use my fork to twirl my spaghetti, I can’t figure out how to use it. I have only three fingers. Why? I don’t know. I am missing my pinkie and ring fingers. Where did they go? I would like them back! How does one do anything with three fingers?

I drop the fork onto my plate with a frustrated bang.

“Forget the fork,” Mike says sheepishly. “It took me a year to learn to use a fork. Just eat with your hands. I don’t mind.”

“But —”

“I want to try, too!” Jonah squeals. “I love eating with my hands. Can I please have some spaghetti, Mr. Beast? I mean, Mike.”

“Sure!” Mike makes Jonah a plate, too. And one for himself.

The three of us lean over our plates, and we all eat with our hands.

Much easier.

Normally, I’d yell at Jonah for having bad table manners, but there’s really not much I can say now, is there?

“There’s something missing,” Mike says, sniffing the food. “But I can’t tell. My nose isn’t the same.”

“It’s still delicious,” I say, slurping noodles. Mmm.

“Thanks,” Mike says. He takes another bite of meatball. “I’m still full from lunch, though. What a waste. As a regular man, I can’t really eat linner anymore.”

“Hey, Abby?” Jonah says, happily munching away. “Do you want to change your name to something with ‘beast’ in it? Something girlier than ‘Beast.’ Like ‘Beastette.’ ”

I spit out a chunk of meatball. “I do not want my name to be Beastette,” I snap.

“Beastella?”

“No.”

“Being a beast really isn’t that bad,” Mike says.