The Secret's Keeper and the Heir

by Jackie McCarthy

  Though she didn’t look at the Captain again on their short trip to the Delahaye estate, the Captain had begun a careful inspection of her.

  *

  Chapter 10:

  The Pink Dress

  * * * * *

  The Fat Frog

  Ferlee’s Fables

  *

  There was a heavy rain over the pond after Mother Frog laid her eggs. She’d worked carefully to prepare a space for her babies, but when she awoke the morning after the storm, there were twigs and leaves strewn all about in the most terrible clutter.

  Mother Frog didn’t fret, however, since all of her eggs had survived—all but one, that is, which seemed darker than it ought to be. She thought it might have been damaged, because the others turned into tadpoles soon after and the dark one did not. She let it rest, however, and her patience was soon rewarded.

  The late tadpole remained small and dark all through the rainy season, and though he was of a cheerful temperament among his group of brothers and sisters, other residents of the pond teased him relentlessly.

  “He’s so dark and tiny!” cawed the Mother Crow, an old friend in gossip. She would slap her wing into the water, causing the dark tadpole to swim away.

  As the weeks passed and the summer became warm, the tadpoles grew into little frogs. Their smooth skins were moist and slick, and they jumped about happily all day, showing off to all in the pond of Frogland.

  The dark little tadpole, however, soon outgrew his siblings. He became darker still, his skin bubbling and rough. His limbs grew thick and even his brothers and sisters, who loved him, called him overweight and ugly. He was known throughout the pond as the Fat Frog.

  Mother Frog in particular was devastated that the Fat Frog wasn’t more handsome. She considered his appearance to be her fault, since she hadn’t built up a strong enough nest during the rains. Though she loved him fiercely, she couldn’t understand what had caused his slick skin to grow dry, his smooth body to grow rough, and his lean belly to grow large.

  Every month, during the full moon, all residents of Frogland would gather for a party. These nights were the hardest for the Fat Frog because it was at these parties that his brothers and sisters would fall in love with the frogs from other ponds. He watched enviously as the new lovers joined one anther in the dance, knowing that no frog would ever dance with him like that, ugly as he was.

  The day after such a party a new Goose landed upon the water. She was a pleasant kind of bird, and the Fat Frog liked her very much. They’d been nearly an hour in talking when the gossiping Crow called down.

  “Oh, you don’t want to talk to that one. That’s the Fat Frog.”

  The Goose was beside herself with laughter, and before long the Crow flew away, wondering if she’d been insulted.

  “He’s not a Frog,” the Goose called after the Crow’s retreating form. Looking at the Fat Frog, she added, “Why, you’re a Toad!”

  Many frogs in the pond had been listening to this exchange with curiosity, but when the Goose spoke these last words, there was a chorus of gasping ribbits. The Fat Frog looked around, surprised.

  “What’s a Toad?” he asked.

  “Hush now!” exclaimed a Grandmother Frog. “Don’t say such things! Toads are evil creatures.”

  The Goose threw back her neck and laughed once more. “Now that’s just silly,” she said knowingly, “you only say so because you think you don’t know any. Why, I bet you all he was tossed here by that terrible storm. Evil creatures? I’ve been talking to this Toad for nearly an hour, and he’s as good a Toad as I’ve ever met.”

  “That’s because he’s a Frog,” said the Grandmother Frog tersely. She grabbed the Fat Frog’s leg and pulled him away from the Goose, who she declared to be a “bad influence.”

  That night, as the Frog Mother tucked in her babies, the Fat Frog asked her about Toads. Little frogs aren’t like human children, you see, who read books when they’re young to learn of the wide world beyond. Mother Frog had never seen a Toad, nor had her mother before her. Toads existed only in ancient bedtime stories about bad creatures that lived down by the big lake. No frog would consider going down to the lake—they already had everything they needed in the pond and were afraid besides—so with each generation, the stories grew darker.

  “Go to sleep, my darling,” said Mother Frog, pretending she hadn’t heard her son’s question.

