by Alex Flinn
At 1:55 in the morning, I cross the lobby, hearing each squeak of my sneakers on the marble floor. It’s the perfect time. The late-night partiers have mostly come back, and the room service order cards have been picked up, but the USA Todays aren’t yet being delivered. The lobby parrot cage is covered, and the swans are asleep. The night clerk is playing an online game, and the morning maids haven’t started vacuuming. I am alone, unnoticed. The elevator rushes to the top. I feel my organs clenching against my chest. Wonder if I’ll have to knock on her door. Will the guard be waiting outside? Will he chase me off?
When the bell rings, I jump as if attacked by a cat. The elevator door begins to close before I recover, but when I push against it, it opens.
Victoriana is waiting for me when I enter. Dressed in one of the hotel’s white terry-cloth robes, her blond hair in braids that almost reach her waist, she looks like an angel from a Christmas card. She presses finger to lips and, with her other hand, takes me by the wrist. Her skin is cold, and I can tell she’s afraid, which makes me afraid too. She pulls me inside the suite. It’s pitch-dark except for one shattered sliver of moon on the oriental rug, revealing the worn, black shoes of her sleeping guard. I stay close, fearing tripping, fearing any sound, fearing everything. My breath seems loud. If they catch me, will they think I snuck in here to hurt the princess? Will they execute me?
Finally, she pulls me through the bathroom door. I stumble a bit and hear her whisper, “Fool!” under her breath. Then, she pulls the door swiftly, but quietly, shut.
The bathroom is bigger than our apartment, with a Roman tub, a bar, and three sinks. There’s even a sofa. The toilet is in a small room of its own. I feel a hand on my shoulder. Victoriana!
“You will help me, yes?” She’s smiling.
I blink and forget being called a fool. She’s beautiful. To talk to her is bliss like no bliss I’ve ever felt. I need to tell her no, but I can’t. I can’t! If I say no, the adventure will end, and I don’t want it to. “Uhhhh . . .” I gesture toward the door. “We won’t get caught?”
She shakes her head. “Do not worry. I take care of him.” She mimes swallowing a pill.
“You drugged the guard?” It’s hot that she’s so ruthless.
“Only one sleeping pill, crushed in his mashed turnips.” At my questioning look, she says, “Mashed turnips, zey are ze national dish of Aloria, very good for hiding. I once put a caterpillar in my governess’s when I was small. And ze pill, it is perfectly safe. I take zem myself, for it is hard to sleep since my bruzzer . . .” She looks down, sad. “But soon, you will find him, and I will sleep soundly once again. We shall sleep soundly togezzer.”
She smiles, and it’s like standing out on the beach, feeling the sun on my face.
The clouds roll in. I can’t help her.
I clear my throat. “Listen, I need to . . .”
“Wait!” She holds up her hand and starts across the floor. She opens the door to the toilet, then reaches behind it and takes out something like earbuds for an iPod. “Zis is ze magical earpiece I told you about, ze one which ze Alorian witch created. It will let you talk wiz ze animals—only ze animals zat once were human.”
“Are there many of those?” I ask in spite of myself. She’s so pretty that it’s easy to forget she’s crazy. I wouldn’t mind being part of her world, with talking animals and enchanted frogs. It sounds pretty there.
“More zan you would believe. Zey will help you find my bruzzer.”
Like Snow White!
“About that. I have to tell you—”
“When you reach ze Keys, you will find ze right animals.”
“How?” I shouldn’t ask. I’m not doing this. I’m not. I’m not.
“If I knew more, I would already have found him!” She crosses the room again, her shoulders a hard line, and I wonder if I’m supposed to follow her. But she goes behind the bar. I figure she wants a drink, but instead, she pulls out a piece of green cloth. She walks back and hands it to me.
“What’s this?” It’s velvet, so heavy I feel myself start to sink under its weight.
“A cloak.”
I’ve read enough books to know that a cloak is sort of a big cape, but needless to say, they’re not popular in Miami. “Why a cloak?”
