It was true, he realized as he thought it. He had known for years how tough and loyal Deli was — but he had never valued her for it. He had thought she was boring for being so serious.
What had been wrong with him?
“Yes I am,” said Deli bitterly. “You should be resting, and I know it, but when I saw you sick like that it scared me so bad — I couldn’t stop thinking about how I kept pushing you away, when it wasn’t your fault. That was selfish too.”
“That was caution,” said Harrow. “You got burned. You didn’t want to get burned again. I get it.”
Syrah pressed his mouth shut in frustration. He was the one who had burned her — but he was going to make it up to her. As soon as he was a man again, he would treat Deli like she deserved. She wouldn’t need to go running back to Harrow. He turned around and tried to push the letter with his back feet.
“My grandmother saw us go out to the woods yesterday.” Her voice was hard. “I knew she would. She always watches me. Today, after I ran and got the Physic for you, she told me I better not go losing my head again and writing love letters — that just because I’m a fool doesn’t give me the right to make the whole country look foolish.”
The letter finally budged. Now a corner of it was sticking out from underneath the chair. Syrah hopped out and started to drag it out the rest of the way, inch by excruciating inch. Neither Deli nor Harrow noticed him. Deli stood at the window, facing away from Harrow and hugging herself hard, just like she had that morning in the Thatch when Syrah had been thrown out. He paused in his efforts to gaze up at her. The sun outlined her profile, lighting her dark eyelashes, skimming the bridge of her nose and the stubborn thrust of her chin, making the curves of her mouth glow. He had kissed her once — and he’d made her cry with happiness. He could do it again.
If the well would just give him a chance.
“You’re no fool,” said Harrow, whose eyes were trained on her too. “If your grandmother can’t see that, well, she’s a hundred and four, and maybe her vision’s not what it was.”
“She told me to stay away from you.”
“Are you going to?”
She hesitated, searching Harrow’s face. Then she crossed the small room in two steps, bent down, and kissed him. Syrah croaked in protest, but nobody listened. Harrow pulled Deli into his lap.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she gasped.
“Good,” he mumbled, and kept kissing her.
“RAWWWP.”
The two of them broke apart and looked down. Syrah glared up at them, standing on the letter, which was now halfway out from under the chair. Plenty far enough for Deli to notice it, now that she wasn’t busy kissing the wrong man.
“It’s that frog,” said Harrow slowly, his dark eyebrows drawing together. “The same one from your room.”
“I seriously doubt it,” said Deli, smiling a little, and then her eyes shifted just a bit to the right of him, and Syrah could tell that she was reading. Her eyes moved back and forth, and he quickly hopped off the letter so that he wouldn’t hide any of the words. A moment later, she snatched up the letter from the floor. She was on her feet, and her smile was gone. Her fingers clutched the parchment as her expression changed from disbelief to outrage — to despair.
“What does this mean?” she demanded.
“What?” asked Harrow, looking perfectly confused. “I only read about two words.”
Deli threw it into his lap, and Harrow skimmed it. He stiffened.
“This is my pa’s business,” he said. “Not ours.”
“It is my business,” said Deli, in a tone that reminded Syrah irresistibly of Luffa. “People have died. Ubiquitous seeds? Is that what he’s using? To grow some kind of — illegal crops? Is that what he’s shipping? Is that why the oats went bad? Is that why my father —”
“You’re jumping to conclusions!” said Harrow hotly. “He wouldn’t hurt anybody!”
Deli was silent for a long moment. Tears sprang into her eyes, and she fought them, turning away to hide her face. “Crop rot,” she managed. “When will I learn? I am done —”
She ran from the study.
Harrow pushed himself to his feet. He could not follow quickly. He held on to walls and leaned on doorframes in an attempt to catch up to her, and Syrah followed on his bare heels.
“Dee, wait. Listen, please.”
She left the farmhouse and slammed the door behind her without looking back.
YES, Syrah thought happily. GOOD.
