Syrah croaked appreciatively and bounced on Rapunzel’s shoulder. Yes. A reasonable idea.
Jack looked impressed. “Sounds good,” he said.
Rapunzel had already found a useful page. She put her finger on the picture and peered at the nearest patch of flowers. “Does this look right to you, Prince Frog?” she asked.
Jack rolled his eyes, but Syrah croaked his agreement anyway. The flowers in the woods and the flowers in the book were the same. Marigolds.
“And they grow in …” Rapunzel squinted at the page. “Well, in summer, they grow all over the place,” she said, disappointed. “Orange, the Redlands, the Crimson Realm, Yellow Country, the Blue Kingdom, the Lilac Lakes, Commonwealth Green …” She turned the page. “Never mind, this doesn’t help.”
“Yes it does.” Jack had come to stand next to Rapunzel, and he peered at the book alongside her. “Pick another plant — there are tons around here. We’ll keep identifying them until we narrow it down to the place where all of them grow. Like that mushroom there. My mother warned us not to eat those.”
“Huh,” said Rapunzel. “I’m sure I’ve eaten mushrooms that look just like that.”
“You’d be dead,” Jack replied. “Those might look like morels, but they’re not.” He reached over and flipped pages until he reached a page toward the back of the book. It listed several poisonous plants that were easy to confuse with other, edible plants.
“Bluepeace,” Rapunzel murmured, dragging a finger down the page. “Hemlock, juggetsbane, moonseed …” She pointed to a drawing of a mushroom. “This one? Slumbercap?”
Jack peered at the drawing. “Yep,” he said. “See? The inner lining has a silver cast, it says.” He plucked one of the mushrooms from the ground and turned it over. Sure enough, its inner folds shone faintly silver.
“‘Crumble the dried mushroom into hot liquid,’” Rapunzel read aloud. “‘Slumbercap will dissolve, emitting a silver curl of steam. Even a small amount of slumbercap may cause extreme difficulty breathing. A few mouthfuls of the poison will result in paralysis of the lungs. Death by suffocation will occur within minutes.’” She shuddered. “Well that’s not very nice.”
“None of these are,” said Jack, tossing the mushroom away. Syrah watched it fall and made a mental note not to hop on any of those. He didn’t want to go absorbing that stuff. “But the point is, these mushrooms grow in Violet, and then down across the central belt of Tyme.” He pointed to the book. “The Republic of Brown, Yellow Country, and southeastern Blue.”
“Between that and the marigolds, we’re either in southeastern Blue or in Yellow Country,” said Rapunzel, looking hopeful. “That’s closer to Lake Tureen than we thought.” She flipped through the book until she came to a drawing of a tree, and she looked up at the ones that shaded them. “These are birch trees, aren’t they?”
Syrah hopped. They definitely were.
Rapunzel laid her palm against the peeling white patches of the nearest birch tree trunk. “Birch,” she said, consulting her book again briefly. “Now, where do you grow?”
The ring on Rapunzel’s finger began to glow.
Syrah’s eyes bulged. He hopped repeatedly on Rapunzel’s shoulder, but she was too busy reading to pay attention, so he leapt from her shoulder to Jack’s. Jack turned his head, caught sight of Rapunzel’s ring, and gasped.
“Your ring,” Jack said urgently. “Look.”
Rapunzel stared at her finger, then lifted her chin and looked up into the slim, leafy branches of the birch they stood beneath. Syrah looked up too in fearful wonder.
“My ring is warm,” Rapunzel murmured. “Jack, hold my hand.” She leaned toward the tree, keeping her ringed hand pressed to it. “Birch?” she said, almost shyly. “Hello there, Birch.”
There was no wind, but the birch leaves rustled musically. The ring glowed brighter.
“We’re trying to go to Plenty,” said Rapunzel. “Could you show us the way? Please?”
Silvery fog rolled swiftly toward them. It enveloped them, so thick that Syrah could not even see Rapunzel’s neck in front of him. The fog coiled into long, dense funnels of silvery whiteness, then burst silently into smoke and dissipated. When the mist cleared, the landscape had changed. They were still beside a cluster of birch trees, but these ones grew along the side of a wide road that descended into a valley. Beautifully tended farms nestled together like a great pastoral quilt on either side of the road, rolling toward a bright blue lake that shimmered in the distance. Syrah began to bounce on Jack’s shoulder. He knew this vista. He’d traveled this road. They had reached the ATC. Here, he would find his family. Deli’s family. Nexus Burdock. Somebody who knew him.
