“I’ve got you,” said Huck, kneeling beside the bed. “I’m here, I’ve got you.”
Harrow’s body tensed horribly once more, his black, glittering skin filmed over in white tears and sweat — and then it all stopped, just as quickly as it had begun. He slumped and relaxed. His breathing became regular. He opened his eyes and looked up at his father. “Pa,” he said weakly. “What’s wrong? Did something happen? I feel … a little sick.”
Huck wiped his eyes. “A little sick,” he managed.
“And hungry,” Harrow added. He glanced at Keene. “Who’s this?” he said.
“That’s Exalted Nexus Keene. He saved your life.”
“Not exactly,” said Keene. “Vangarden powder has needed several hours at least to have an effect on anyone else. Your body expelled the Purge with incredible efficiency, Harrow.”
“The Purge!” Harrow shook his head in disbelief. “Did I have it?”
“You destroyed it. Something is at work in your blood, and if I can understand it, then I can help others.” He withdrew from his traveling bag two empty phials and a sharp blade.
“You’re not cutting into him,” said Huck. “He’s weak. Let him rest.”
Harrow pushed himself to sit up. “You’re saying you can use my blood to make a cure?”
“I can try,” said Keene. “It would help if I understood more about your birth, but even without that knowledge, I can experiment.”
Harrow glanced at his father, who gave him a warning look.
“Go ahead,” said Harrow defiantly, turning back to Keene. He stuck out his arm. When Keene cut into him, he winced and sucked in a breath, but that was all. Syrah watched as Harrow’s blood filled one small glass tube and then another.
“Did you eat oats at the ATC?” Keene asked him.
“I had that oatmeal cookie they were handing out at the gates,” Harrow admitted. “When we found out oats were the problem, I was a little worried, but I figured if it hadn’t made me sick already, then it wouldn’t.”
“Thank you,” said Keene. He stowed the phials and held his fingers just above the incision in Harrow’s arm. Light played about his fingertips, and Syrah watched in some amazement as Harrow’s skin knitted together, stopping the flow of blood.
“Whoa.” Harrow lifted his forearm to look at the small scar.
“I hope this will save lives,” said Keene.
Another knock came from downstairs.
“That’s the Physic,” said Huck, getting up. “I guess I’ll tell her to head on home.”
“I’ll tell her on my way out,” said Keene, picking up his traveling bag. “I should get to work as quickly as possible.” He paused before leaving and faced Huck. “I wish I didn’t have to do it, but I’m going to send my colleagues to investigate this farm.”
“Not without a writ you’re not. I’ll fight you on it.”
“And I’ll fight back. It’s for the people of Tyme, Mr. Steelcut. Strange things are happening in many places — it isn’t just the Purge. I have to understand what caused this, and soon, or it will only happen again.”
When Keene was gone, Huck sank into the chair at the head of the bed.
“What are you hiding, Pa?” Harrow asked quietly. “I know there’s something.”
Huck looked down at his hands. “Thank you for not telling him about your mother,” he said. “For a second, I thought you might.”
“For a second I almost did,” said Harrow. “I still might. If it can save people?”
“She asked us not to.”
“I think she’d change her mind if she knew what was happening.”
“She might already know.”
“Or she might be dead,” said Harrow angrily. “Why else would she stay away? She’s never ignored me before. What if she can’t come? What if Exalted Nexus Keene is right, and it’s the land that’s sick? Don’t we owe it to her to find out?”
Huck stood. “You said you were hungry,” he said. “I’ll fix you lunch.”
Once his father was gone, Harrow tried to get up from the bed, but he was too weak to manage it. He dropped back against his pillow with a grimace, while Syrah watched him, curious. Who was his mother? Huck had said he didn’t know Harrow’s origins, but clearly that was a lie.
Syrah hopped down from the desk and toward the door. Time to find out what was really going on here.
