Transformed: The Perils of the Frog Prince

by Megan Morrison

  “It is magic,” said Harrow.

  Deli shot him a sideways glance. “You say that like you know,” she said.

  Harrow chewed the inside of his cheek. “Just show me,” he said.

  They moved deeper into the wood, and Deli threw out an arm to stop Harrow from walking.

  “It’s here somewhere,” she said. “Careful.”

  “Of what?”

  She cast another look at him. “A hole in the ground,” she said. “It’s big enough for both of us to fall into, and I promise, you won’t see it until you’re almost in it.”

  Keeping their eyes trained on the mossy ground, they continued to walk until Deli stopped. She knelt, and Harrow knelt beside her. Syrah dug his toes into Harrow’s shoulder, his frog heart hammering in his little frog chest.

  The wishing well was as deep and dark as ever, open like a bottomless throat. A thing of silence and emptiness and waiting. Syrah could feel it now as he never had been able to as a man. It was waiting.

  For him?

  “I’ve heard stories about this pit,” said Harrow. “It’s too deep to be filled or fathomed, and whenever your family tries to cover it up, the cover disappears.”

  “All true. Ready for the part you won’t believe?”

  Harrow nodded.

  “When I was five,” Deli began, “we were out here playing, and I fell into this hole. I fell for so long it was like falling forever, and I was so scared to hit the bottom, but I never hit anything. And then —” She paused. Shook her head. “And then these — hands,” she whispered. “I couldn’t see them, but that’s what they felt like. Hundreds of hands, soft and warm like — like soil under the sun — they lifted me out of there, passing me upward until I was sitting on the moss like nothing ever happened.” She peered down into the darkness. “It’s magic,” she said. “Even though that’s impossible.”

  “Is it? There are fairies, aren’t there? And magic creatures and plants.”

  “But a hole?”

  “Why not a hole?”

  “It’s just dirt.”

  Harrow opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. “You’re the one who fell in,” he said eventually. “You think it’s just dirt?”

  Deli shook her head. “I don’t,” she said. “I really don’t.”

  “So … what? You think Syrah fell in here?”

  At the mention of his name, Syrah bounced down from Harrow’s shoulder. He positioned himself between the two of them and started to hop, determined.

  EXACTLY. Keep talking about me — you’ll figure it out —

  “They found his clothes and shoes here,” said Deli. “Like he vanished right out of them. It had to be magic.”

  YES. Syrah hopped with more vigor.

  “Vanished to where?”

  Right HERE — come ON — figure it OUT —

  “Just … vanished, I guess.”

  “Everything has to go somewhere.” Harrow brushed the soil around the well’s opening with his fingertips. “What if he fell in just like you did, except those hands didn’t ever lift him back out?”

  Syrah hopped onto Deli’s leg, jumped over to Harrow’s boot, sprang back to Deli again and bounced up and down on her head. She tilted her head, and he fell off. Then she got to her hands and knees and leaned forward, staring down into the well.

  “It’d serve him right,” she said.

  Syrah croaked his outrage. He leapt for Deli’s nearest hand, hoping to hop onto the back of it, but she sat back a split second too early and pulled her hands away, and his leap continued much farther than he had intended. He soared to the edge of the wishing well. Half his body landed on the moss; the other half dangled into the chasm. He scrabbled for purchase, his blood coursing, his eyes rolling frantically upward to see if either Deli or Harrow had noticed him, but they were only looking at each other. One of his front feet slipped off the moss. For one terrifying second, he hung there from the knobby little toes of one front foot — then, with a gasping croak that nobody heard, his toes slipped free. He tumbled into the well.

  “How’s your pa doing?” he heard Harrow ask, and then darkness swallowed him. He fell, and he fell, and he never stopped falling. His heart beat so frantically that he knew it was close to popping, and his breath would not come at all. Where was the water? There had to be water. A geyser had pummeled him last time, so he knew it was down here somewhere, and any second he would smack it, and it would kill him. Given how far and how fast he was falling, the water’s surface would be like stone.

  But it wasn’t. When he finally slipped into the water, it was painless. It enveloped him, warm and soft, and the voice of the well permeated his skin, filling his body and his brain.

