Transformed: The Perils of the Frog Prince

by Megan Morrison

  “Do it, Clementine,” said Luffa quietly. “Now.”

  “Fine.” Clementine picked up her tall stool. With a flick of her wrist and the press of a button, the stool became a short stepladder, which she placed at the front of the box. “Give me the horn,” she said.

  “Or you could do it yourself, Nexus,” said G. G. Floss, her eyes on Burdock. “You could reassure the people — they’ll want to hear from someone powerful, someone who has magic that might help them —”

  Syrah agreed with Miss Floss, but Burdock clearly did not. He pushed the golden speaking trumpet into Clementine’s hands, and she climbed up to stand on top of the ladder.

  “This is Yellow Country’s minister of agriculture, Clementine Pease,” she said. Her brisk, steady voice filled the air, magnified by the glowing trumpet. “People of Tyme, listen to me now and follow my directions to keep your loved ones safe.”

  The mingled wails of panic died down somewhat. Many people were still shouting and running, but Clementine’s words had calmed a handful of them. Those few were now looking toward her voice.

  “We do not know the source or nature of this sickness,” said Clementine, “so use your common sense. Eat as little as possible until we can rule out the possibility of food poisoning. Stay out of the lake, as this sickness may be waterborne. I am already working with Exalted Nexus Burdock to determine what caused this. We will be as swift as possible in our search for the answer.”

  More people on the shore were calm now. Even those who were crying were also looking up, waiting desperately for Clementine’s next words.

  “If you are a healthy adult,” she said, “look around for children. There are sick children who need assistance, and there are healthy children with sick guardians. Assign yourself to the first child you see, and keep them safe. See that families stay together. If you are sick but still able to walk, or if you are healthy and able to carry your sick companions, find a Physic’s tent. There are four of these tents set up at equal intervals along the shore. Walk to the closest one, stay there, and remain with your loved ones. If you are unable to move or to carry your companions, wait where you are, and help will find you.

  “If you have any healing talent, find the nearest Physic’s tent and use your skills. If you are in possession of apothecary’s supplies or any other resources that might be helpful, bring them to the nearest Physic’s tent. All official employees of the games, whether guards, vendors, or event judges, you will now assist the sick. Work together to bring them to healers. That is an order.

  “Athletes and judges who are on the lake, remain on your platforms. Do not attempt to swim to shore. Rescue boats will be organized at once to collect you.”

  As Clementine continued to direct, more and more people stopped to listen and obey. Syrah watched in amazement as adults who had been shouting belligerently just moments before now hoisted sick children into their arms or ushered weeping ones back to their families. Strong, healthy people picked up the sick to carry them. In large, compliant packs, people drifted toward the healing tents, many of them helping one another.

  People needed to be told what to do, he thought, watching them all fall into line. They wanted somebody in charge to keep things orderly and safe. When they were left to govern themselves, as they had been a moment ago, it was absolute chaos.

  “Stick together,” said Clementine. “Help whoever you can. And know that Yellow Country is making every effort to assist you as quickly as possible. The All-Tyme Championships are temporarily suspended.”

  The glow of the trumpet dimmed. Clementine looked down at it, then handed it off to Burdock and shoved a hand through her thick crop of purple hair.

  “We have to get back to Cornucopia to organize relief,” said Burdock. “There aren’t enough resources in Plenty to deal with an emergency of this size. Calabaza —” Burdock shot a simmering look over his shoulder at him. “Come with me. You must Relay the capital and mobilize the guard.”

  “Fine,” said Calabaza. “Let’s just go.”

  “And if it is White magic, Nexus?” Miss Floss demanded. “What will you do about it?”

  “I’ll contact the Exalted Council,” he said.

  “Send for Exalted Nexus Keene right away,” Miss Floss demanded. “If this is witchery, then he’s the only one powerful enough to —”

  “Thank you,” said Burdock impatiently. “But you should see to your candy, Miss Floss. The minister and I will handle this.” He turned his back on her.

  Miss Floss snatched up the candy box from Calabaza’s table and swept away down the stairs with her head held high.

