Transformed: The Perils of the Frog Prince

by Megan Morrison

  Clementine looked over at him, her dark eyes narrow and watchful.

  “He’s really good at this,” murmured Harrow to Syrah, who hopped once. Luffa had said it herself. Nexus Burdock knew how to play a crowd.

  “You have all heard by now that the source of the Purge is the Steelcut farm,” said Burdock. Under Syrah’s belly, Harrow’s shoulder grew tense. “What you don’t know is why it happened.”

  “No one knows why it happened,” said Clementine. “The Exalted Council is investigating right now —”

  “It’s my turn to speak,” Burdock cut in, and Clementine fell silent. “We have concrete evidence of wrongdoing on the Steelcut farm. Whether it is connected to the Purge is up to the Exalted Council to discover — but the wrongdoing did occur, and I think it’s high time that all of you knew about it.”

  “We should leave,” muttered Harrow, and he tried to step away from the dais, but there were people all around him. A quick exit was impossible without drawing everyone’s attention. He pulled his hat down over his eyes and crossed his arms, trying to shrink from view.

  “I think they ought to know a lot of things,” said Clementine, taking hold of her podium. “About you, for instance.”

  It was Syrah’s turn to tense. Was she going to say something about the Witch of the Woods? About Burdock’s childhood?

  “You’ll get your turn,” said Burdock. “And when you do, I’m sure the people would like you to explain how Huck Steelcut got away, for twenty years, with planting Ubiquitous seeds in Yellow soil and raising unregulated crops on that land.”

  The crowd exploded. Shouted questions and threats of vengeance rose in a violent chorus. Fists shook in the air; cowbells clanged; people chanted, “DOWN WITH STEELCUT!”

  “Crop rot,” Harrow breathed. In all the chaos, he tried once more to duck through the crowd and get away, but people were surging toward the dais, pressing in around him. He could hardly move.

  “That information was confidential,” said Clementine sharply, raising her speaking trumpet to have a hope of being heard over all the racket. “The investigation into Huck Steelcut’s activities is ongoing. By sharing those details with the public, you have risked the integrity of that investigation and betrayed the cabinet.”

  “The public deserves the truth,” Burdock replied instantly. “When I am their governor, I intend to report to them, not you.”

  This earned a cheer. But Syrah wasn’t certain there was anything to cheer about. He stared at Nexus Burdock in surprise — and disappointment. He hadn’t thought that the Nexus was the kind of person who would play dirty, but revealing confidential information had definitely been a dirty move. Yes, Burdock had once told the world about the Purge without first seeking permission — but that had been an emergency. People could have died. There was no emergency here, and nobody’s life was at stake. Burdock just wanted to score points. He wanted to win, no matter what.

  Syrah understood the feeling.

  He also knew, without a doubt, that it was wrong.

  “What about Exalted Nexus Keene?” Clementine demanded. “Won’t you report to him? Won’t you still be, first and foremost, a member of the Exalted Council?”

  “The people of Yellow Country are my first responsibility,” Burdock replied, looking out over his audience. “I was born Exalted, and I will always be Exalted, but as your governor, my full attention and loyalty will belong to you.”

  “How do we know you mean it?” said Clementine. “You swore a lifetime oath to the Exalted Council, didn’t you? You dedicated your powers to their service to help the people of Tyme.” Clementine paused briefly. “But you were a citizen of Yellow Country before that. Weren’t you?”

  Burdock’s face went dead white. “How did Steelcut get away with it, Clementine?” he demanded, his voice dry. “You’ve been minister of agriculture the entire time he’s been selling those crops back to Ubiquitous. And you noticed nothing? In twenty years?”

  “You changed your name,” said Clementine, ignoring the question. “As all Exalted do. You gave up your identity and chose the name Burdock. But if you’re going to run for governor, if you’re going to belong to us, as you say, then shouldn’t we know who you really are?”