“Zis is a special cloak zat will transport you anywhere you want. You must only wish it.”
“Wow.” She’s nuts, and she wants to marry me. What does that say about me?
She nods. “It is an heirloom which has been many years in my family. It belonged to my great-grandmuzzer, who was a witch. She bewitched my great-grandfazzer to marry her, and zat is how she became queen from a commoner. From zen on, she did not need ze cloak, for she had means to go where she wished. But as a girl, I played wiz it, so I know it works.”
I examine the cloth. It smells of outdoors, like a place you’ve been before but don’t remember. I wonder if Victoriana used it to get away.
It’s just a piece of cloth.
“Wherever you wish, it will go,” she says. “I only caution: Do not let others use it.”
“Why would I do that?”
She shrugs. “Smarter men zan you have been tricked.”
I decide to play along. “Okay, how does it work?”
“You wrap it around you, and zen—”
There’s a knock on the door. I jump about a foot and come down on the marble floor in a skid. I hear the dull clunk as my head rams into the Roman tub. “Ow!”
“Princess!”
“Merde!” Victoriana’s waving her arms at me, gesturing toward the tub, whispering, “He is awake! Hide!” She answers the guard sweetly in French, but the pounding continues.
“Princess!” A string of French words.
I climb inside the tub. It’s as deep as a pond, and I lie at the bottom, pulling the cloak around me as if that will keep me from being seen. Victoriana closes the shower curtain. “Un moment, s’il vous plaît.”
I lie there, hearing Victoriana’s breathing and my own. She flushes the toilet, and then I hear her footsteps toward the door. My heartbeat. I’m a dead man. The door opens.
Victoriana laughs and says something in French.
The guard replies and steps inside. I hear him, walking toward me.
I wish I was home. Oh God, I wish I was home.
And then, I am in darkness.
Chapter 12
Six swans came flying through the air.
—“The Six Swans”
Everything’s black. Cave black. I feel walls around me like I’m in a box. Or a coffin. Is that it? Am I dead? Did the guard kill me? No. Death would be drier. There’s something cold and clammy under my hip.
And there’s dripping, water dripping on my head. Drip, drip, drip. Am I in a tomb or a catacomb? It feels like something from an Indiana Jones movie. I listen. The voices, Victoriana’s and the guard’s, are gone.
I sneak my hand down to the cold, clammy thing. It’s not moss or some small, dead creature. It’s cloth. A washcloth. I feel hard porcelain beneath me, like a bathtub. But something’s different. It’s small, like a regular bathtub. I smell Irish Spring soap.
We use Irish Spring.
Am I home?
No. Not possible. I was at the hotel, seconds ago, listening to Victoriana with the guard, clutching the cloak around me, trying to hide, wishing I was home.
No.
I pull off the cloak, look up. It’s dark, but I see the outlines of familiar shapes. The indisputable truth of it hits me.
I wished to be home, and now I am.
I pull the cloak away and sit up, barely missing the leaky faucet, which pays me back by shooting water into my eye. I peek out from behind the shower curtain.
I’m home. The cloak worked.
The faucet’s dripping on my forehead. The washcloth’s soaking my jeans. The bathtub is tiny and hard. I wish I was out of this bathtub.
And then, I’m dumped onto the bathroom floor.
Cool!
&
nbsp; I wish I was in the kitchen.
I am!
I wish I was back in the bedroom.
This is so bizarre.
But it’s happening. It’s magic. There’s magic here, magic in this cloak. Maybe there’s magic in all of it, in the world—the frog, the spell, the witches!
Maybe there’s magic enough, even for me, for me to find the frog and be with Victoriana, to live like a king instead of a shoe repair guy.
But that’s crazy. There’s no magic. I blacked out. The guard caught me and hit me in the face. I’m working too hard, not sleeping enough, stressed out. Maybe it’s all a dream.
I feel the cloak around me, soft and warm like nothing I own. I didn’t dream this. I touch my jeans pocket. The earpiece Victoriana gave me is there too. It’s real. I put it into my ear, but of course, there’s nothing to test it on.