“These are birches too,” said Jack, looking around.
“Is that how it’s done?” Rapunzel looked up at the leaves. “I can travel from birches to birches, or maples to maples, or willows to willows?”
“We could make a map,” said Jack. “A tree map.”
“Yes! And then we really could go everywhere!”
Syrah barely listened. Too ecstatic to stay perched, he bounced into the dry grass and boinged in jubilant circles. His misery was nearly at an end. After fifteen months of grueling patience, somebody was going to make him human again.
Rapunzel touched the nearest tree trunk.
“Thank you, Birch,” she said.
The branches overhead gave a satisfied rustle. The ring’s glow dimmed.
“We still have to hurry,” said Jack. “The invitation says the feast tonight is formal. You need to get changed.”
Rapunzel looked down at herself. “I can’t wear this?”
“It’s an official event. They expect you to get fancy.”
“Then you have to get fancy too.”
“Fine.”
Rapunzel and Jack eyed each other for a brief moment, and then Rapunzel blushed. She pulled her hand from Jack’s and strode off down the hill. Syrah bounced frantically after her, croaking as loudly as he could. If she forgot about him now, if she left him behind and some family of weasels popped up and ate him —
“Come on, Prince Frog.”
Jack scooped him up, and Syrah’s panic ebbed. For a moment, pressed against Jack’s palm, he experienced his mind as well. She’s getting better at all this — She didn’t need my help at all — She held my hand.
There was a lot of Rapunzel in Jack’s mind lately.
Syrah rode on Jack’s shoulder until they reached the bustling streets at the center of Plenty, where he gazed delightedly around, beaming as much as his frog face would let him at the wonderful noise of it all. People eating, kids laughing, babies crying, and the Town Crier box pealing over the top of it all.
“Hear ye! Hear ye!”
Jack walked up to the box, put a coin in the slot, and pulled out the tightly scrolled Crier that dropped into the undertray.
“Uh-oh,” he said, frowning as he opened the scroll. “There’s some kind of sickness going around the villages east of here. Five people have died of an unknown fever, and there are a dozen others unconscious….” He shook his head. “This Crier is all bad news. Listen to this: ‘Ubiquitous Productions has refused the Exalted Council’s request for a meeting, though several recent deaths have been reported…. ’” Jack trailed off, shaking his head. “Crop rot. This thing says that some kid fell from a rooftop when her Ubiquitous rope crashed ten hours early. And some other family’s house burned down because they got an acorn that sparked — just like the one that started that fire in Quintessential.”
Rapunzel looked over his shoulder. “‘The Exalted Council’s official recommendation is to discontinue use of the acorns until a full investigation can be conducted,’” she read, sounding worried. “But Jack, the only other clothes I have are Ubiquitous ones. What will I wear?”
Jack answered by pointing toward a shop called Practical Elegance. Through its windows, Syrah watched enviously as young people held garments against themselves and looked into mirrors to judge thei
r reflections. He had been like them once.
When they entered the shop, many of the customers turned their heads. Their eyes flickered over Jack’s tattered traveling clothes and Syrah on his shoulder, and they raised their eyebrows at Rapunzel’s muddy boots and unkempt hair. Some of them whispered to each other, smirking. One girl even pointed at them, then dissolved into a fit of quiet giggles with her friend.
Rapunzel was impervious. “I don’t see anything fancy,” she announced rather loudly as she glanced around the shop. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
As if by magic, a saleswoman appeared beside Rapunzel.
