Silence ruled the garden. Not a bite was eaten, not a single bird called. Syrah stopped dead in his tracks, just behind Deli’s shoulder.
“I do not wish the terrible events of that night to bring grief to this beautiful union,” Grandmother Luffa went on. “But history must be remembered if joy is to be appreciated fully. I alone escaped the brutal events that deprived me of my family. I alone was smuggled away to a place where I gained a second family. A family to whom I owe not only my life, but the life of my country.”
Syrah heard Deli sniffle.
“The Huanuis did more than take me in. They raised me as a sister to their own children — to Cava, dearest to my heart. When I grew old enough, the Huanuis gave me their army, and Cava herself rode with me across the waves and into battle. Together, with the might of the Olive Isles behind us, we defeated the Pink usurpers and reclaimed this country’s independence. The Huanuis spilled their blood with ours. Because of them, we live free.”
Deli sniffled again and reached into her pocket. She withdrew a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.
“For many decades since, a wish in both Cava’s heart and mine has been to see our blood joined for happier reasons. The joy this marriage brings to us cannot be described.” She placed one hand on Marsanne’s shoulder, the other on Christophen’s. “Ancestors, bless them,” she said. “Ancestors, guide their union. Give them peace and bounty. Let them turn with the years as the soil turns, ever renewed, ever fruitful.”
“As the soil turns,” replied the congregation in one voice as Marsanne and Christophen kissed. The guests cheered and threw salt toward the happy couple.
Syrah leaned forward until his mouth nearly brushed Deli’s ear. “Hi there,” he said.
Deli yelped and nearly jumped out of her skin. She whirled to look at him.
“I’m trying to pay attention!” she hissed. “Have some respect.”
Syrah gestured toward the married couple. “Hope that’ll be us someday?”
“Us?” Deli repeated in disbelief.
“So that you can be more than my friend,” he said, grinning. “And do anything for me.”
Deli’s eyes hardened. “Stop quoting that stupid letter,” she whispered. “Didn’t I already pay enough for writing it?”
“Pay how?”
“Don’t you even remember what you said?”
Syrah frowned. What had he said? His memory was vague.
Deli gave a rich snort and stalked away, out toward the dark meadow beyond the gardens.
He pursued her. “Remind me,” he said, when they were far enough from the party that no one could possibly hear them.
“You called me pathetic,” said Deli, rounding on him. “You said kissing me was a joke, and I couldn’t expect you to like me when you could get a million prettier girls on Balthasar. You told me to come back here and find some farmer boyfriend who wouldn’t care that I have all these moles.”
Syrah cringed. Now he remembered. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it. “I shouldn’t have said that. Your letter just surprised me — I didn’t know how to react.”
“You were cruel.”
“And I’m sorry,” Syrah repeated, impatient. “What else do you want me to say?”
“Nothing. You did me a favor. I didn’t think I could ever get over you.”
“But now you are over me?” He gazed straight into her eyes. “Are you sure?” He leaned in, but she shoved him back.
“Don’t you dare kiss me again and pretend like it’s nothing.”
Syrah couldn’t help rolling his eyes a little. “Why does every little thing have to be such a big deal with you?” he said. “It’s just a kiss.”
“I don’t do just a kiss. I mean the things I do.” She wheeled around and headed back toward the party with quick steps.
He dogged her. “Deli, come on. I apologized. You’re being unreasonable.”
“Go away.”
“Let me make it up to you.”
“Go away.”
“You couldn’t breathe when I walked into the room. You wrote that, remember?”
They had reached the outskirts of the party again. People stopped and turned to see what was happening, Syrah’s sister Marsala among them. She stood by the stew kettle with a group of her launchball mates, all of them watching.
“Okay, fine,” Deli said. “Let’s say I kiss you — then what? Do you want a serious relationship with me?”
He hesitated. “Serious?” he repeated.
“Didn’t think so.” Deli put her hands on her hips. “You just want to see if you can win, and then you want to walk away. Well guess what?” She stepped up and got right in his face. “This challenge is closed to amateurs. Qualified competitors only, thanks.”