Still, I hold the cloak tighter around me.
“I wish I was at the hotel.”
And then, I am. I blink. It’s blinding in the silent lobby. The night clerk is asleep at the desk, his hand still on the mouse, and the screen open to a site the management wouldn’t much like. The fountain is off, and the swans are in their house.
I sneak over to the parrot’s covered cage and remove the canvas covering. If the cloak works, then maybe . . .
“Hello?” I whisper.
It takes a few tries to wake the bird, but finally, it repeats, “Hello?”
“Um . . .” I’m at a loss for words. “Whatcha been up to, ah, boy?”
Nothing.
“Hello?” I say.
“Hello?” the parrot repeats.
No answer. I fiddle with my earpiece, then try again. “Hey, if you don’t want me bothering you, I won’t. Just let me know you understand.”
“Would you look at that?” a voice says somewhere in the room. “Boy’s trying to talk to that dumb-cluck bird.”
I jump back, embarrassed at being caught. “Hey, I was just . . .” I look around. No one’s there. I glance at the parrot again.
“AWK!” it squawks.
No. Not him. But if not him, then who? The desk clerk? Still snoring. There’s no one else here. Unless . . .
I pull the cover back over the cage, then start toward the fountain where the voice came from. A swan is standing there, dipping a webbed foot into the water. When I get close enough, I look around again before whispering, “Were you talking to me?”
The swan raises his foot close enough to his chest that I can imagine it saying, “Me?” At least, I could if I was crazy. Which maybe I am.
“Yeah, you. See anyone else around here?”
“You seem to prefer speaking to that azure-colored goofball,” it says, then turns away.
It works. It works! At least, I think it does. I’ve never heard a swan say anything before, and now I’ve got one mad at me.
“I’m sorry,” I tell the swan’s retreating back, “but everyone knows parrots are the ones that can talk. I mean, usually.”
The bird turns back. “Parrots merely mimic, repeat what they have heard a thousand times. The only animals who can truly speak are those who were once human.”
“So you were once human?” Just like Victoriana said.
“Obviously.”
“And you were . . . someone turned you into a swan?”
The bird raises the feathers above his beady, black eyes.
“Okay, you were. But I’ve never heard you talk before, and I’ve been at this hotel my whole life.”
“Maybe,” the bird says, “you didn’t listen properly.”
This is incredible. “So there are others like you, others who can talk?”
“More than you’d think.”
“And do you talk to one another?” An idea’s dawning on me. “Could you help me? Do you know other talking animals? Would you know where to find more of them, like a network?”
The bird says nothing, walks away, and returns a moment later, followed by five other swans. “My siblings,” he says, “Harry, Truman, Jimmy, Mallory, and Margarita.”
The swans ignore me, talking among themselves.
“Is it true?” one says.
“Can he really hear us?” says another.
“Yeah, right,” says a third. “Ernest’s always messing with us.”
“Ask him,” says the swan I was talking to, who I guess is Ernest.
Finally, another swan turns to me. “I know you can’t understand, but I’m Mallory.”
“Hi.” I start to hold out my hand, then realize they don’t have hands. “I’m Johnny.”
The swan flips its wings, shocked, then runs over to the others. They all start whispering at the same time, but so softly I can’t understand them. Finally, Ernest says, “They want to know what you want.”
“What I want? I guess . . . I want to see if you could find out about another, um, transformation. See, there’s this guy, a prince, who’s been turned into a frog. Have you heard about him? I think he’s down in the Keys.”
At the word “Keys” they all start whispering again, which I think is a little rude, actually. Finally, I say, “So, do they know anything?”
Ernest turns back to me. “No.”
“Oh.”
“I mean, no, we haven’t heard of this particular frog. But it’s possible we might find out about him. There’s a great deal of connectivity between transformed beings. I’m told there’s even an e-group, though my siblings and I haven’t been able to participate due to an unfortunate combination of lack of fingers and the fact that the desk clerk is online all night.” He gives the sleeping clerk a reproachful look. “So we may be able to help you. We’re from the Keys ourselves. But we’d want something in return.”