He searched through the farmhouse, going into open rooms and hopping around to see if there was anything useful. He found a guest room, two privies, a kitchen, a back room full of dirty boots and overalls that smelled of manure, and a small study lined with bookshelves stuffed with volumes on farming and plant life, Edible Plants ~ An Illustrated Guide among them.
Syrah paused before leaving the study, and his eyes traveled the faded lettering on the book. It was even more battered than Jack’s mother’s old copy, the leather scratched and faded with creases and breaks all along its spine.
Something was off, he thought suddenly. Something was wrong. The longer he looked at the book, the more he felt it: a vague sense of nameless unease. It was similar to the feeling he’d had as a boy, standing on the ship and crossing the Tranquil Sea to reach the mainland, and suddenly realizing that he had forgotten some important toy at home and could not go back to get it.
He was missing something. What was he missing? This was just like yesterday, with Calabaza’s snack basket….
That was it. The basket. Somehow, the book had reminded him of it. But why? Edible plants … The liver pâté sandwiches … There had been watercress in those sandwiches.
Watercress that was ever so faintly brown around the edges.
Juggetsbane. A toxic plant.
The details clicked into place in Syrah’s brain, and he sat on the floor of the Steelcuts’ study, gaping up at the bookshelves without really seeing them.
Somebody had poisoned Governor Calabaza. Somebody had fixed him juggetsbane and liver pâté sandwiches. Then that same somebody had gone out to the carriage house with a lantern, sneaked the basket into the carriage, and let everybody think that Calabaza had the Purge.
Syrah went cold all over. This was why Calabaza had gotten ill later than everybody else. Someone had taken advantage of the Purge to make it look like he was sick by accident, when really he’d been deliberately poisoned.
Maybe by someone who wanted to be governor.
Maybe by someone who didn’t want him to be governor.
Syrah hopped out of the study, scarcely noticing where he went. His thoughts raced. Who could have done it? Luffa hadn’t wanted Calabaza to run. Would she have poisoned her own child? Burdock hadn’t wanted Calabaza to have another seven years as governor. Would he have poisoned him to stop it from happening? Huck Steelcut wanted to win the governor’s seat. Was this how he had made sure he wouldn’t have to run against a Gourd?
He heard two voices speaking low. He hopped closer to see who it was, but when he reached the end of the hall, he found a door that was shut tight. He stayed outside and listened.
“… don’t think it’s wise,” he heard Huck say.
“We can’t let him run unopposed,” a woman replied. Harrow’s mother? No — the voice was familiar. Syrah concentrated, trying to place it, but a moment later, he didn’t have to.
“I can’t win, Clementine.” Huck sighed. “You know the people won’t support me now once they know for sure it was my oats. You’ve got to run instead.”
“You sound like Luffa.”
“Maybe she’s right,” said Huck. “Maybe you ought to be governor.” He paused. “Keene as good as told me he’s going to search this farm whether I like it or not.”
“I don’t have to give him a writ.”
“Oh yes you do,” said Huck. “If you don’t, it’ll look like you’ve got something to hide.”
“Well don’t I?”
“I’m the only one who knows that, and you know I’ll keep quiet. You give Keene the writ, I take the fall, nobody ever knows you were
involved. You can still run for governor, free and clear.”
“No. We’ll hide the evidence.”
“How? Even if I could somehow harvest that whole field and ship it out to Pulsifer tonight, there would still be acres of windrows left behind. The Exalted will find their evidence.”
“This doesn’t make a lick of sense,” said Clementine with sudden fierceness. “None of it. Twenty years we’ve been doing this — twenty — and all of a sudden, this Purge shows up? Why now? Why hasn’t all of Tyme been vomiting white for years?”
“All I can think is that this new batch of seeds was rotten. The magic was wrong, maybe. They made a mistake.”
Syrah listened hard, trying to follow. Huck and Clementine had been doing something in secret for twenty years? Something magical? And it had to do with the oats — with the seeds? And the seeds came from …
“Or they did this on purpose,” said Clementine, her voice hard. “And if they did …”
“I can’t imagine why they would.”