  Day by day the Fat Frog’s brothers and sisters moved out, mating with other frogs in other ponds and starting families of their own. Soon he was the only one left at home. One morning his mother told him there would be a new group of tadpoles to join him. She seemed very happy and he helped her prepare the space, but he felt lonely as they worked.

  Though he never asked again about Toads, he thought about them all the time.

  On a late afternoon, as he sat upon a lily pad trying to ribbit, he saw a bush rustle. Out hopped a dark, warty creature. The Fat Frog gasped. The creature looked just like him! In his excitement he let out a mighty croak, and the frogs in the pond all stopped what they were doing to stare. The Fat Frog looked around at them, embarrassed, and by the time he glanced back towards the shore, the creature had gone.

  “Was that a Toad?” he wondered to himself. “Was the Goose telling the truth?”

  The question nagged at him for several nights, until he could bear it no longer. Leaping up from his bed, the Fat Frog stepped out into the dark, heading in the direction that birds peered when they spoke of fishing in the lake.

  He hopped his slow way through the grasses and shrubs, nervous to be so far from the pond. He’d been gone for many hours before he heard a familiar noise. It was a croaking, like the one that had come out of his own unsuspecting throat. Emerging onto the pebbled beach of the wide lake, the Fat Frog found himself surrounded by creatures that looked just like him!

  “I am a Toad!” he exclaimed. Knowing what he was only provided a moment of relief, however, for in the next moment he realized he didn’t know how to be a Toad. They croaked at him from the shadows and seemed frightening in their differences.

  It was then that a Grandpa Toad hopped up.

  “You seem confused,” he said simply, coming to rest at the Fat Frog’s side. “You must be new. There’s no need to be frightened. Just do as I do.”

  Glad to have guidance, the Fat Frog followed the Grandpa Toad out and around the lake. He learned the ways of the toads quickly, and made many fast friends. It was a great relief to meet creatures like himself and he was pleased to learn that his skin was supposed to be dry, his body supposed to be rough, his belly supposed to be large. He was considered handsome by many female toads, and he picked from among them a wife.

  While he sat many nights eating mosquitoes and sleeping in a hole underground, the New Toad began to miss his Frog Mother. It didn’t matter to him that he wasn’t really her son, for he still loved her and his siblings very dearly. He also missed the full moon parties and the dancing, of which the Toads didn’t approve. As a full moon drew near, the New Toad asked his wife to come with him to the ponds. She agreed, if somewhat reluctantly, and they set to hopping.

  At first the residents of the pond were surprised to see him—their memories were very short—but Mother Frog would never forget one of her tadpoles. She leapt forward and wrapped her slick legs around him in a hug.

  “My precious son!” she cried, “I’m so glad you weren’t eaten!”

  The New Toad was happy to find her in good health. He allowed himself to seem surprised that there was a frog party that very evening. When the time came and the sky grew dark, frogs from all over Frogland hopped to the gathering pool and began to ribbit their music. The New Toad’s brothers and sisters seemed very pleased to see him again, and remarked on the fatness of his frog wife.

  “She’s not fat,” said the New Toad smoothly, “she’s a Toad. And you can’t say you’re afraid of Toads, because I’ve been one all my life.”

  The frog brothers and sisters we
re shocked by this turn of events at first, but they grew to love their new Toad Brother and his Toad Wife. His wife, in turn afraid of the frogs, found them to be very nice kinds of creatures, and even tried dancing, which wasn’t nearly so bad as she’d been lead to believe.

  Toads often joined the parties in Frogland thereafter, and frogs often ventured down to Toadville on the lake. The New Toad had many toad children and he told them all of his childhood as a frog.

  * * * * *

  Jas plodded below decks after watching Kaille enter the carriage without him. He could hardly believe that he was being left behind. For several unbearable moments he’d considered running after the quickly departing horses. Overcome with anger and frustration, he’d decided to seek the company of the only person who’d understand.

  Whyl was to be found pulling at his chains, his eyes wild. “I heard a group depart,” he exclaimed. “Are they going to the ball? You must go with them. Our time is short. Or please, if you can, set me free!”