  “I will tell you this,” said Burdock, turning to the crowd. “Either Clementine Pease has been covering for Steelcut’s misdeeds for two decades, or she is completely incompetent. Either she is lying to you, or she has been lied to —”

  “Why don’t you want us to know?” asked Clementine. “What is it you’re trying to hide, Hans? Or do you prefer Mr. Rantott?”

  Burdock’s eyes flashed and his body heaved strangely. For a moment, Syrah thought that the Nexus might vomit. Hans Rantott. Was that his real name?

  “Huck Steelcut’s son is right here, Nexus!” cried a man in a yellow sash. He grabbed Harrow’s shoulder so hard that he nearly shook Syrah right off of it. “He didn’t have the Purge, look at him — he’s fine!”

  The angry crowd pressed in around Harrow, trapping him against the dais.

  “You knew what was going on, didn’t you?”

  “You weren’t really sick, you filthy liar!”

  “My brother is dead! You killed him!”

  Frantic, Syrah rolled his eyes to see if anyone was going to come to Harrow’s aid. But Burdock still stood in shock, and though Clementine lifted her speaking trumpet and ordered the crowd to desist, nobody listened. The mob had its own mind now, and they wanted blood. Somebody had Harrow by the front of his shirt. Somebody else ripped his hat off him. Breathing hard, Harrow tried to scramble backward up onto the dais, but the large man who had first grabbed him now gripped him by both shoulders, forcing Syrah to jump up to the top of Harrow’s head and hang on to his hair.

  “Guards!” he heard Clementine cry.

  The governor’s guards fought their way toward Harrow, striking people when necessary and knocking them back.

  “I’ll kill you,” said the big man who had Harrow’s shoulders. He struggled to get free, but the big man’s hands moved up to grip his throat. “You and your pa. I’ll burn your rotten farm to the ground — you smug, mother-killing —”

  A large, muddy rock sailed in from nowhere, barely missing Syrah as it whizzed past. It struck the big man square in the side of the head. He blinked — mud trickled down his cheek from his temple — and then he crumpled, unconscious. As he fell, the guards finally reached Harrow, who was trembling like he was freezing to death. A few of them dragged the large man away; the others made a protective semicircle between Harrow and the volatile crowd. Syrah gave a weak ribbit of relief.

  “Who threw that rock?” one of the guards demanded. “Did anyone see?”

  Nobody had. But Syrah’s eye was drawn to the platform where the Gourd family sat. Roma looked dazed and horrified, but the triplets were staring at Deli, whose expression was fierce. She had mud on her fancy formal shoes, and her hands were dirty. She clasped them in her lap to hide them, and Syrah’s stomach tightened.

  “Are you injured?” one of the guards asked Harrow, handing his hat back to him. “Do you want us to escort you somewhere else?” When he didn’t answer right away, Syrah hopped down to his shoulder again and nudged the side of his neck.

  “Yeah,” said Harrow faintly. “I’d like to leave now.”

  The guards shouldered their way through the dense crowd, protecting Harrow from injury, though they couldn’t stop people jeering and throwing food at him. Harrow yanked his hat back down again and suffered the long walk out of Market Park, back to the other side of the river and out to the eastern edge of town, where the guards left him.

  He walked back toward the farm in silence, slouched forward with his arms crossed over himself. Syrah waited for him to speak.

  “They really mean it,” he finally said as they drew near the stream that marked the Steelcut property. “They want to kill us.”

  Syrah didn’t hop. He tried a sympathetic croak, but Harrow wasn’t having it.


  “This is your fault,” he said. “Nobody would know about those seeds if not for you.”

  That wasn’t entirely fair. The Exalted Council would have discovered the evidence during their investigation, and people would have found out eventually. But Syrah could not say this, so he merely hopped twice in protest.

  Harrow turned and made his way through the oat fields, dragging his fingertips along the stalks as he walked. “I don’t know what we’re going to do,” he said.

  They approached the farmhouse, where there were now four carriages standing, all of them bearing the symbol of the Exalted Council. The front door of the farmhouse opened, and several people wearing amulets filed out of it. Two of them walked with Huck Steelcut between them. His hands were behind him, and a ribbon of magic light bound his wrists.