  “I will visit the Charmings,” said Luffa. “If this does turn out to be a magical issue, we will want the support of the Blue Kingdom and their House of Magic.”

  “Then we all have our jobs.” Clementine picked up her stepladder, clicked open two locks, folded it in half, and it was a valise again. “Let’s go,” she said, and walked out with Luffa right behind her. Burdock followed, with Calabaza and Roma on their heels, bringing the triplets with them.

  Only then, watching them all vanish, did Syrah come to his senses and remember that he needed to stay with them. He leapt after the Gourd triplets, bounding from the wall to the chairs and then toward the food tables. He carefully hopped around the puddles of strange white vomit, taking care not to touch a single drop — it smelled strongly of moths — and he caught up to Walter, who still looked to be in a daze. Syrah took advantage of his glassiness to leap onto the souvenir mer-tail that dangled from his hand. He grabbed hold of the stuffed object and hung on, berating himself. He had to focus, or he was never going to get back to his human form. He had to get someone’s attention. He had to think.

  But his thoughts were all full of Marsala. Where was she now? Had somebody taken her to a Physic’s tent? Was she lying there alone, waiting for help that hadn’t even been organized yet? And what about the rest of his family? Where were they? Were any of them sick? Was Nana Cava? She was so old — if she got sick like that, it might really kill her. Syrah’s stomach turned, and for a moment he thought that he might vomit. If Nana Cava died, then she would never know what had happened to him. He’d never be able to speak to her again — he wouldn’t have a chance to say good-bye.

  In the carriage, he wiggled into Walter’s pocket. In that darkness, anxious and overwhelmed, he drifted into a fitful sleep and dreamed of a massive moth with spider’s legs, hovering over a lake of white sludge.

  HE woke disoriented. Everything is loud — Tommy’s voice, Bradley’s voice — have to choose which one to follow, but it’s hard. Both of them are interesting…. Vomit isn’t supposed to be white — something is wrong wrong wrong…. Not fair that the games were canceled, I wanted to see the games….

  The frog is so smooth. I like how smooth the frog is.

  Syrah realized he was sitting in somebody’s palm, being petted gently by a careful hand. He rolled his eyes upward and found that it was Walter cradling him. They were in a room back at the Royal Governor’s Inn, which looked like a hundred people’s clothes and dishes had exploded in it. The carpet could barely be seen.

  Syrah hopped out of Walter’s hand and found his way to the windowsill, where he looked out at the back garden of the inn. It was growing dark, but the garden’s lanterns were still unlit. Syrah wondered if that was because the people who were supposed to light them had fallen ill.

  Suddenly, he caught sight of the swinging light of a single lantern. It came from the other side of the garden, where the inn’s long carriage house stood half-hidden by the drooping branches of several willow trees. Someone was inside the carriage house, moving around. Syrah’s eyes bulged as he tried to see better. Walter got up and came to the window, but he did not pick Syrah up. He just stood there, watching with him.

  Someone knocked at the door. Syrah hopped in a circle to see who was there.

  Deli entered wearing traveling clothes, and Syrah’s heart gave an extra beat. She glanced around at t
he extent of the mess in the room.

  “You haven’t packed?” she said. Her voice was hoarse, as though she needed rest, and when Syrah looked more closely at her, he realized that she was bone-tired. He hadn’t noticed at first, because of the way she carried herself — sure and strong, the same way she had stood on that floating platform before her launch. “You were supposed to be done by now.”

  “But are we really leaving?” Tommy asked.

  “Don’t you think they’ll start the games up again tomorrow?” Bradley added. “The games are only suspended —”

  Deli shook her head. “The games are officially canceled. Pa just announced it. It’s over.” The frown line between her eyebrows was deeper than Syrah had ever seen it, and for once, he didn’t blame her for being so serious. It would be rough, training every day for a competition like the ATC, and then performing as beautifully as she had, only to have that victory jerked away.

  “Pack your stuff,” said Deli. “I don’t care if it’s folded, just get it done.”

  “But your launch was perfect,” said Bradley, his voice heated. “You won! Everybody knows you won.”

  “People are sick,” said Deli. “That’s all that matters now.”

  “Can we eat yet, at least?” said Tommy.

