Transformed: The Perils of the Frog Prince

by Megan Morrison

  While she searched, Syrah glanced around, morbidly curious. Bradley had said that the floorboards of Luffa’s room were still soaked with her family’s blood, but it was impossible to verify that claim in the gloom. Her fabled sword, however, hung in its scabbard beside the fireplace. Syrah studied the carvings on the scabbard, and he wondered. Luffa had saved her country once. She had beheaded a warlord and freed her people from what remained of the Pink Empire. Only a person of great courage and fierce love for her nation could have done such a thing.

  She was certainly capable of poisoning Calabaza, if she had thought it was the best thing for Yellow Country, but as he gazed at her sword, Syrah found himself wondering if she would. It just didn’t seem like Luffa to sneak around putting juggetsbane in sandwiches. She was direct. Brave. Harsh and unpleasant, yes — but not devious. There was something cowardly about using poison, and Luffa was no coward.

  Still, that wasn’t proof she hadn’t done it. Syrah swept his eyes around the room, hoping to find something noticeably suspicious. But the only thing he really noticed was that Luffa’s room didn’t look like it had ever belonged to a queen. The bed was just a simple platform with a mattress. The chair was just a wooden chair. There were almost no decorations or objects of great value about, except for a few pictures: a portrait of her family before they had been slaughtered, with a very small Luffa sleeping in her mother’s arms; a small painting of herself at nineteen, straight-backed and solemn-faced at her coronation after the reclamation of Yellow Country — and beside this, a small portrait of Nana Cava at about the same age, staring out of the frame with those eyes that saw everything. Syrah gazed at her and wished that she could see him now.

  I’m trying, Nana, he thought. I’m paying attention to the election just like you wanted, and I’m going to figure out what happened to Calabaza. I’m doing my best for once. I really am.

  There was one other painting, wide and tall, taking up the better part of one wall, and the sight of it arrested Syrah. Balthasar. White shore, cobalt sky, turquoise water. The columns of the Pavilions rising from the rock. Lush green vineyards rolling thickly away to the foot of Mount Olopua. Even in the dim light, the sight of his home was so beautiful that his longing overwhelmed him. Even if he never became a man again, he wanted to go home. The thought of slipping into the warm, embracing ocean, of basking on the rocks under his own hot island sun, of hearing familiar voices, smelling familiar smells … He didn’t want to be a frog forever, but since the wishing well seemed to have given up on him, at least he could live out his frog days in the Olive Isles. And now that someone knew who he was, it was finally possible to make that happen. All he had to do was get back into Harrow’s company, and he could find a way to tell everyone the truth. Within a week, he could be on a ship, sailing away across the Tranquil Sea.

  But first, Calabaza.

  Luffa huffed a short breath of annoyance and set down her candlestick atop a chest of drawers. She opened a small closet, took out a box of letters and papers, and put it on her bed to sort through it. Syrah wished he could see what was written on everything, but Luffa was standing several feet away, and the writing on the papers was too small. He could hop closer, but if he did, she might see him and decide to put him out.

  She lifted a letter out of the box and paused, staring at its envelope, which had already been sliced open. She withdrew the letter and read it. “Cava,” she said quietly, after a moment, and Syrah’s heart hopped. Was that a letter from his nana?

  Luffa set it on her desk and continued to search through the box. Syrah sneaked along behind her. Too curious to resist, he hopped up to her desk chair and then onto her desk to see what his nana had written. But Luffa had flipped the letter over; it lay on its front and there was not much written on the back. He read what little he could.

  I wish you would plant vines instead. The strong vines of Olive should grow around your home.

  Be at peace, my sister, my heart. We shall see each other soon.

  Cava

  “Ah,” said Luffa, and Syrah looked up quickly to make sure she hadn’t spotted him. She wasn’t looking in his direction at all, but at a file marked BURDOCK. She took up her candlestick and headed for her door, and Syrah leapt down from the desk, keen to follow and find out what the file had in it.

  Luffa made her way swiftly down the stairs and toward the front of the house. At the end of the great front hall, the door of the governor’s office stood open. Light spilled through it. Syrah slipped through the door behind Luffa and hopped under a fancy chair that stood close to the wall.