  Harrow lurched as if to move toward his father, but Syrah hopped twice, then twice again, and then he leapt down to the ground and croaked, insistent. If Harrow went over there, he would get arrested too.

  Harrow crouched down, hiding himself among the oats. “I can’t hide from the Exalted,” he whispered. “I’ll just get in worse trouble if I do.”

  Syrah hopped away from the farmhouse and croaked again. He kept hopping, and Harrow followed him, staying low, until they came to the stream again, out of sight of the farmhouse. Here, Harrow dropped down and sat on the bank. He leaned forward over his knees and put his head in his hands.

  “They really took him,” he mumbled. Syrah hopped onto his boot. “I have to turn myself in. For my pa’s sake.”

  Syrah hopped twice. Bad idea.

  “You have a good reason why I shouldn’t?”

  One hop. I have about twenty. Draw me an alphabet.

  Harrow almost seemed to hear this. He picked up a stick and started writing letters in the mud. Syrah began hopping to them, but it was useless; the moment he landed on a letter, he erased it.

  “Come on,” said Harrow, after several frustrating minutes of this. “There are blackberries across the stream. I’ll crush them and write on a rock or something.” He held out his hand, and Syrah hopped into it.

  What are they going to do to Pa? I don’t want to live here anymore — won’t leave, because of my mother, but Skies, they hate us. Everyone hates us. Even Dee hates me now —

  Syrah wished it were true.

  She loves you, he thought bitterly. She threw that rock for you.

  “She did?” said Harrow hopefully — and then he gasped and flipped his hand over, dropping Syrah into the dirt. He stared down at him, and Syrah gazed back, a little rattled but mostly just amazed. “I heard that,” said Harrow. “I heard you. And you … did you hear me?”

  Syrah’s heart fluttered faster. Could he talk to Harrow, then? Really talk to him? Between his own magic, and Harrow’s Yellow fairy blood, maybe he could. He bounced and bounced, wanting to be picked up so he could try it again. Harrow bent and held his hand out, then snatched it back.

  “Have you been listening inside my head all this time?” he demanded.

  Syrah hopped twice, and tried to get to his hand. Harrow kept it closed another moment, then uncurled his fingers and allowed Syrah into his palm.

  I have to have my belly on your skin, he thought. I only feel things clearly when people hold me in their hands. I’ve always been on your shoulder. I mostly try to avoid hands, because it’s weird.

  Harrow shuddered. “It’s real weird,” he said. “I don’t so much hear you as … feel you.”

  Great, thought Syrah. Since you’re the last person I want to have feeling me.

  Harrow snorted, and then his face fell. “Well, now what?” he said. “My pa’s arrested, and they’re going to be looking for me — we can’t spy anywhere. I guess I could try sneaking to the Thatch, but —”

  You can’t sneak anywhere, Glitter.

  “Glitter?” Harrow looked insulted.

  Focus, Oat Boy. Clementine Pease knows about your father and Ubiquitous. She helped him all along.

  “What!”

  It was your father who told her to run for governor. He’s covering for her and lying to the Exalted Council, saying she wasn’t involved so she has a chance to get elected. I don’t think she even wants to run — she just doesn’t want Burdock to win. So she didn’t poison Calabaza so she could be governor, but she still might have done it so that he wouldn’t find out what she and your father were up to.

  It was such a relief, such a sweet, intense relief to be able to say so much so quickly that Syrah couldn’t help a croak of delight.

  This is amazing except your hand is disgustingly sweaty.

  “Uh, maybe that’s because there’s a wet frog in it.”

  Or maybe you’re just one of those sweaty-handed guys. Deli probably wishes you’d wipe them off once in a while.

  Ass, Harrow thought, and Syrah felt it. At least I didn’t get myself turned into a frog.

  True enough.

  “Oh right.” Harrow licked his lips. “I forgot you can hear that.”

  If it’s not Clementine, it’s Luffa or Burdock.

  “What about Roma? She was in the carriage.”