Huck came out from his office at the sound of the slam and found Harrow leaning on the back of a chair in one hand and gripping the letter in the other. Syrah hopped under a side table to watch them.
“What is this?” Harrow shouted, holding the letter up in his fist.
Huck came to a halt. “That’s where it was?” he said. “You took it?”
“Deli found it,” said Harrow. “What is it?”
“Delicata took that letter? She was in my office? How?”
“It was on the study floor,” said Harrow. “She never went into your office.”
“But she read it. So they’ll all know about it now, at the Thatch.”
“What is it?” said Harrow for the third time. “Is it true? You plant Ubiquitous seeds? You’re breaking the law. You’re campaigning for governor, talking about how you want to listen to farmers and let them decide the future, but you’re already here doing experiments that kill people —”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I guess not.” Harrow crumpled the letter and threw it at his father, who caught it. “What am I supposed to say, when the Exalted Council gets here?” he demanded. “You want me to lie for you?”
“No, I’m going to tell them the truth,” said Huck. “And until five minutes ago, part of the truth was that you never knew anything about this. That’s all I want at this point, son. For you to be left out of it.”
“Too late now.”
Huck was quiet a minute. “Let me help you back to bed. You need to rest.”
“I don’t want your help.”
Huck passed a weary hand across his brow. “I’ll be in my office,” he said eventually. “Shout if you need me.”
He left the room, and so did Harrow, although more slowly. Syrah hopped out from underneath the table and looked around the room, wondering where he ought to go. Back to the Thatch? It was a long way to travel on his own — he’d likely be killed if he tried it. But if he could somehow get back to the Thatch and warn Deli that Clementine Pease was tied up in this Ubiquitous business just as much as Huck Steelcut, it might finally be enough to convince the wishing well that —
Syrah’s thoughts broke off abruptly. A glass wall came down in front of him, not a centimeter from his eyes. He croaked in fear and tried to hop back, but there was glass behind him — glass on either side of him — glass above him too. He rolled his eyes frantically, looking for escape, but there was none. He was in a jar, trapped.
The jar flipped suddenly and Syrah tumbled down into the bottom of it with a groan of pain. He tried to leap up through the opening at the top, but he wasn’t fast enough. It was already covered tight with a piece of linen, and black, glittering hands were moving fast, wrapping twine around the jar’s mouth to hold the linen in place.
Harrow Steelcut lifted the jar up to his face and peered into it. Syrah met his gaze, shocked and terrified.
“All right, frog,” said Harrow evenly. “Time to explain yourself.”
HARROW carried the jar upstairs to his room, while Syrah’s mind raced. Explain himself? Was Harrow serious? Did he understand?
Harrow shut his door and brought the jar to his desk. He pulled back the curtains, and afternoon sunlight poured through, illuminating the jar and warming it. Syrah squirmed, uncomfortable. If it got hot enough, he’d cook in this thing.
Harrow sat down to study him. Syrah stared back, breathing hard.
“I don’t know many frogs who move letters
around,” Harrow said. “Fact is, I don’t know any. Never met a frog who listened to directions or hopped up on people’s shoulders like a tame pet either.” He narrowed his eyes at Syrah. “So what are you, really?”
Syrah gave a long, amazed croak. Harrow was serious. He somehow understood that Syrah was not a frog. Harrow wasn’t the first person he would’ve chosen to communicate with — in fact, he was pretty much the last — but the idea of communicating with anyone at all after fifteen months of being mostly ignored was so heady that he almost didn’t care.
“I’ll let you go,” said Harrow. “Once you answer my questions. Let’s see … how about one hop for yes, two hops for no. Sound good?”
For a split second, Syrah considered not hopping at all. Maybe if he just didn’t answer, Harrow would give up and let him go.
But his hunger to be known as more than a frog by someone — anyone — outweighed his loathing.
He hopped once.
Harrow sat back, wide-eyed, and shoved both hands through his black curls, making them stick right up. “Skies above me, soil below,” he whispered. “You do understand.”