  What is your wish?

  To be myself again, he thought desperately. I wish to be myself.

  You are yourself, said the well.

  My HUMAN self — please —

  The water swirled around him. Why should I help you?

  Because I’m trapped!

  The well bubbled almost as though it was laughing. Perhaps you deserve it.

  No I don’t! Syrah thought, frustrated and frantic together. I’m a good person! He thought of all the times he had been nice to someone else. Giving gifts to his nieces and nephews. Bouncing on Jack to wake him up so their stuff wouldn’t be stolen by bandits. Risking his escape plan to help Rapunzel when he hadn’t trusted Cassis. Maybe he wasn’t the best person in the world, but he was all right.

  What do you want me to do? His thoughts were a rush. I’ll do it — I’ll do anything —

  Lose yourself to be found, the well answered.

  The water rose rapidly and Syrah rose with it, hurtling upward through the darkness until a pinpoint of light came into view. What does that even mean? he begged silently. How can I lose myself? I’m already lost.

  The well lifted him to its surface and deposited him on the ground outside. Transform to be transformed, it replied, its voice fading away as the water retreated.

  Wait! Syrah cried out soundlessly. Wait, come back — my nana, is she alive? My sister Marsala, is she all right?

  But he had asked these questions too late. The well did not reply. Syrah slumped wetly on the moss, breathing hard.

  Transform to be transformed. It wanted him to change.

  But change how? What did it want? Something heroic? How was he supposed to manage that? It wasn’t like he was capable of greatness. He could barely handle smallness.

  This isn’t fair, he thought angrily. You’re making this impossible.

  The well did not reply. The wood was utterly silent. So silent that Syrah became suddenly uncomfortable. He couldn’t think why he was so anxious until he swiveled his eyes to take in his surroundings, and it struck him.

  Deli and Harrow were gone. They had left him alone.

  Syrah leapt into the tall grass that grew around the bottom of a nearby tree, and he cowered there, frightened and angry. He was supposed to transform himself into some perfect hero, and he was supposed to do it as a frog — and he was supposed to do it without getting killed in the process.

  UNFAIR, he thought again. A LITTLE HELP HERE?

  As if by magic — and perhaps it was by magic — footsteps approached. A shadow loomed over him.

  “Glad I found you,” said Harrow. “Wouldn’t want to lose somebody’s pet.” He stuck out his black and glinting hand.

  Syrah glared at his palm.

  Thanks, he thought sarcastically in the well’s direction. But riding with Harrow was better than being snapped up by a bird or having his legs gnawed off by a weasel. Resigned, Syrah hopped into the farmer’s outstretched hand.

  Just want to tell her. Pa’s hiding something. Tired of keeping it to myself, shouldn’t be a secret …

  Harrow set Syrah on his shoulder and strode back toward the Thatch, a frown cutting deep into his glittering face. Syrah considered his profile, wondering about what he could have meant by a secret — and then a very satis
fying idea struck him.

  Maybe the Steelcuts were to blame for the Purge. Their oats were probably the poisonous ones. The Exalted Council would figure it out any day, and then the Steelcuts would get hauled off to prison and rot there for life.

  Syrah let out a croak of vicious satisfaction, and then he shut his mouth and rolled his eyes back in the direction of the well. Could the wishing well hear his thoughts? It had heard them loud and clear when he’d been down there in that magic water. Maybe it couldn’t anymore … But maybe it could. He had to assume that it could. Just in case. Syrah pressed his mouth shut in frustration.

  You want me to be perfect, Wishing Well? Fine. I’ll be perfect. I’ll be nice and sweet just like Oat-head here — No, wait! I didn’t mean that. Argh.

  He had to find a way to think nicer. But it was hard being kind in the privacy of his own mind, where he had always been free to make fun of people all he wanted.

  You’ll see, he forced himself to think instead. I can change. I WILL change. See? I’m doing it already. I am being a better person. Better, better, better …

  Harrow went around to the front of the Thatch and tipped his wide-brimmed hat to the gate guards, who waved him through. The housekeeper opened the door, looking a little rattled. She didn’t move aside to let Harrow in.