  “Would that I could do both,” said Jas, feeling as though he might soon begin tearing out his own hair in frustration. “But I don’t have the key, nor do I know where he’s gone.”

  “You don’t have the key,” Whyl said breathlessly, “but it’ll be in the Captain’s cabin. He wouldn’t bring it with him to the ball.”

  “Nay…I suppose not,” Jas said, mapping out the cabin in his head. “But if I go inside without permission, that would be mutiny.”

  “You worry about mutiny when an entire kingdom may be in the balance?” Whyl asked scornfully. “Sometimes mutiny is a good thing, my friend. Sometimes it’s a matter of life and death. This,” he said, slamming his fist against a beam, “this is about life and death!”

  “I-I want to believe you…” Jas stammered, squeezing his cacophonous head between his hands. “Kaille is…he’s a good man. He won’t let the Scribe—”

  “You think a mere ship’s Captain will stand between Fenric and his target?” Whyl said ungenerously. “He’ll kill the Captain the moment he’s in the way. And the girl, she has days at most if she’s put the dress on. Or if I’m wrong and the dress isn’t poisoned, then you can be sure he’s gone to the party with a sharpened dagger!”

  “Please, be calm, my friend,” Jas said, worried to see Whyl’s shackles being pulled so tightly. “You’ll hurt yourself—”

  “Hurt myself…” Whyl muttered, falling back into a mad guffaw. “That is, by far, the least of anyone’s worries. Hurt myself…”

  “If we could only show the Captain some proof,” Jas said, considering Kaille’s objections. “I know he’d see reason.”

  “Proof!” Whyl cried, his arms flying wide. “The proof is right before your eyes!”

  “And I see it,” said Jas, “I do, but—”

  “You want evidence?” Whyl scoffed. “You can’t listen to the truth, you must have something to hold? Fine,” he said scornfully. “My pocket.”

  “Your pocket?” Jas asked. His eyes traveled down to the prisoner’s bulging pocket.

  “Yes, yes!” Whyl said impatiently. “Inside. I can’t reach. My journal was returned while I was feverish. You must read it.”

  Jas, having forgotten the journal in his panic at Kaille’s departure, felt all of his deep longing to read it return. Would he, at last, know its most secret contents? Swallowing with difficulty, his hands trembling, he extricated it from Whyl’s clothing. Sitting back, his breath shallow, Jas held the journal before him and ran his fingers over the worn name on the cover: Whyl Winesmith. With an excited sigh, he opened the pages and began to read.

  * * * * *

  Lucy reached her room in a passion, slamming the door behind her. She rushed away only to find Emibelle’s purple dress had caught in it. With the train stuck, she was pulled forcibly to the ground. Lucy cried out, struggling to extricate herself, finally clawing and scratching herself out of the gown that was supposed to have been her saving grace.

  Finally struggling free, she reached down, grabbed the offending fabric, and lobbed it across the room. She heard the dress come into contact with her shelf of dolls, sending them cascading to the floor. There was a crash and a crunch, and she rushed over to see the broken face of a porcelain doll, a favorite of her childhood.

  Letting out a low whine, Lucy flung the doll to the nearest wall and watched as it shattered. She grabbed another doll and another, tossing them from herself as she howled in frustration.

  It was then that Lucy turned into a whirlwind, seizing every trinket and treasure in sight and throwing them violently away. She banged upon her doors, tore at her clothes, and beat her fists against all the world.

  The scene was as violent as it was short-lived. Soon exhausted, she collapsed upon the floor amidst a heap of broken things. Panting, she stared at them, disgusted by their very existence.

  Emibelle was right, she realized as she compared her collection of playthings to the stark room and neat possessions of her nemesis. Lucy was a child. She was ever lost in her own imagined worlds of pretense and fantasy—lost in the latest game, the latest story.

  It was time to grow up.

  Lucy leapt up, her mind decided. She emptied a wooden box of her seldom-used sewing supplies and began tossing into it every toy she could see, sometimes great handfuls at a time. Somewhere within, her child self cried at the loss of such stalwart friends, but on the surface all the girl could see was red. She searched the room with a singleness of mind that not even her Delahaye sisters had ever seen. She discovered behind curtains, in corners of wardrobes, and under straw mattresses every little toy she’d ever owned. Once found, it was un-examined, and was thrown into the overflowing box.

