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And just for fun, here's the entire, convoluted tale:

The jar slipped from Vila's icy fingers and shattered on the cobblestone terrace. Its contents, once liquid, turned to a noxious, purple vapor as soon as they hit the air. Vila couldn't have chosen a worse time to call attention to her presence.

Jumping back into the shadow of the large potted plant, Vila hoped that the vapor would waft out into the night air. That was too much to hope for. A breeze sent the noxious gas toward the guard. She hadn't enough spellcasting to defend herself properly. If they found her now, they would hold her until he returned. If he recognized her as the earthbound encantation of his lost love, There would be hell to pay, and Vila just didn’t have time for hell right now.

Wait just a second—a breeze? The night air was still, and at this time of year there shouldn’t have been any breezes. What in Goram’s name caused that swirling of leaves and sandlewood smoke? Vila risked a peek. There was a shadow there, a shadow that looked suspiciously familiar.

"Hitht" she whispered, trying to avoid the sibilant 's' which would alert the guard. "What in Dion'th name are you doing?"

Hist straightened his four foot figure and flourished his black cloak as he bowed. "Actually, it ith in Dion'th name. He athked me to ethcort you in. That ith why I'm wafting your vapor to the guard, that he maycome over here and give you a proper greeting."

"What?" Vila said, a little too surprised, and a little too loud. Her hands clapped over her mouth, but it was too late. The guard's head swiveled towards her hiding place inside the enormous laundry basket. He stepped forward to jab it with the hilt of his sword, but then stopped. A giant turtle rounded the basket, its tree-trunk like legs explaining the loud clomps.

Vila exhaled quietly, and Hist said, "You're supposed to ride the turtle through the front gate, turn right by the fountain--or was it left?--and then take the stairs to the fourth floor."

"Turtles can't climb stairs," Vila snapped.

"And why not?" the turtle said with a heavy Jersey accent.

Vila blinked but shrugged. Careful to stay behind the turtle's shell so the guard wouldn't spot her, she boosted herself up, just as Hist let out a loud whistle.

The turtle sprinted forward and leaped off the edge of the balcony, landing a short time later in the middle of Mamie Cottonwood's drawers, which Mamie had left on the clothesline after Jake whispered sweet nothings in her ear. She couldn't wait for Jake to see her in the drawers, as they were the sexist thing this side of the farm.

“So, hey, whaddabout goin’ back ta Joisy?”

“I thought we were going to see Doith?”

“Oh, who the heck knows what we’re doing now?!”

Just then a loud crack rang out in the darkened woods, followed by a high-pitched giggling shriek. It appeared that Mamie wasn't the only one getting lucky tonight.

Vila held her breath as a pair of maids swept past, smelling distinctly of molasses.

"Hoith will be very displeased if we don't get him his pumpkin pie for dinner," one of the moaned.

"If you hadn't been so clumsy you'd not have spilled all our molasses the other said. She gave the girl a friendly swat.

Vila lowered herself further on the giant turtle's back. The witches ball would run smoothly, whether or not she made it to school in time or not. But oh how she wanted to make it at least in time for the “reveal.” She had worked too diligently, deprived herself too long, called in too many favors to miss out on something as important as this. She remembered last year only too well, the year she inexplicably found herself in the middle of a noir detective thriller. Oddly, that story had turned out well, convincing her sometimes it was best to go with the literary flow. She shook her head, smiling. The life of a character actor was forever changing. She smiled at the director as he yelled, "Cut!"

"How did that take go?"

The director frowned. As much as he liked Vila, her acting ability was not the caliber he had expected from a girl with forty-three movies under her belt.

"Fine," the director snapped, flipping his cape off his left shoulder. "Someone clean up this vile mess, we're doing another take."

Vila pouted. Her fingers were frozen. If they did another take she'd never play the viola again. She stuck her fingers under her armpts. Ewww. How could she be cold and sweating? Who wrote this piece-of-crap sceenplay? Where was Josh Wheedon when you needed him? She'd bet her Pradas that Buffy the Vampire Slayer wouldn't sweat,and she'd have better weapons and better hair and a more virile costar not to mention back lighting.

She tossed her wig into the potted plant and stripped down to her undies, taking the dare to embarrass the director to a whole new level. She tossed her digital copy of AGENT DEMYSTIFIED aside, ready to make the best blooper reel this director had ever seen. Tomorrow she was going literary agent shopping, today she had a director to deal with, and Spanx to buy. She really needed to govern her impulses. Tummy tuck-less, she stalked to the drector. Her heels snapped on the concrete, as she circled around her prey. The best way to start her revenge was to knock him off kilter, publicly.

"Oh, Sven?"

All eyes focused on her, especially his.

She licked her lips. "Does my contract specify casting couch five or casting couch six? Cause that corduroy upholstery on five smells like a skunk had babies on it. Someone needs to drop a serious load of Febreeze on that thing. So," she said, looking from under her two-inch lashes, "who do I talk to about getting better treatment around here? My agent or the skunk on couch five?"

Someone snickered and Sven scowled. "I'm afraid you've overestimated yourself, Vila." Nonchalantly he eyed her up and down and then shrugged. "You might like casting couch seven better. It has a whirling dervish instead of a gall bladder, but I don't understand what that means."

"You don't need to, it's a figure of speech."

"I think you're confusing it with a metal four."

"No, that doesn't sound right. Where's the dictionary?"

“The dictionary?” Sven said, casting around wildly.

“Yes, the dictionary.”

The poor woman trying to apply make-up to Vila’s dripping face said, “Won’t the scriptwriter have one?”

“Unlikely,” Vila said, “if he did, this script would be in much better