  “No. Nexus Burdock still doesn’t know where all this came from, so for now it’s safer if we wait. This sickness, whatever it is … it’s not just in Plenty.”

  “Is it in Cornucopia?” asked Bradley, Tommy, and Walter at once. Walter finally turned away from the window and gave his full attention to the conversation.

  “We don’t know yet,” said Deli. “But there are some villages east of here where people have been getting sick. Nobody realized it was this bad.”

  Syrah remembered the article from the Town Crier, and the notes Burdock had written in the margins. The Nexus thought it might be poison — but how could all those people have been poisoned at the same time? His notes had also mentioned that the sickness might be passed through touch. What could everyone have touched? Their ATC passes? No, the athletes didn’t have those …

  Burdock had also made a note about the color of the vomit. He had wanted to know what color it was. How could he have known that the color would matter? Because it definitely mattered — that weird, white vomit was like nothing Syrah had ever seen.

  “I’m hungry,” said Walter.

  “No eating,” said Deli sternly. “We can all go a day without meals if we have to. Longer even.”

  “You think it’ll take longer?” asked Tommy anxiously.

  “I doubt it,” said Deli. “Exalted Nexus Keene is already here, and he’s testing everything.”

  “Keene the witch slayer?” said Bradley, with great interest. “I always wanted to meet him.”

  “He’s busy,” said Deli, and then, to Syrah’s delight, she looked right at him. “Who’s this?” she asked.

  “Rapunzel’s frog,” said Walter.

  Bradley snickered. “He thinks every single frog is Rapunzel’s frog,” he said.

  “I’m right,” Walter insisted. “Remember, Deli? You held him in your pocket at the jacks tournament last year.” Walter offered up Syrah on the flat of his palm so that Deli could study him. Syrah hopped eagerly.

  It’s me. It’s ME.

  “You know, it just might be the same one,” said Deli, her dark brown eyes narrowed to study him. “I remember he was real green like that.”

  Syrah gave a single affirmative hop, and a croak to go with it.

  “Funny little guy,” said Deli. “Almost seems like he understands me.”

  I do, Syrah tried to say, but it came out as “Rawp rawp!” He jumped again for emphasis.

  Deli giggled, and Syrah wondered why he’d ever disliked her moles. They were sort of cute on her nose and her cheeks. Like freckles.

  “Well, if he is Rapunzel’s frog, he’s out of luck,” said Deli. “She left here with her family an hour ago. Poor thing — she had the lead in the jacks competition before they canceled it. Anyway, I’ll figure out where to send her a letter. Can you take care of the frog in the meantime?”

  “Yes,” said Walter.

  YES, thought Syrah, giving a victorious croak and a series of dizzy hops that made Deli giggle again, and Walter too. It would take at least two weeks for a letter to reach Rapunzel, and then she’d have to travel back to get him. Granted, she had that ring to help her, but it would still give him two weeks to communicate with everyone — and now he had protection. He was going back to the Thatch as Walter’s temporary pet. He didn’t have to figure out how to sneak into the luggage, and he didn’t have to worry about getting tossed out of the governor’s mansion once he was there. He could plan now. Really plan. This was finally going to happen. He released a long, sighing croak of ecstasy.

  “I think he likes you,” said Deli. “You should name him.”

  “Rapunzel called him Prince Frog.”

  “Cute,” said Deli. “Now let’s pack.”

  The carriage ride back was long, but at least it was on paved road, making things much more comfortable. Calabaza and Roma took their own private carriage, and Syrah rode behind with the triplets and Deli. None of the humans were allowed to eat, but Syrah found a line of tiny black sugar ants crawling up one of the carriage walls. He licked the line clean, enjoying the sweetness of anty pulp. When he was a man again, he might even keep on eating ants. They were really tasty.

  They reached the Thatch at midnight. Syrah opened his mouth wide, breathed in, and let the scents of the governor’s garden overwhelm him. The last time he’d smelled this place, he had been a man. And he was about to be one again. Tonight, while everyone slept, he would start his work.

  He was so close.

  Upstairs, in the family’s wing, Syrah hopped onto the sill of an open window in Walter’s bedroom.