“This way, sweets,” she said, smiling brightly, and she led Rapunzel through the crowd and toward the back of the shop. Jack went toward a rack of men’s tunics, and Syrah looked up at the enormous sign that was pasted on the wall between the tall windows. FAIREST OF THE FAIR CERTIFIED it said in fancy letters. At Practical Elegance, we care for the dignity of our employees. We maintain safe workshop conditions and pay fair wages and benefits. Beneath this, the royal crest of Blue was seared right into the wall, beside a framed letter signed by Prince Dash Charming, which several customers were reading. A store clerk stood there too, smiling and holding up a small card. “Five percent of all proceeds earned during the ATC will go directly to fund local orphanages,” she said. “This charitable outreach is possible in partnership with G. G. Floss of the Copper Door! Make a purchase here, and receive a limited-edition luxury truffle! This offer is exclusively available during the All-Tyme Championships.”
Jack lifted a paper tag attached to the collar of a tunic. “‘Waterproof, wrinkle-free, stain-resistant, travel-friendly, and crafted according to the highest ethical standards — the Practical Elegance guarantee,’” he read. He flipped the tag over and whistled at the outrageously high price. “I could live for a year on that money.”
“But they’re so worth it,” said a tall, young man who stood nearby. He had long, white blond curls, expertly tousled to look like he’d just emerged from the ocean, and his white tunic highlighted his golden tan. The whole picture reminded Syrah powerfully of himself. “They’re reversible, and they seriously don’t wrinkle.”
Jack gave the tanned fellow a dubious glance.
“I wore one practically every day of the ATC last year,” said the fellow, “and it’s still in good shape this summer, so, you know. Satisfied customer.”
Jack turned to him with more interest. “You’re an All-Tymer?”
“Cassis Swill. Launchballer for Yellow.” Cassis smiled. “You a fan?”
“I’m here with the jacks champion, actually. She’s a friend of mine.”
Cassis’s eyebrows flew up. He lowered his voice and looked both ways. “The witch’s kid?” he whispered, leaning slightly toward Jack. “Where is she?”
“Her name is Rapunzel,” said Jack, and Syrah heard the edge in his voice.
“Does she still have all the hair?”
Jack’s shoulder stiffened under Syrah’s belly. “No.”
“Too bad,” said Cassis, giving Jack a conspiratorial grin. “A hundred feet of hair — something pretty interesting about that, you know?”
“You’d think,” said Jack coolly. “Turns out it’s just heavy.”
Rapunzel burst from the back of the shop like a firework and planted herself in front of Jack. She wore a sapphire gown that made her eyes as blue as an island sky. Syrah couldn’t help admiring her.
Neither could Jack. Syrah could feel his pulse racing in his neck. Go on, he thought, not for the first time. Say something. Tell her she’s beautiful.
Jack was silent.
Cassis, on the other hand, spoke. “Looks good,” he said, and he took a lazy step toward her. “You’re the jacks champion. Rapunzel, right?”
“Yes.” Rapunzel jerked her hair away from the saleswoman, who was trying to wind it into an elegant twist. “I like my hair down,” she said, and she shook it out. Golden tendrils curled softly to her waist.
“Nice,” said Cassis, sweeping his eyes over her. He flipped his hair back from his eyes and jerked his chin toward her in a gesture of approval. Syrah recognized the move. He had used it himself. “So, I’m Cassis. Cassis Swill. You know. Launchball.”
“No I don’t.” Rapunzel turned her back on him without ceremony. “I’m getting this dress,” she said to Jack. “It’s perfect — look, it comes apart at the waist. The top turns into a satchel if you flip it inside out and button up this end, and the skirt is a waterproof sleeve for a sleeping bag.”
“That’s pretty handy,” Jack admitted. “I should find something like that.”
“Right this way.” The brightly smiling saleswoman was at Jack’s elbow.
Rapunzel took Syrah from Jack and set him on her shoulder. “See if you can get some trousers that turn into a boat,” she called as the saleswoman pulled Jack away.
THE Royal Governor’s Inn stood just across from Lake Tureen, where most of the All-Tyme Championship events would take place. All around the inn, a temporary but very fashionable marketplace had sprung up. Traveling vendors hawked their wares in elegant tents, while excited tourists, eager to be part of the scene, laid down their money to have their silhouettes cut from paper-thin sheets of wood by Redlands artisans, or to sip expensive wine made by famous vintners from the Olive Isles.
Syrah’s gaze lingered on one of the tents belonging to Olive. Its outside was painted to look like the vineyards of Balthasar, and the artist had done exceptional work. Syrah could almost pretend that he was there among the vines. He breathed deeply, imagining that he could smell soil and grape skins mingling with the scent of the sea.