Marsala whistled approvingly. A couple of her friends hooted in support.
The young man with the glinting gold in his flesh was also watching them. The one who had kissed Deli’s hand earlier. He was sitting alone at one of the tables, leaning back in his chair, and his eyes were trained on Syrah like he was measuring him.
“Who’s that?” Syrah demanded suddenly, pointing toward the young man. “Your boyfriend?”
“His name is Harrow Steelcut,” said Deli. “And it’s none of your business.”
“I think it is,” said Syrah. “I think you can do better.”
“You mean you?” Deli laughed. “Harrow’s worth a hundred of you. Though that’s not saying much, is it? Anything multiplied by zero is still zero.”
She pivoted and strode away into the thick of the party, leaving Syrah behind. Marsala and her friends burst out laughing, while other nearby groups of wedding guests whispered furiously, some laughing like his sister, others glancing pityingly at Syrah. He was hot with shame and fury.
“Burn,” crowed his sister. “She cut you down.”
“Shut up!”
“Grow up,” Marsala replied. Her friends enveloped her, and the group of them moved toward the dance floor, still laughing. Too angry for words, Syrah swiped a small rock from the dirt and was preparing to chuck it at the back of his sister’s head when a firm hand grasped his elbow. It belonged to Exalted Nexus Burdock of Yellow Country.
“Don’t,” he said.
“Why?” Syrah shot, furious.
“For one thing, it’s generally considered bad manners to throw rocks at parties.” The Nexus smiled, and the lines in his face deepened. He had a lot of them for someone just barely over forty. “For another, that scribe over there is watching you.”
Syrah glanced in the direction that Burdock was looking and saw a short middle-aged man whose quill was poised over parchment, ready to strike. Syrah lowered his hand and dropped the rock. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Harrow Steelcut was also still watching him. Syrah wheeled toward the young man and gave him a narrow glare, which Harrow met with a courteous nod. He tipped his hat. The gold in his face glittered.
“I accidentally overheard your, ah — interaction with Delicata,” said the Nexus, pushing a hand through his sandy hair.
“You and half the party,” Syrah said bitterly. He wished Deli would drop dead. Marsala too. “You think the scribe heard?” he demanded.
The Nexus was noncommittal. He fingered the gleaming amulet that rested against the front of his official robes. “I think we should take a walk,” he said.
“So the scribe did hear?” It was bad enough that his sister and a bunch of wedding guests knew he’d been rejected. If that stupid scribe wrote up a story about it, then tomorrow, every single person in Tyme would know.
Delicata Gourd was going to pay.
“Syrah.” The Nexus’s voice was patient. “You have a good mind. Don’t waste it worrying about girls and scribes — use it. You still haven’t told me whether you plan to accept my offer.”
“Offer?” Syrah repeated, unhearing. His eyes were on Harrow, who was making his way to Deli on the dance floor.
“To work with me next year, during the election. I
can arrange a seat for you in some of the council meetings and you can observe the transition — there’s no finer education.”
Syrah barely understood what the Nexus was saying. Deli was leaning close to Harrow now, listening to him. When she drew back and nodded, Harrow glanced in Syrah’s direction, caught his eye, and shook his head. Then he turned his back and put a protective arm around Deli’s shoulders. Syrah had an urge to pick up the rock again.
“Syrah. Are you listening to me?”
Deli’s triplet brothers chose that moment to come barreling up. They were twelve, inseparable, and troublesome enough to make the adults in both families despair. One of them — Tommy — seized Burdock’s sleeve.
“We did something,” Tommy gasped. “It was supposed to be a joke, but —”
“It’s Tommy’s fault,” said Bradley. “He put it in the dough.”
“The dough?” Burdock frowned, and then his eyebrows shot up. “Boys. Tell me you didn’t tamper with the wedding loaves.”
“I didn’t,” Bradley insisted.