  Why would Roma hurt him? She loves being the governor’s wife. She hates to lose her status, and she was afraid that she was going to lose her home too, I heard her say so.

  “My money’s on Burdock. He was shady in that debate,” said Harrow, frowning. “Why doesn’t he want people to know his real name?”

  I don’t know. But he didn’t want Calabaza to be governor — I know that for a fact. Plus he was at the Royal Governor’s Inn, he could easily have put the basket in the carriage, and without Calabaza in the race, Burdock’s probably going to be elected governor.

  “You think he’ll win?”

  You saw how those people reacted. They love him. But I think Clementine Pease has more information about his past. We need to go and find out what it is.

  “How?” said Harrow. “I can’t get to the Thatch without being seen, you said it yourself.”

  What about Clementine’s house? Do you know where she lives?

  “Actually, yeah, and it’s not far from here. But what if she won’t help? What if she turns me in to the Exalted Council? Maybe I should tell her about the juggetsbane, so she understands —”

  Don’t. If she launches an investigation, Burdock will cover his tracks. We don’t want him to know we’re onto him.

  “So what, then?” said Harrow. “I should show up at her house and expect her to tell me everything she knows about the Nexus?”

  Tell her you know that she was in on it with your dad, but you’ll keep quiet if she helps you.

  “You want me to blackmail the minister of agriculture.”

  You’re quick, Sweaty.

  “You know, I’ve eaten frogs.” Harrow stuck Syrah on his shoulder. “Lots of them. Let’s go.”

  CLEMENTINE Pease’s cottage stood by itself at the far eastern edge of Cornucopia, surrounded by a garden that was prettier for being unkempt. Its roof and door were of typical height, but Syrah immediately noticed signs that someone of very short stature lived there. The doorknob was hung lower, the steps that led to the door were short enough for small legs to climb with ease, and the windows were closer to the ground than was usual. Harrow hurried toward the cottage, keeping his hat down, which Syrah wanted to tell him wasn’t doing any good, given that his hands practically sparkled.

  He knocked at the door. When Clementine opened it, her eyebrows arched. She stepped back at once to let him enter, peered outside, then shut the door and locked it.

  “Is somebody after you?” she demanded. “Did those bullies follow you home from the debate?” She scowled. “Debate. Like that’s what it was.”

  “The Exalted Council arrested my pa.”

  Clementine blew out a breath. She stuck one hand in her purple hair. “Did they question you too?”

  “When I saw them there, I turned around and left.”

  “Ah.”

  “Please
don’t turn me in.”

  This is where you tell her that you know what she did, Syrah thought, but Harrow couldn’t hear him, and he had a feeling that Harrow wouldn’t be much use as a blackmailer anyway.

  Clementine rubbed her head for a moment, then turned and beckoned for him to follow her. As they walked through the house, Syrah scanned his surroundings. There were potted plants in every corner, and chairs and tables slightly shorter than what he was used to seeing. Above the low sideboard in the dining room was a small, accurate portrait of Clementine with two younger people: a boy as short as she was, and a tall, round-figured girl. Her children, he supposed.

  The papers stacked on top of the sideboard were far more interesting to him. He recognized them as the same ones that Luffa had given to her. Information on Burdock.

  “Is Meyer still at the University of Orange?”

  “He’s a full professor now,” Clementine answered, with unmistakable pride in her voice. “And Hesper’s doing fine up in Bloomington. But you’re not here for chitchat. You know you’ve got a frog on your shoulder, right?”

  “Yep,” said Harrow, pulling out a stool from under the sideboard. “He’s tame.”

  Clementine looked interested, but didn’t pursue it. She pulled out a chair with a raised seat and a short ladder between its legs, and she climbed up to sit across from him. “I’m not going to turn you in,” she said, “but I can’t hide you from the Council either. I’m in a tough spot as it is, with everything Burdock threw out there today.” She studied Harrow briefly. “Was that the first time you’d heard about those Ubiquitous seeds?” she asked. “It must’ve been a shock to you. I’m sorry for what happened out there — the way they turned on you was vicious.”