One hop. Yeah. I understand. Your move, Oat Boy.
“Did my mother send you?” Harrow asked him, leaning forward again.
Syrah hopped twice.
“Is … is she dead?”
Syrah didn’t move. He had no idea. And as little as he liked Harrow, he wasn’t about to lie to him about something this important.
“If you don’t know,” said Harrow, “hop three times.”
Syrah did, and Harrow made a desperate noise. “Did the other fairies send you?” he asked.
Other fairies? Did that mean Harrow’s mother was a fairy? Syrah gazed at the glinting golden flecks in his mesmerizing black skin, and he supposed that it made sense. His mother was a Yellow fairy — which was practically unheard of. They almost never showed themselves. Harrow must have been the only human born of a Yellow fairy in a hundred years — maybe even longer.
“Did they?” Harrow insisted. “Did her sisters send you?”
Syrah hesitated again. Should he say yes? If he said yes, maybe Harrow would think that he was magical and treat him with a little more respect.
Then again, if he said yes, maybe Harrow would never know who he really was.
Syrah hopped twice.
Harrow looked a bit crestfallen. “I hoped you were a sign,” he said. “Bringing that letter about Ubiquitous — I thought you might be trying to show me why she can’t answer me. But you have no idea where she is?”
Two hops. Sorry, nope.
“All right, well then — are you a magical creature?”
Syrah thought about it. He sort of was. But not in the way that Harrow meant. Two hops.
“So you must be a frog that somebody did magic on,” said Harrow. “Did you used to be a regular frog, but then a Kisscrafter or somebody made you different?”
Two hops. Nope again.
Harrow looked afraid. “Did you used to be a person?”
Syrah shuddered with relief.
One. Single. Hop.
Harrow broke out in gooseflesh so bad that Syrah could see it. “Are you cursed?” he whispered.
Syrah hopped. I’ll say I am.
Harrow shook his head in amazement. “Who were you?” he asked. “What happened?”
Syrah closed his eyes, so grateful that he could have cried. There was no way to answer those questions, but right now he didn’t care. Somebody knew he was a person. Somebody cared enough to ask. It was enough to make him hate Harrow’s stupid, glittering, Deli-kissing face just a tiny bit less.
Harrow leapt to his feet with sudden energy. “You’re a person,” he said. “Can you read? Can you spell?”
Yes. One hop.
“I’ll write out the alphabet, and you can use it to spell out whatever you want me to know — how about that?”
Yes. YES. One hop.
“So if I let you out, you’ll stay?” Harrow asked him. “You won’t run for it?”
Hop for it, Syrah corrected mentally. He gave two hops for no.
Harrow ransacked his desk for parchment and ink, and he sat down to write out the letters. “Okay.” He spread out four pieces of parchment. He had written the alphabet and the numbers, and they were spaced widely enough apart that Syrah could land on individual characters to make it clear what he was saying. Harrow untied the twine and removed the linen cap, and he tipped the jar sideways.
There was a knock at the door.
“Son?”
Syrah hopped into a potted fern and went still. Harrow swiftly stacked the parchment and flipped it over, then made his way to his bed and lay down. “Come in,” he said.
Huck Steelcut entered with heavy, weary steps. Worry lines cut deep into his forehead. “As long as you know as much as you do,” he said, “I want you to know something else.”
Harrow waited.
“Those seeds from Ubiquitous — I’ve been planting them for nearly twenty years, with no issues at all. And it’s true that it’s a crime. I never got approval from Calabaza to introduce magic seeds into Yellow soil — but I had approval from someone more important. Every one of those seeds was planted with your mother’s knowledge and permission.”
Harrow’s face relaxed at once. “She knew?”
“She knew. I would never put anything in this ground that she didn’t want there. I know you must blame me for her being gone, and maybe it is my fault, but she and I made the decision together, and I thought you ought to know.”