“There are stories these days. Things going wrong. That fire in Quintessential, for a start.”
Syrah’s eyes bulged. Were they talking about Ubiquitous?
“Yeah.” Huck was quiet. “You should go,” he said. “It’ll look bad if you stay too long. Give the Exalted Council their writ. Declare your candidacy.”
“Get out of here, Huck.”
Huck chuckled. “Run away?” he said. “Hide in the Violet Peaks?”
“Or Lilac. There are a lot of places a man of your means could go.”
“I’ll take my chances here.”
“They’ll put you in prison.”
“Then that’s where I’ll go.”
“But you’ve done nothing wrong.”
“I say I have,” said Huck quietly. “I thought I wasn’t. My intentions were good. But if this is the outcome, then yes. I was wrong.”
“Then I’m wrong too.”
“I did the sowing,” said Huck. “I’ll do the reaping. But Clementine?”
“Yes?”
“Beat Burdock. I don’t like him.”
“I don’t either. All right — I’ll run. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
There were clicking sounds, and a snap!, and then the door opened and Clementine Pease came out carrying her valise and looking determined. She didn’t shut the door behind her, but strode past Syrah without noticing him and headed for the front of the house.
SYRAH took advantage of the open door to hop into the room. It was clearly an office, though more vibrant with vines and flowers than any office Syrah had ever seen. In one corner was a large picture window that looked out on endless golden fields of oats. Huck sat in front of this window at his desk, his heavy eyebrows furrowed. He picked up a pen and uncorked an ink bottle, then just as quickly corked it again and slapped the pen back down.
“Better check on the boy,” he muttered, and he left the office.
Syrah wasted no time. He hopped onto Huck’s chair, and then his desk. The paper in the middle of the desk was still blank — but no, there was ink on it. Bleeding through from the other side.
It wasn’t blank. Huck must’ve turned it over when Clementine showed up. Syrah unfurled his tongue and tried to get it underneath the paper so that he could flip it, but he only succeeded in slicing his tongue on the edge. He winced and tasted blood.
He changed tactics. He planted his front feet on the letter and used his back legs to inch forward, scooting the paper toward the edge of the desk until it dangled more than halfway off. He took his feet off it and let it fall to the floor, hoping that, on its way down, it would somersault. For once, his hopes weren’t dashed. The letter flipped in midair and landed writing-side up. It appeared to be only half-written — a few sentences, but no signature. There was an address, though.
Ubiquitous Productions
c/o Pulsifer
Venture, Republic of Brown
Pulsifer,
You’ve heard by now about our crisis. Exalted Nexus Keene says the sickness is linked to my oats, so don’t expect another shipment from me anytime soon, or maybe ever. The Exalted Council plans to investigate my farm, so we should cut official communications now, but I need you to find a way to send word to me and answer some questions.
Were the seeds you last supplied me different in some way? In all the years we’ve worked together, you’ve never done damage to my land, but now
Huck had written no further. Syrah read the letter, and he read it again, and then he sat back on his hind legs and croaked, long and slow. The Steelcuts were doing secret business with Ubiquitous Productions. They were using Ubiquitous seeds and then sending them shipments of something.
But Governor Calabaza had outlawed magical farming. So Huck was a criminal — and Clementine Pease, the minister of agriculture, had known all about it. Twenty years, she’d said. So she was a criminal too.
Maybe she was the one who had poisoned Calabaza, to stop him from ever finding out about this. Maybe when the Purge broke out at the ATC, Clementine had realized that it was their fault, gotten desperate, and fed the governor a bunch of juggetsbane. Or maybe Huck had done it. They could even have worked together.
He had to figure out some way to get this letter back to the Thatch.
Syrah stuck his front feet on the paper and started pushing with his back legs to move it along. Slowly — torturously slowly — he moved the letter across the floor. He heard Huck’s footsteps coming and tried to work faster, but there was no way he could get the letter out of the room before Huck got back.