  At last, the final piece of furniture overturned, Lucy stared at herself in the looking glass, her chest heaving and her cheeks red. From the corner of her eye, there was a flash of pink. Turning her head to the side, Lucy spied the ruffled monstrosity that had begun her troubles, now sprawled across her small couch.

  Giving it her best impression of an evil eye, Lucy considered the terrible fate that it deserved. She’d let the dog tear it apart first. Then she’d leave it out in the mud during a rainstorm, and once it was dry she’d make sure it was burned until not a hint of pink remained.

  Spiteful thoughts swirling, Lucy barely heard the fanfare of trumpets that announced the beginning of the ball. With a sudden jolt of awareness, she realized that the birthday girls were being presented to their guests.

  A new emotion filled Lucy’s chest, replacing everything else she’d felt. It was one of abandonment and loneliness. She’d hardly considered that the party would go on without her. It didn’t seem right. And yet what had she expected? The guests would arrive—had already been on the way. Did she think Master Delahaye would walk out and address them, saying that they had all better go away, as his ward wasn’t feeling well? It was absurd.

  Then it dawned on Lucy. If she wanted to go to the party—and she desperately wanted to go to the party—she would have to wear the pink dress.

  She tried to look at the garment with softened eyes. It was bad—it was very, very bad—if she went down in it she would be a toad among frogs…but was it worse than missing out on her favorite night of the year? She thought she might die if the young man from Linisie Estate saw her in such ruffles…but then, what kind of hardship would it be the following day to hear how he danced all evening with Emibelle while Lucy had no stories of her own?

  Knowing that she simply couldn’t swallow to be left out, Lucy grabbed at Fenric’s dress and pulled it over her head. Buttoning the back in a hurry, she straightened her hair, gave herself a perfunctory look, and rushed downstairs.

  * * * * *

  Rose had been instructed to stay in the carriage until the Captain returned, but she waited only long enough for it to come to a rest beside the stables before jumping out. Checking that the way was clear, she rushed across the grounds to the back of the house.

  The bustling kitchen had taken over parts o
f the yard, and food was being grilled, chopped, plated, and arranged below the star-filled night sky. Rose, skirting the edge, watched as boys in rough garb were handed bowls and given instructions as to where they must be brought. Following their example, Rose snatched up a bowl and headed towards the kitchen entry.

  No one stopped her as she passed over the threshold. She began ascending a set of stairs.

  “You, boy with the fruit bowl,” called a voice that commanded her to stop. “Those are needed in the dining room.”

  “Nay,” said Rose. Momentarily stunned, she recalled the servants she’d interacted with the other day, and gave an honest effort at their accent and mannerisms. “I were given specific instructions to bring ‘em to the Master’s study.”

  The woman, clearly an important figure in the house, eyed her skeptically. “Madam Purcel told you this?” she asked through pursed lips.

  Rose didn’t know who the Madam was, but she nodded anyway. “She said there be a meeting up there later and that they be wanting refreshments.”

  The woman bit her lip, wondering if she’d been left out of the loop. A moment later she snapped, “Then what are you waiting for? Go!”

  “Ma’am,” Rose said with a nod, climbing a few stairs. She stopped and looked back down. “Only…” she said pathetically, “this house be so big…”

  “Oh for the love of—” sighed the woman. “It’s two floors up, left at the bannister, right at the portrait of Sir Atelier, and the third door on the right.” Turning to her fellow servant, she complained loudly, “Ugh, I swear to you, these hired servants are barely better than trained mice.”

  “At least the mice move faster,” said the second maid, loud enough to send several servants hurrying on their way.

  Rose tried to remember the woman’s hasty instructions as she found herself facing a series of hallways. Dizzy for a moment at the sheer size of the estate, she felt overwhelmed. The Turnagain, prior to that moment, had been the largest structure she’d been inside—and the ship was impressive enough after the rough mud and straw huts of her childhood.