“How do we know yours will work?” Wormpig replies affably. He takes up the glass and looks at the contents in the light. “Is there any risk?”

“Nothing serious. But it will be a bit of a shock, I imagine.”

“Feh,” Wormpig flips his hand at me and downs the glass in a gulp, pinching up his face. I cry out at the same time—

“You drink it so fast! You’ll regret that!”

I can see he already does—his eyes are starting from their sockets and the muscles of his face are pulling his features flat out to the sides. He sinks rigidly to the ground one hand flat by the base of his throat and wheezing like an asthmatic, reels backward eyes spreading apart.

“Oh, you fool!” White Dead Nettle is at his side, holding his arm and trying to force water down his throat. She has the right idea, but the water rills back out of his mouth and down his chin.

“Is he choking?” she asks me, more irritated than alarmed.

“He won’t choke if we can get the new words to start coming out.”

She thumps him flathanded on the back repeatedly and I start barking questions at him in Alak. His red face darkens swells and creases, his voice begins to thread into his wheezing. From his stricken face his eyes fix on my face in desperation. I bellow—

“What time is it!? Lovely day don’t you think!? Which way to the station!? Is that the post office!? When does the train leave!? What time is it!? Would you like to play cards!? Do you know any songs!?”

He is mewling, tears stream from his face, but now and then a more or less appropriate sounding vowel emerges from his mouth.

“Isn’t the weather lovely this time of year!?” I scream.

“YES AUTUMN IS MY FAVORITE SEASON THE DEAD LEAVES SEEM SO DELICATE!” he roars in Alak, the words audibly scouring his throat.

And soon the Alak language gushes from his lips. His relief is obvious.

*

Speaking Alak together, Wormpig and I determine that a number of small doses, taken within the space of a single day, wouldn’t put Pepedora’s delicate health in danger.