  “I have Walter’s pet here,” he said.

  “You’ll have to come back later,” she replied, “the family is occupied —”

  “It’s disrespectful!” Roma Gourd cried out from upstairs. “It’s unfair! You can’t do this to him — to all of us —”

  Harrow reached up for Syrah, but he had already leapt down to the floor and was bounding up the stairs, toward the racket. “Never mind — guess he knows where he’s going,” he heard Harrow say. “Funny little guy …”

  A minute later, Syrah was in the family quarters, where he found a standoff. Roma stood at the open door of Calabaza’s sickroom, facing down Luffa. Syrah stopped where he was to watch. The triplets too were spectating — Bradley’s door was open just a crack and Syrah could see them all crowded there, listening.

  Deli stood in the corridor beside her mother, speaking quietly. “Ma,” she said. “Just hold on a minute. I’m sure we can figure —”

  “Delicata, go to your room,” said Luffa. “If your mother wants to fight her own battle for once, let her.”

  Roma watched her daughter go. When Deli’s door closed, she seemed to feel how alone she was; she twisted her fingers fretfully. “Postpone,” she said to Luffa. Her voice was trembling and high-pitched. “Nobody will blame you if you do. The cabinet will listen to you.”

  “Some members of the cabinet already share your opinion,” said Luffa, “but the majority have voted to proceed with the election. We always said that Declaration Day would take place after the All-Tyme Championships. The ATC has concluded earlier than expected. Declaration Day is therefore tomorrow. Only those who publicly declare their candidacy at that time will be able to run for governor this term.”

  “But Calabaza can’t declare anything!”

  “I know he can’t.”

  Luffa sounded so completely unconcerned that it made Syrah shudder. Didn’t she care at all about what had happened to her son? Was she actually glad that he was sick? She must have been, if she was pushing to start the election before he could wake up.

  Roma’s pretty face contorted. “You’re happy!” she cried. “You don’t care if he dies as long as he’s out of office!” she shouted. “You just want to control everything — you wish you’d never given up being queen, and you’ll do anything to get your power back!”

  Luffa snorted. “Roma,” she said, “if I wished to be queen, I could retake my crown this very hour. Not a soul in this country would lift a hand to stop me. Be sensible for once in your life.”

  Roma made a catlike sound. “You’re heartless,” she said. “Cutting him out of the race while he’s unconscious? How can you be so unfeeling? To your own son?”

  Syrah couldn’t help agreeing.

  Luffa barely raised an eyebrow. “Anything else?” she said.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact,” said Roma, crossing her arms. “If a new governor moves into the Thatch, where will we live? If Calabaza loses his seat, we lose our home! Is that what you want? To throw the children out?”

  “The children,” said Luffa dryly, “will be fine. What you really want to know is where you will go, and the answer is this: You will stay in this house. It is Gourd property. I have long felt we ought to establish a new capitol building. The first leader of Yellow Country who is not a Gourd should have a new seat of command. You will not have to give up the mansion. You will not even have to give up much of the importance. You will always be the wife of a former governor, and you will always be connected with the Gourds. Do you feel entitled to more than that, or are we finished?”

  Openmouthed, Roma gazed at Luffa for a moment. “Heartless,” she repeated in barely a whisper. She went back into Calabaza’s sickroom and slammed the door hard behind her.

  Luffa went back downstairs, and Syrah pressed himself hard to the wall as she passed. The moment she was out of sight, Bradley exhaled. His door swung open wider as he released it and trudged back into his room. Syrah hopped after him and made his way to the windowsill, where Walter was standing, looking down at the drive.

  “All because of porridge,” Bradley said, with uncharacteristic quietness. He sank down on his bed. “He ate a few bites of porridge, and now he can’t be governor.”

  “Pa barely even likes porridge,” Tommy added. He sat on the floor at the foot of Bradley’s bed and picked at a frayed bit of carpet.

  “He didn’t eat any,” said Walter placidly. He was standing at the window, looking out at the drive. Behind him, his brothers exchanged a look, then shrugged and shook their heads.