“Tommy sneaked a Ubiquitous acorn into the dough,” said Walter calmly. Walter was always calm. “Bradley dared him to sneak up to the kitchen windows and throw it in while the cooks were mixing. He said if Tommy didn’t do it he was going to tell Roxbury Russet that Tommy likes her.”
“And I don’t!” Tommy cried, distraught.
“What kind of acorn?” Burdock demanded. Tommy cringed and said nothing.
“Ubiquitous Instant Fireworks,” Walter replied.
Burdock looked at the feast tables. Hundreds of traditional Yellow Country wedding loaves, one for each guest to carry away as a blessing for their health and bounty, were being paraded out from the kitchens now and arranged in high piles on a long banquet table. “You don’t even know which one it’s in, do you?” said Burdock in despair. “Boys …”
“Can’t you figure it out?” Tommy pleaded. “You’re Exalted.”
“It doesn’t work like that —”
“It’s that one,” Syrah said, pointing. He had been scanning the loaves throughout the conversation. At the bottom of one of the piles, one shining loaf of braided bread looked just a little too shiny. Like maybe it was going to explode.
Burdock squinted. “I don’t —”
“The glowing one,” said Walter. “I see it.”
“Look out!” Tommy shouted. “It’s gonna blow!”
The boys raced toward the loaf table with Burdock close behind them.
“You’re welcome,” Syrah called after them.
“Your Highness.”
Syrah jerked in surprise and turned to find that the scribe had sneaked up on him. He usually enjoyed the attention he got from being written up in the Criers, but not tonight. He bristled and edged away.
The scribe tossed back his long fringe of graying hair and looked over at the loaf table, where the triplets were now trying to pull the glowing wedding loaf out from the bottom of its pile without toppling the entire thing. One of the cooks tried to slap Tommy’s hands away until Burdock spoke to her. Then her eyes widened and she began to lift loaves off the pile with incredible speed, until she had freed the one with the acorn inside. It was sparking now. Tommy tried to grab it, but Burdock snatched it from the cook himself, and held it between his hands. His amulet gave off faint light, and his hands did too, but the loaf did not stop sparking. Instead, it began to fizz loudly, giving off gold and green sparkles that danced up Burdock’s arms. Looking panicked, Burdock flung the loaf high into the air — and not a moment too soon. It burst apart in a dazzling display of fireworks that lit the party and made the guests cry out with delight. They applauded.
Burdock wiped his brow, grabbed Tommy and Bradley each by an arm, and dragged them toward their parents. “You don’t have to tell!” Syrah heard Tommy cry.
“That looks like a story,” said the scribe, jotting down a few notes. “Troublesome triplets strike again, eh?”
“They’re just kids,” said Syrah.
“Unlike you and Delicata Gourd.” The scribe smiled slyly.
Syrah took the bait. “What are you going to write?” he demanded.
The scribe consulted his notes. “‘This challenge is closed to amateurs,’” he quoted. “‘Anything multiplied by zero is still zero.’” He grimaced in sympathy. “Rejection can be painful,” he said. “How do you feel, Your Highness?”
“Get lost,” said Syrah, through gritted teeth. “You have your story.”
“There are two sides to every tale,” said the scribe. “Surely there’s more to your history with Ms. Gourd. Something about how she ‘couldn’t breathe when you walked into the room.’ When did she say that?”
Syrah stared at the scribe as an idea slowly occurred to him. Deli’s letter. He’d been carrying it around with him since he’d left the Olive Isles. He dug into his pocket now and found it there, still folded. Waiting.
He gestured for the scribe to follow him away from the party and a little farther into the fields, until they were harder to hear and see.
“You want the truth?” he asked.
The scribe lifted his quill. “Always.”
“Delicata Gourd didn’t reject me. It’s the other way around.” He withdrew Deli’s folded letter from his pocket. The scribe reached for it, but Syrah held it back. “It’s a love letter,” he said. “From her to me. But I didn’t give it to you. You found it on the ground, you understand?”
“You have my word.”