  Clementine Pease was already there, sitting in a throne-like chair behind an ornate desk in an office that didn’t seem to belong to the Thatch. The whole room reminded him of his visits to Charming Palace — gilded furniture, mirrors, silver wall fixtures, and even a chandelier. It was the only room in the house that looked like it belonged to a king — but none of these things had been handed down from Yellow Country’s old monarchs. The invaders from Pink had melted down all the Gourd family heirlooms except for a thimble, so Calabaza must have furnished the room this way. Clearly, he had enjoyed the idea of being royal governor.

  Luffa shut the door with her foot, blew out her candle, and brought the papers to the desk where Clementine sat.

  “It’s all here,” she said. “What little there is.”

  “Why did you bother collecting it in the first place?”

  “Because the past matters,” Luffa replied. “I’ve never liked the idea of having someone in this government whose past can’t be traced.”

  “I don’t want to throw his childhood in his face.” The bags under Clementine’s eyes were nearly as purple as her hair. “I just want to beat him.”

  His childhood. Syrah was immediately curious. Burdock was Exalted, and when the Exalted swore themselves to the Council, they took new names. Many of them left their previous identities behind. Did Luffa know something about who Burdock had been, as a boy? Syrah thought he could imagine it. Burdock had probably been something like the triplets. A bit of a troublemaker, but mostly smart and kind. Had he once played a prank that might make him look bad?

  Had he done something worse?

  “He played the crowd masterfully,” said Luffa. “He is a very bright man. He will find a way to discredit you, and if you aren’t prepared to turn it around on him, you’ll suffer.”

  Clementine shifted in the seat she’d placed in the throne-like chair. “Luffa,” she said. “I’m not the right candidate. Find someone else. I mean it.”

  “Don’t be modest, Clementine. You’re experienced, competent, and —”

  “I know I am.” Clementine pushed herself down from the chair and landed on her feet. She started to pace. “It’s about Huck,” she said. “About Ubiquitous.”

  Syrah waited, watching as Clementine paced back again behind the enormous desk. He could just see her purple hair over the top of it. Was she going to confess?

  “Huck Steelcut made a terrible mistake,” said Luffa. “I know that the two of you go back a long way, but this isn’t a matter of friendship. Huck isn’t getting back in this race. It’s you against Burdock, and you need to prepare for debate.”

  Clementine ran a hand over the papers Luffa had brought down. “You said yourself these aren’t even facts,” she said. “Just rumors.”

  “His given name is a fact,” said Luffa. “Confirmed by birth records. His parents’ and younger sister’s deaths are also facts.”

  “But his encounter with the Witch of the Woods is fiction?”

  At the mention of the Witch of the Woods, Syrah’s eyes bulged. That was the witch with the candy house — the one G. G. Floss had said was possibly killed by a starving young boy.

  By Burdock, as a boy?

  Syrah nearly croaked out loud. Could it be possible? He was Exalted….

  “Somebody killed her,” said Luffa, shrugging. “Don’t you find it curious that no one has ever claimed the honor of it?”

&
nbsp; “So you think he has something to hide.”

  That was what Jack had said. Whoever had killed that witch must have something to hide, or else they would have taken credit for it. But what could Nexus Burdock have to hide?

  There was a knock at the door. A messenger stepped into the room and bowed. “Madam Governor,” he said, nodding to Luffa. “Provisional Governor Pease. The Relay has a message from Exalted Nexus Keene.”

  Luffa and Clementine departed, and Syrah followed, hopping along the corridor. He paused when voices drifted in from outside one of the front windows.

  “What are you doing here?” he heard Deli say flatly. “I don’t want to talk to you —”

  “I’m not trying to talk to you. I just — I have to talk to you —”

  “Go home, Harrow.”

  Syrah leapt onto the windowsill. Deli and Harrow stood there in the pale morning light. Deli’s eyes were puffy — it was impossible to miss that she’d been crying — but Harrow didn’t seem to see it. He was sweating, and his eyes darted all over, as though searching for something. He adjusted his horse’s reins in his hand, looking nervous and guilty and sick.