Longing for home swept through him, so sudden and intense that he felt almost ill. He supposed that was why they called it homesickness.
“Copper Door!” Rapunzel said suddenly. She pointed to a large, cylindrical tent that stood across from the carriage house behind the Royal Governor’s Inn. A beautifully sculpted CD topped its peak, and its paneled sides alternated between a satiny cream-colored fabric and a bright, shining copper one. Two of these copper panels were pulled back like curtains to admit the customers — and there were hundreds of customers. The line for candy snaked out of the tent and all the way up the street, past dozens of other tents and shops.
“Let’s get our luxury truffle,” said Rapunzel, pulling out the ticket she’d received at Practical Elegance.
“We don’t have time,” said Jack. “The line is way too — Rapunzel, don’t cut! You have to go to the back of the line!”
But as she often did when she met with a rule she didn’t like, Rapunzel ignored it. Syrah, who shared this trait, hopped encouragingly on her shoulder, and she strode straight into the tent, with an anxious Jack right behind her.
“This is not okay,” he whispered as people shot withering looks at them. “We can’t …”
He trailed off. Rapunzel had stopped cold in front of a long, thin copper countertop that stood at the center of the tent. On it, a tableau of candy sculptures was arranged in an unmistakable scene. A tall chocolate tower. A marzipan girl at the tower window, her long, spun-sugar braid hanging down the outside of the tower wall. A marzipan witch with hair of dark licorice climbing the golden sugar braid. Really climbing it — the candy witch moved its marzipan hands on the golden sugar braid and ascended toward the girl in the chocolate window.
“Whoa,” said Jack under his breath. He sounded both awed and worried, and Syrah understood why. As a boy, he had loved the magic of Copper Door candies — G. G. Floss was famous for her artistry. Her sweets were almost like edible toys; they glittered and moved and sometimes even made music as they told their stories.
But this was Rapunzel’s story.
Syrah felt her heartbeat quicken in her neck. Heard the catch in her voice when she quietly managed, “Why?”
“… However. Though many tales of witchcraft end in tragedy, this one did not.”
The voice came from the woman behind the counter
, whom Syrah only now noticed. He had been too fascinated by the tower scene before to see that G. G. Floss herself stood before them. She was a very pale woman of medium height, sandy hair, and slight build, without any particular beauty — her most arresting physical feature was her hands. Her fingertips were stained deep reddish-purple with the Kiss of magic, and on her wrists, twin copper bracelets caught the light and gleamed. She held her hands suspended over the candy scene, moving her fingers like a puppeteer. The marzipan witch with the dark hair climbed into the tower, and then the little marzipan girl floated out through the tower window and landed on the copper countertop. The girl withdrew a tiny licorice bag from her sparkling sugar pocket, and from that tiny bag she pulled a minuscule set of gold-dusted candy jacks.
“Rapunzel escaped her tower and set out to see the world,” said Miss Floss. “She even became our jacks champion. And when she returned to her tower, she bravely defeated the witch who had kidnapped her in infancy and held her captive all her life.”
She flicked her purple fingertips, and the marzipan witch plummeted from the tower window and struck the countertop.
“Stop!” Rapunzel shrieked, and she reached out and seized the candy witch.
G. G. Floss looked up from her tableau, startled.
“Liar!” Rapunzel was breathing hard. “You don’t know — you have no right —”
And now every customer in the tent was staring at them.
“Come on, Rapunzel,” said Jack quietly. “Let’s just go.”
“Rapunzel!” The murmur went up through the tent, and Jack winced, realizing his mistake. “The witch’s child?” “The jacks champion!” “Her hair’s too short.”
Miss Floss stared at Rapunzel a moment, then recovered herself. “Marcel,” she called out, and a mustached man came almost instantly through a flap at the back of the tent. “See to the customers. Please, follow me,” she said to Rapunzel and Jack. “I hoped you’d come. I have a gift for you.” She vanished behind the flap through which Marcel had emerged.
Rapunzel looked uncertainly at Jack, still clutching the candy witch.
Transformed: The Perils of the Frog Prince Page 5