  “He’ll run away if you don’t put him in a jar or something,” said Bradley, yawning as he traipsed off to his own room down the hall.

  Walter crouched down to the sill and met Syrah’s eyes. “Will you run away?” he asked.

  Syrah gave a firm ribbit, and, to reassure Walter that no jar was necessary, he leapt to Walter’s shoulder and pressed against his neck. “Ribbit,” he said again, then hopped back to the windowsill and settled down to show that he wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Good,” Walter said. He fell into bed without undressing and went to sleep without putting out his lamp. Moments later, Deli appeared in his doorway. Shaking her head, she came into the room and yanked off Walter’s boots. With no one now watching her — or at least, no one that she knew of — she let her exhaustion show. Her shoulders sagged, and she rubbed her temples.

  “It’s fine,” she said to herself quietly. “I’m fine.”

  She pulled up Walter’s covers and tucked him in, even kissing his forehead like a mother. Then she picked up the stuffed mer-tail souvenir he’d brought home. For a moment, she played absently with its silken fins.

  All at once, her face crumpled. She buried it in the stuffed tail and stifled a sob. She remained like that for a minute, tense all over, and Syrah thought that he had never wanted to be a man more. He could have gone to her. Put his arms around her.

  “Selfish,” he heard her mutter, her voice muffled. “Selfish. It’s just a stupid game.”

  But it wasn’t selfish. And it wasn’t a stupid game — it was the All-Tyme Championships. Of course she was disappointed; she’d been killing herself for this. Everyone said she worked harder than anybody else, and now that Syrah had seen her performance, he believed it was true. If he’d been her, he would’ve done a lot worse than cry for ten seconds. He wished that he could tell her so.

  “Delicata Aurantia.”

  Deli uncovered her face and whirled to the door like she’d been caught committing a crime.

  “Grandmother Luffa,” she said shakily. “Do you need anything before I go to bed?”

  Luffa stood there, straight-backed, her dark eyes ta
king in every inch of Deli. Her expressionless gaze lingered on the flimsy mer-tail toy that hung from Deli’s hand. “People died today,” she said, in her cool, pitiless voice. “Children died. Their parents died.”

  Deli nodded, barely.

  “If you are crying, that is what you should be crying about. Not a sport.”

  Deli bowed her head. “Yes, Grandmother.”

  Luffa turned away and left.

  For a moment, Deli stood there, head bent, unmoving. When she finally looked up, her face was as hard and expressionless as her grandmother’s — the change almost frightened Syrah. With brisk efficiency, Deli tucked the mer-tail against Walter, put out his lamp, and left.

  Syrah sat in the dark, amazed. Luffa had scared him all his life, but on his visits to the Thatch he’d mostly been able to avoid her. Deli, on the other hand, had lived with her since birth. It had to be tough living with a legendary grandmother who had led an army and slain a warlord and reclaimed a country, all by the time she was eighteen. It probably explained why Deli was so … Deli all the time, with her deadly seriousness about life and her absolute perfectionism, like somebody was watching her every move and she had to prove she was worthy.

  Maybe somebody was. And maybe she did.

  But he was wasting precious time.

  Syrah hopped to Walter’s desk. The moon was not particularly bright, but Syrah could see just fine. Since becoming a frog, he had found it much easier to see in the dark. And what he saw now was just what he’d been hoping for: a big mess. This was what he’d been missing, staying at Rapunzel’s grandmother’s house — that place was so immaculate that he’d had to forage outside for every insect he ate, because none of them dared come in. No pen was ever left lying around; no ink bottle was ever left standing open.

  Walter’s desk was exactly the opposite. There were quills and fountain pens and broken nibs and old blotting papers, and a little bottle of ink, small enough for a frog to tip over, that had been left uncorked.

  Perfect.

  Syrah chose the smallest, lightest quill. He grabbed it with his tongue, leapt to the floor, and deposited the quill on the floorboards. He had to get it completely out of the way before he tipped over the ink bottle, since there was no way he would be able to control the spill. If ink got all over the quill, it would be useless to him; he wouldn’t be able to pick it up without poisoning himself.