  “I did something bad,” he managed. “Real bad. I came to tell you —”

  “You can tell the Exalted Council when they investigate.”

  “It’s not about the farm, it’s — last night, I —” He made a noise of anguish. “It’s that frog.”

  You mean this frog? thought Syrah, enjoying Harrow’s agony. He should feel guilty. He had very nearly murdered him.

  Deli crossed her arms. “Frog?”

  “The one from your room. You know the one — he took out those Criers and he followed us into the woods.”

  Deli stared at him. “He took out the Criers,” she repeated. “Harrow, shouldn’t you be home in bed?”

  “I’m not sick!” he said. “I’m telling you, that frog — Skies, what if he’s dead? What if he’s dead and I killed him? I’d be an assassin, or —”

  Deli looked genuinely worried now. She stepped up to Harrow and touched his glittering brow with the back of her hand. “You’re feverish,” she said. “You sit right here. I think Physic Feverfew’s upstairs, I’ll get her —”

  “No, please.” Harrow dropped his horse’s reins and grabbed her hands. “Listen. I’ll tell you. And you’ll believe me — you have to. That frog is —”

  Syrah croaked loudly, and Harrow gasped. He looked back and forth, searching wildly, until he found him on the windowsill. “There he is,” he cried, ecstatic. “Dee, look, he’s —”

  Syrah hopped twice, quickly. Don’t tell her who I am.

  Harrow trailed off. “He’s … alive,” he finished.

  “Rawwp.”

  Deli pulled her hands out of Harrow’s grip. “Walter was looking for him last night,” she said, approaching the windowsill. “I’ll take him upstairs.”

  But Harrow cut in front of her and put out his hand. Syrah leapt onto his arm, then up to his shoulder. He wanted to be with someone he could communicate with. Even if that person had thrown him out to die.

  “Excuse me,” said Deli. “He’s not yours.”

  “I need to — uh — borrow him,” said Harrow.

  “Borrow him?”

  “Yeah, for a — a thing. A thing I need to do.”

  Smooth, Syrah thought. Liar of the year.

  “Right,” Deli said, and her tone suggested that she was worried about the state of his brain. “Well. I’ll tell Walter he’s with you.”

  “Dee, wait. About yesterday —”

  “You can stop right —”

  “Please. Don’t shut me out again. I had no idea what my pa was doing. None. And if you know me at all, then you know I wouldn’t lie.”

  Deli gazed at Harrow, and her expression was the same as it had been two summers ago, when Syrah had kissed her under that waterfall. Devastatingly serious. Full of longing. And so vulnerable — Syrah’s breath stuck in his throat. Had she really looked at him like that? Why had he swum away? She was ready to give in; all Harrow had to do was take one step toward her and pull her close, and her resolve would crumble.

  Syrah would have taken the step. Would have pulled her close.

  Harrow stayed where he was and waited for her answer.

  “I believe you,” Deli finally said. “But I can’t be with you. Leave me alone.”

  She went into the Thatch and shut them both out.

  SYRAH and Harrow eyed each other.

  “I opened the window,” said Harrow after a moment. “You were already gone.”

  Syrah was silent.

  “Who should I tell about you? I could take you to Nexus Burdock —”

  Two hops.

  “Then where?”

  Yes-or-no questions, Oat Boy.

  “Uh … do you want to go back to my house and use the letters to tell me what you want?”

  One hop.

  Harrow climbed onto his horse. “Should you stay on my shoulder?” he asked, and Syrah hopped twice; he wasn’t sure that he could keep his footing once the horse started to gallop. Harrow carefully placed him in a saddlebag. There was a used handkerchief in it, which he pulled out and shoved in his pocket. “Sorry,” he muttered. “This okay?”

  Syrah croaked. It wasn’t great, but it would do.

  Harrow buckled the saddlebag shut. The horse started moving at a quick walk, and the saddlebag chugged with every step. Between the noisy, vibrating strikes of the horse’s hooves against the dirt and the constant bouncing of the bag, Syrah was miserable for the next hour.