He changed course and pushed the letter under a bookshelf that stood near the door, then squeezed into the small space under the shelf along with it.
Huck entered the office, went to his desk, and stared at the blank place where the letter had been. He rifled through a basket of papers, opened drawers and searched through them, and got down on the floor to look under the desk.
“Where in the White skies,” he muttered, and he dumped out the basket of papers to check through it again.
A knock at the front door made him start. He hurried out, and Syrah squeezed back out from under the shelf, feeling bruised from being pressed. As quickly as he could — which was not quickly — he pulled the letter out and tried to lift a corner of it off the floor by sticking his moist toes to it and lifting them up. When he finally got one corner to stick to his toes, he snatched it in his mouth and started hopping. It was faster this way, pushing the letter in front of him by carrying it between his frog lips. He got out of the office and made his way toward the front of the house — then realized that Huck would be there. He had to go another way. Maybe there was an open window somewhere. Would he be able to hop up high enough, with the letter in his mouth, to get through a window?
He heard voices and panicked. For now, he just had to hide — it didn’t matter where. He hopped through the nearest open door and found himself in the study, where he hid himself, along with the letter, underneath an easy chair. He could still hear the voices, but they were distant, drifting toward him from the front of the house.
“He’s resting,” he heard Huck say.
“But he’s all right?”
Deli’s voice. Deli was here. Her timing was perfect — if Syrah could just get the letter into her hands, he wouldn’t have to figure out how to push it all the way to the Thatch.
“Go on home, Delicata.” Huck’s voice was gentle but firm. “He’s had a rough day.”
“Dee?” The rasping voice was Harrow’s.
“Get back to bed,” said Huck.
“I’m fine,” Harrow replied, and then Syrah heard heavy, uneven footfalls on the stairs.
“Don’t get up,” said Deli, sounding fretful. “I just wanted to check if — I’ll go —”
“Don’t. Please.”
“Harrow …” Huck’s voice was pained.
“Pa, I’m fine. Dee, come on. Let’s sit a minute. I need to —”
�
�Here, I’ve got you.”
A moment later, Syrah watched from under the chair as Harrow’s bare feet limped into the study, with Deli’s boots beside them. The chair creaked over Syrah’s head as Harrow settled into it.
“Thanks for coming to check on me,” he said. “How’s your pa?”
“Still unconscious. But I heard that maybe Nexus Keene can make a cure.”
“He took my blood. He said he’d try. I hope it works.”
“Me too.”
The timing was perfect. Syrah tried to hop out from under the chair, but when he moved, the letter fell from his mouth. The moisture from his mouth had eaten through the corner of it. He flicked his tongue to get rid of the small wad of wet pulp that was left behind.
“I miss you,” said Deli, so quietly that Syrah could barely hear her. He tried several times in succession to get the letter to stick to his toes again, but it wouldn’t come up off the floor. Maybe because it was carpet in here — or maybe the carpet sucked the moisture out of his feet. He scowled in frustration.
“I miss you too. I’m glad you’re here.”
“I still have — feelings for you.”
Syrah’s heart gave a painful knock. She shouldn’t have been saying this to Harrow — she should’ve been saying it to him.
“Dee,” Harrow murmured.
“I always did,” said Deli, and the words were tumbling out now, fast and shaky. Syrah didn’t want to hear them, but he couldn’t block them out. “I never stopped, but after the wedding — after the letter and the Criers and then what my grandmother said to me, I just thought I was better off staying by myself. And she’s right, I’m selfish — look at me, telling you this now, when you’re sick. What’s wrong with me?”
You’re not selfish, Syrah thought, trying to push the letter forward with his feet. It snagged on a bulging carpet loop and stuck.
“You’re not selfish,” said Harrow.
Syrah pushed harder, furious. I said it first, he thought. And I knew her first. I know who she is, and I know it better than you. They all expect her to be perfect, and she practically is. Everything she does is for her family or her country or her team.
Transformed: The Perils of the Frog Prince Page 19