The scribe reached for the letter again, and Syrah hesitated — but only for a moment. So what if this was going to embarrass her? If he was going to be a joke in the Criers tomorrow, then she could be one too. It was only fair.
He let the scribe pluck the letter from his fingers.
“Remember,” he said. “You found it —”
“On the ground,” the scribe replied, unfolding the letter with interest. “Many thanks.”
Syrah returned to the party, where Deli was now dancing with Harrow Steelcut, looking perfectly at ease. Happy, even. The usual crease between her brows was gone. He watched her, satisfied. Tomorrow, she was going to get what she deserved.
He felt equally smug the next morning, sitting up in his bed in the grand guest wing of the Thatch, eating his eggs and fruit, imagining just how Deli would react when she saw the Crier. He hoped he got to see her face.
There was a rap at his door, and then it opened before he could answer. Nana Cava stood there, gripping a Town Crier in her hand.
“Downstairs,” she said. “Now.”
She had never used that tone with him. There was a cold look in her milky eyes that he had not seen there before.
She dropped the Crier on the floor and shut his door without another word. Syrah’s heart did a nauseating shuffle in his chest. He hadn’t thought about Nana Cava when he’d slipped that letter to the scribe.
As he dressed, he told himself that it was fine. He could convince her that it wasn’t his fault. He swiped the Crier from the floor and made his way to the stairs, where he stopped, unpleasantly surprised. His entire family was waiting for him at the bottom of the steps, right there in the front hall of the governor’s mansion. His parents, his seven siblings, and even some of their spouses stood packed behind Nana Cava like a furious choir. Behind them all stood Deli’s grandmother Luffa, erect and motionless, her face devoid of expression. Armed guards waited on either side of her.
An immediate apology was his best move. Syrah made his expression contrite and went quickly down the steps. “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly when he reached Nana Cava. He held out the Crier. “I had Deli’s letter in my pocket last night, and it must have fallen out by accident. I never —”
Nana Cava reached forward with a lurch, snatched the paper from his hand, and struck him across the face with it.
“Liar.”
Syrah stood shocked. She had never hit him. “But, Nana, I didn’t —”
His brother Carnelian gave a low laugh. Syrah
flushed.
“All of Tyme has read the letter Deli wrote to you in private,” Nana Cava said. “All of Tyme is laughing now, at her expense. Her humiliation is your doing. Admit it.”
Syrah made his face as plaintive as he could. “But I didn’t mean it, Nana. I told you, it probably fell out of my pocket —”
“No.” Nana Cava’s voice was hoarse with fury. She searched his eyes. “Delicata rejected you. Marsala told us how it happened. She saw you hand a folded paper to that scribe.”
Syrah cast a glowering look at Marsala, who stood with her arms crossed, glaring right back at him.
“How could you do it?” Nana Cava pressed. “Don’t you understand what you’ve betrayed? The Gourds are our people — have you no loyalty to your own people?”
“I told you, I didn’t do anything!”
His nana studied his face, and as she did, the anger left her expression. Tears rose in her eyes instead, swift and terrible, worse than any slap across the face. Syrah’s breath caught.
“I was wrong about you,” she said, her voice a quiet rasp. “I thought you were more than you pretend to be. But you are not pretending.”
“Nana,” he began, uncertain.
“Leave this house.” She pointed to the door. “You are no longer welcome.”
Syrah blanched. She couldn’t mean that. The Criers were a joke, just a joke — and Deli had completely deserved it. Why was he the only one getting in trouble?
“Where am I supposed to go?” he demanded.
“Back to the ship. You will stay there until we leave for Balthasar.”
Cooped up on the ship for a whole week, while everyone else feasted and partied? While Deli got petted and comforted, and the rest of them laughed at him behind his back? No.
Above him, at the corner of the balcony, barely visible from the hallway beyond it, Syrah caught sight of Deli, who stayed pressed to the wall, hugging herself and watching him.
Fury shot through him. “This isn’t your house,” he said to Nana Cava. “You can’t ban me.”
Transformed: The Perils of the Frog Prince Page 3