  “Whoa, Jessie,” he finally heard Harrow say, and then the saddlebag was open again, and Syrah hopped out onto his shoulder. Sunrise lit the Steelcut farmhouse, bathing its stones and vines and flowers in rose and gold light. Syrah wondered how long the beauty of the house would last, with Harrow’s mother sleeping.

  Harrow took him upstairs and spread out the parchment on his desk. Syrah hopped down. There were a lot of things he wanted to say, but shouting at Harrow one letter at a time seemed like more trouble than it was worth. He had to concentrate on what mattered. First things first.

  LOESS

  Harrow sank into his chair. “My mother,” he said faintly. “How do you know — what do you know?”

  ALIVE

  “You said you didn’t know if she was alive or dead!”

  FOUND LAST NIGHT

  Harrow breathed out. He put his face in his hands for a moment. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you.” He looked up. “Where is she? Can I see her?”

  Two hops. TRAPPED DEEP UNDERGROUND SICK SLEEPING HEALING

  “So she did get poisoned. By the Ubiquitous seeds?”

  One hop.

  Harrow stood up. “I have to tell my pa,” he said, but Syrah hopped twice, emphatic, and Harrow sank back down. “What is it?”

  Syrah studied Harrow for a moment, and then he made his decision. If he was going to figure things out, he needed help. He had to tell Harrow what he knew.

  CALABAZA POISONED

  “Yeah, he has the Purge —”

  Two hops. JUGGETSBANE DELIBERATE

  Harrow stared. “It wasn’t our oats? But — wait, who would do that to Calabaza? Why?”

  Syrah didn’t know who, but he had a clear idea of why, and he swiftly hopped his answer.

  ELECTION

  “You better not be suggesting my pa.” Harrow sat back in his chair, looking lost in thought. “Who else knows about this?”

  JUST US

  “How did you even find out?”

  Syrah hopped. And he hopped. By the time he was done, he was sick of hopping and Harrow knew about the lantern in the carriage house and the basket with the sandwiches.

  Harrow went for the door, while Syrah croaked indignantly and repeatedly. “I can’t hide this,” Harrow said. “The Exalted Council will think my pa did it. Our oats started the Purge — and he wanted to be governor, didn’t he? They’ll think it all connects. I have to warn him.”
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br />   Syrah hopped twice, and twice again, frantic.

  “And I’ve got to tell Dee,” said Harrow. “She doesn’t know her pa was poisoned on purpose, does she? I better tell everyone about you too. Your family needs to know you’re alive.”

  Two firm hops.

  “But why? Don’t you want someone to help you?”

  YOU HELP ME WE SOLVE

  Harrow frowned. “You mean find out who poisoned Calabaza?”

  One hop. I SPY NO ONE NOTICE FROG

  “I did,” Harrow pointed out.

  CONGRATS OAT BOY

  Harrow let out a peal of laughter. “Well, that is a first,” he said. “Insulted by a frog prince.” He hunkered down again in front of the desk and studied Syrah. “I guess it’s true that you can pretty much go where you please.”

  HARD WITHOUT HELP

  “I’ll bet. Can’t believe you’ve survived all this time.”

  NO THANKS TO YOU

  Harrow rapped his fingers on the desk. “Shouldn’t we try to break this curse that’s on you?”

  CANT

  “You sure about that?”

  Syrah was absolutely sure. Only the wishing well could break the curse, and it didn’t seem to be in a big hurry to do it.

  Harrow sat back in his chair, looking thoughtful. “I guess it’s better if I don’t tell Pa,” he said, after a moment. “If he knows about the juggetsbane, he’ll look guilty.”

  Syrah hopped.

  “The thing is, though,” Harrow went on, “I could have fed Calabaza those sandwiches. I walked Dee back to the inn after the Purge broke out. I had time to run out to the carriage house. You ever think of that?”

  Syrah croaked. He had thought of it, but it didn’t seem likely.

  “You don’t think it was me?”

  Two hops. No.

  “But you don’t like me.”