“Like what?”
“Our sister. You need to find her.”
“Is she a swan? There’s a swan missing?” I look around, surprised I haven’t heard about it before. Mr. Farnesworth loves those swans.
“No, no, not those sisters. One who is still down in Key West, a human. She’s the only one with the power to save us, but she doesn’t know we exist.”
“Why not?”
“We were sent away before she was born.” The swan glances around and, seeing no one watching, jumps onto the sofa. When he has made himself comfortable, he begins again.
“Our father was the king of Key West,” he says.
“Um, Key West doesn’t have a king.”
“He was. It’s true.” He looks at Margarita for validation, and she nods.
“It’s true,” she says.
“He was the king of Key West,” Ernest continues, “and our mother died. Daddy married a mean woman who was really a witch in disguise. She banished us to Plantation Key and turned us into swans. When she found out our father visited us anyway, she sent us to this . . . this petting zoo of a hotel. The only way for the enchantment to be broken is . . .” He begins to cough and spit.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m sorry. I guess”—cough—“I’m just not used to talking anymore. Margarita, can you tell him?”
Margarita says, “For the enchantment to be broken, our sister must find us and make shirts out of flowers.”
Shirts out of flowers? But I let it go. “And you’ll help me find the frog if I—?”
“If you promise to look for our sister, Caroline, while you’re in the Keys.”
“But I don’t know anything about her.”
“It should be easy to find her. Her name’s Caroline, and her father was the king of Key West.”
“There’s no . . . ,” I start, then think better of it. “Okay, I’ll look. I promise.”
Margarita nods her long neck. “Then we’ll help you.” She waddles over to the group and says, “Harry! Truman!” When two swans look up, she says, “This young man is looking for a frog who used to be a prince.” She turns to me. “What does he look like?”
I take out the photo I’ve been carrying around and explain that the frog is named Philippe a
nd is the crown prince of Aloria.
Harry, or maybe it’s Truman, shakes his head. “Ah, yes, it’s hard being a prince. I was once a prince too, Prince Harry of Key West.”
With his beak, he plucks the photograph from my fingers, then brings it to the other swans. They examine it, then Harry tucks it under his wing. He turns to me.
“My siblings and I will do everything we can to help. We want to help transformed creatures. But, of course, you must remember your promise to us.”
“I will.”
The two swans raise their wings as if in salute. Then, looking left and right to make sure no one sees them, they push through the revolving door and down the street.
I watch them leave. Farnesworth is going to flip.
“They’ll come back if they find something?” I say to Ernest and Margarita.
“As soon as we hear something, I’ll tell you,” Margarita says.
I’m still wearing the cloak, so I wish myself back home.
As soon as I do, I’m there in the kitchen. My mother sort of starts when I appear. She stammers, unable to speak.
“It’s real,” I tell her, “all of it.”
Chapter 13
It being real changes everything. It means I’m not taking Princess Victoriana’s money for a free trip bumming around the Keys. I’m taking it for a quest, a discovery—like Christopher Columbus discovering America, only for real. And if I find the frog, I get the princess. Mind-blowing. I woke up this morning an ordinary slob who didn’t know there was such a thing as curses and spells and swan people, and now . . .
Whoa.
So I’m going on a quest. For real. First, I send a bill up to Victoriana’s room with the words “Paid in full for services to be rendered” written on it. Then, I need to talk to Meg.
As soon as she comes in, I corner her. “Hey, got a minute?”
“I have to put the coffee on. Have a seat.”
I sit, figuring it will be a long wait while she cleans out the old coffee, then starts new. But she walks across the shining white floor, flips a switch, then returns. “’Sup?”
“I have to go away for a while.”
“Away?” She looks surprised. She knows I never go anywhere or do anything. I knew there’d be questions, so I’d worked on my lie.