Harrow seemed to consider this. “Why did you do it, though?” he said. “Money? Is this why our harvests are always three times better than anyone else’s?”
Huck laughed, then caught himself and sobered. “No, that’s all your mother’s doing,” he said. “And I’m not going to explain my motives.” When Harrow looked like he was going to protest, Huck added: “It’s not because I don’t trust you. If you don’t know the details, you’ll have an easier time when they question you. And they’re going to question you. Be ready.”
Harrow didn’t look entirely appeased. “What about when they question you?” he said. “What’s going to happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should tell them about my mother. Tell them she approved.”
“I respect her privacy. It’s what she asked of me, and I won’t break that trust without her permission. If she comes back, I’ll ask her.”
“Do you think she’s alive?”
Huck looked out the window at the farm below. “I don’t like to make guesses,” he said. “She’s strong and she knows the land, and she’s got her magic … But maybe some poison in those seeds caused her harm. Or maybe she had to leave for reasons she didn’t share.”
“She wouldn’t do that,” said Harrow. “Not without telling me. Something’s wrong.”
Huck looked over at the tray on Harrow’s bedside table, which was empty but for crumbs. “You polished off lunch,” he said. “Still hungry? I’ll fix you something else.”
“No thanks. Not yet.”
“Well, you let me know.” Huck left the room and closed the door. Harrow hauled himself up out of bed, limped back to the desk, and looked around.
“Uh,” he said. “Frog?”
Syrah made his way up to the desk, where he regarded Harrow critically.
Harrow looked abashed. “Guess you know some private stuff about me, huh?” he asked. “You probably know a lot of things about a lot of people.”
One hop. I certainly do.
“Well then I hope you’re not the kind who’d use somebody’s secrets against them.”
Syrah felt a stab of guilt. He was exactly that kind. He had used Deli’s letter to hurt her as much as he could, and then he had done the same thing to Huck Steelcut today. He had brought Deli that letter about Ubiquitous — and why? Had it really been for the sake of Yellow Country, or had it mostly been because he didn’t like Harrow and Deli together?
He wished he didn’t know the answer.
“Who are you?” asked Harrow. “Can you tell me?”
Syrah surveyed the parchment and found the S — but he didn’t hop to it.
If he said who he was, what would happen? Harrow would have to tell somebody. He would make a report to the Thatch right away, and they’d tell his family, who would sail for Yellow at once. Everyone would focus on him. The Criers, the Gourds, the Huanuis — he would be Prince Syrah, Returned From the Dead. It was everything he’d wanted.
But now he wasn’t sure. He was the only person in the world who knew that Governor Calabaza had been poisoned. As an anonymous frog, he could figure out who was responsible. He could go places that no one else could, and listen and spy without anybody knowing.
He hopped onto the parchment and sat on the N. He hopped to the O. Then the T.
NOT YET
He could not believe what he was saying. But his heart gave a funny throb that told him this was right.
Harrow frowned. “Don’t you want my help?” he asked. “What about family? Friends? Don’t you want to see them again?”
Syrah hopped once.
“Then tell me who you are.”
He hopped twice.
“Why not?” said Harrow, looking at him with suspicion. “Are you a criminal? Or — hey, wait a minute. You dragged that letter out of my pa’s office, and you made sure Dee saw it. Didn’t you?”
Syrah didn’t move.
“And you were in her room yesterday,” Harrow continued. “She said she didn’t take those Criers out, and I believe her — so you did that.” He laughed, and the sound was a little bit wild. He sat back in his chair and braced his hands on the table. “And you followed us out there to that hole in the ground, which is right where she thinks — and you were making all that racket, like you wanted our attention, and now —”
Syrah held his breath. For the first time since becoming a frog, he genuinely did not want to be discovered, but it didn’t matter. Harrow was about to get there.
Lose yourself to be found.
This was what the well had meant.
“I know who you are,” said Harrow, his voice rough. “I know who you are.”
Transformed: The Perils of the Frog Prince Page 20