  Down on the driveway, carriages had arrived. Syrah recognized the people getting out. Tara Zu in her leather-rimmed glasses, Injera Teff wearing her baby in a sling, Clementine Pease flicking her valise open and arranging it into a stepladder so that she could get down from her carriage.

  Bradley came over to see what Walter was looking at. “Just more meetings,” he said, and walked away again. “Probably getting ready for Declaration Day tomorrow.”

  “Who do you think will run for governor?” asked Tommy mournfully.

  “Anyone who does is a witch,” said Bradley, flinging a pillow across the room with sudden violence. “Ma’s right — it’s disrespectful.”

  “It’s like Grandmother Luffa doesn’t even care,” said Tommy.

  “She doesn’t care,” said Bradley. “You know what they say. She sharpened her sword on the stone where her heart used to be, and when she cut that warlord’s head off, she drank the blood right out of it.”

  “That’s just a story,” said Tommy uncertainly.

  “Is it?” said Bradley. “She never washed that sword, you know. She still sleeps with it on her wall, with the blood still all crusty on the blade. And you know where she sleeps is the same exact room where her whole family was beheaded. The floor is still red with their blood, and they rise up to haunt her every night —”

  “You’re stupid,” said Tommy.

  “Am I? Then why did Asti Huanui kiss me before we left Plenty?”

  Syrah’s croak of alarm was drowned out by Tommy’s gasp. “She did not!” he cried. “You’re lying. I’ll write to Asti and ask her.”

  “Ask her what?” Bradley taunted. “Which one of us she likes better? Go ahead.”

  “Come on, Prince Frog,” said Walter. “I’m hungry.”

  Syrah hopped onto Walter’s shoulder and traveled with him downstairs, where he was surprised to see G. G. Floss standing in the foyer. She wore a crisp, cream-colored straw hat with a copper sash around the base, and she was balancing a large box in one arm while Physic Feverfew fussed over her other one. The Physic’s usually severe gray topknot listed to one side — she had probably been watching over Calabaza all
night.

  “I’m telling you it’s fine,” Miss Floss was saying. “Don’t worry yourself. I burn myself all the time, I’m awful. You’d think I just started making candy yesterday.”

  “This is a very serious burn,” the Physic scolded. “It may even be infected. If I hadn’t noticed the bandage, you would have gone home like this! Why didn’t you come to me right away?”

  “You’re the Gourd family’s Physic. It would be an imposition.”

  “Nonsense. If you promise you’ll always make lemon buttercream truffles, then I promise I’ll always bandage your burns.”

  Miss Floss laughed. “Fair enough,” she said, and she nodded toward Walter. “Would you take this box before I drop it?” she asked. “It’s for your family — I’m so sorry about your father being ill. I’m sure it would be more useful if I brought actual food, but candy’s all I’m good for, I’m afraid.”

  Walter rescued the large box from G. G.’s precarious hold, and he lifted the lid. Within was a garden of flowers, all of them white and golden and so beautifully arranged that Syrah could only stare. Daisies and lilies, starflowers and roses, tulips and sunflowers, each one incredibly lifelike. Syrah could hardly believe they were for eating.

  Walter carefully lifted a white rose in his fingertips and smelled it. “Orange,” he said.

  “Very good,” said Miss Floss. “Most people can’t tell the diff — Ow!” She tried to pull her hand away from Physic Feverfew, but only succeeded in drawing more of the Hipocrath’s attention.

  “Is that another burn?” she demanded, seizing the purple fingertips of Miss Floss’s other hand and yanking it toward her. She pushed up her sleeve. “Good morning, Exalted Nexus,” she added, somewhat absently.

  Miss Floss turned her head with a jerk. Nexus Burdock had just emerged from the back of the Thatch where the cabinet chamber was located. He stopped when he saw Miss Floss and came no closer, but watched as Physic Feverfew held one of her blue palms over Miss Floss’s bandaged wrist.

  “What happened?” said the Nexus.

  “Burned herself,” said Physic Feverfew. She withdrew her hand. “As I thought, it’s infected. You’ll have to come with me.”