Transformed: The Perils of the Frog Prince

by Megan Morrison

  “I knew about the seeds, and I know you’re in on it,” said Harrow. “You knew about the Ubiquitous crops all along.”

  Clementine winced. “Huck told you?”

  “I found out. But I’m not going to tell the Council.”

  That’s the opposite of blackmail, thought Syrah. Irritated, he jumped to the pile of books and papers on the sideboard and started trying to dislodge some of them by pushing with his feet.

  “I can’t let you lie to them,” said Clementine. “I’ve got enough on my conscience without that.”

  “I have to. If I tell them the truth now, they’ll know my pa’s been lying.”

  She clasped her hands in front of her. “We thought we were doing the right thing,” she said. “I gave him permission to plant them because I knew Calabaza never would. And for a long time, it all worked fine. No one was hurt. No one was sick. We were feeding a lot of very poor people in places nowhere near as fortunate as Cornucopia.”

  “So that’s why he did it.”

  “He didn’t tell you that?” She snorted. “Leave it to him to hide the part where he’s saving lives. I’m sorry he’s going through this alone. I told him I’d give myself up.”

  “You can’t. You have to beat Burdock.”

  “I’m not sure that’s possible.”

  Harrow leaned forward. “You know things. About Burdock’s past. Tell me what you know, and maybe I can help you.”

  “There’s not much to tell,” said Clementine. “Most of what I know is just speculation.”

  Syrah finally managed to push the top layer of papers off the pile. They drifted to the floor, and Harrow picked them up. “Hans Rantott, born in Arrowroot, twenty-first Orwhile, 1046, to Marzi and Radler Rantott,” he read slowly. “Born in the caul, Exalted.” He looked up. “This is Burdock?”

  Clementine nodded. “His parents died when he was eight,” she said. “Fever. It ripped through Plenty and the woods out there, and killed a lot of people, just like the Purge. He had one sibling — a younger sister. She was murdered by the Witch of the Woods.”

  Harrow made a noise of pity. “So it’s not just the Purge he’s mad about,” he said.

  “Calabaza was a very young governor then,” said Clementine. “During his first two years in office, the Witch of the Woods was driven out of the Republic of Brown, and she moved into Arrowroot. She killed thirty children in Yellow Country, and he didn’t lift a finger to stop her.”

  “Leave the magic to the magical.”

  “That’s right. In truth, my heart goes out to Burdock. My own children were small around that time, and it was terrifying — everybody felt it. The families who lost children still feel it. Thirty years can’t heal that. When that witch died, it felt like a curse was lifted from the whole country.”

  “And this?” Harrow asked, lifting the other paper he had taken from the floor. It was a Town Crier from the year 1056, and its headline stood out in bold, black letters: WITCH OF THE WOODS SLAIN! Syrah skimmed the article beneath it: a grisly account of what Exalted Nexus Keene had discovered inside the witch’s candy home. The bones and hair of more than two dozen children, piled in filthy cages in the basement. Several more children were found totally intact but also dead, their bodies frozen in unnatural, doll-like shapes.

  Just like the gingerbread children that G. G. Floss had shown them at the ATC. Syrah felt queasy at the thought, but he kept reading.

  The witch herself was never found — after her death, the White claimed her physical body — but Keene believed that she had burned to death. He found her oven still lit and its door standing open, with one of her shoes outside it on the floor, as though it had fallen from her foot in a struggle. Just the way Miss Floss had described it.

  Pushing the witch into her own oven. It was a bold move, Syrah thought, but a smart one. Possibly even the only strategy that would have worked. It would be impossible for a child, even an Exalted child, to attack a witch head-on and live. If she’d had even an instant’s chance to react, she could have destroyed him. But if Burdock had surprised her from behind — pushed her in headfirst — he might have stood a chance at survival. And Burdock was smart. Strategic. Capable of playing dirty if that was what it took. He was the sort of person who could have done it.

  True stories had a certain ring to them. Miss Floss had said that, and now Syrah thought he knew what she meant.

  “It’s hard to say whether there’s any connection,” said Clementine slowly. “Nobody knows for sure who killed that witch. But three days later, Hans Rantott went to the town hall in Plenty and reported his sister’s death. After that, there’s no record of him. He must have gone north to Lilac to train with the Exalted Council.”

  “You think he killed the Witch of the Woods?” Harrow checked the date on the Crier. “In 1056? He was only ten.”

  Clementine shrugged. “But he is Exalted. And if he was furious enough about his sister … it’s not impossible.”

  Syrah tried to imagine a very young Burdock going into that ghastly house. Perhaps he had seen his sister’s dead body. Perhaps the witch had tried to kill him too. What would an experience like that do to a person? Maybe it had warped his brain. Turned him into the kind of person who would put juggetsbane in Calabaza’s sandwiches. After all, Calabaza had done nothing to stop the Witch of the Woods.

  Maybe Burdock wanted more than to be governor. Maybe he wanted revenge.

  “But why wouldn’t he take credit?” said Harrow. “If he did kill that witch, then he’s a hero. He should tell everyone it was him — they’d elect him in a minute.”

  Because he has something to hide, thought Syrah at once. But what?

  Clementine smiled faintly and pointed to the pile of books. “Your frog is sitting on a possible explanation,” she said. “The Crier from the very next day.”

  Syrah hopped down from the pile, and Clementine chuckled.

  “He really is tame, isn’t he?” she said. “It’s like he understood me.”

  Harrow grabbed the Crier and held it up. The headline on the front side screamed MORE HORRORS DISCOVERED IN WITCH’S LAIR.

  Syrah skimmed the page. Bodies in the attic, a necklace made of finger bones, a mostly empty treasure chest.

  “Not that one,” said Clementine. “Flip it over.”

  A sharp knock sounded at the front door.

  Clementine got down from her seat. “Go out the back,” she said, under her breath. “Hide in the garden shed. If it’s the Exalted Council, I’ll pretend I didn’t know you were there. Not that they’ll believe me. Quick — I’ll come and get you when whoever this is has gone.”

  She headed to the front door, and Syrah leapt to the table. Harrow picked him up at once.

  Keep the Crier, Syrah thought.

  Harrow stuck him on his shoulder, held on to the Crier, and made his way to the back door. They crossed the garden quickly, heading for the small shed, which stood beside a tiny brook. The brook moved at barely a trickle; weeds and water plants clogged its way. At first, Syrah only glanced at the weeds, but then he looked again, harder.

  One of the plants looked just like watercress, except for faint brown edges on its leaves.

  He began to bounce and croak. Harrow paused with his hand on the shed’s door handle. He glanced at Syrah, then picked him off his shoulder and held him in his hand.

  Juggetsbane. In the brook.

  He felt Harrow’s shock and the fear that surged through him as he shoved Syrah into his shirt pocket, then picked up his feet and ran, past the garden shed and away from Clementine’s cottage, into the rolling farmland that lay beyond it. There was little cover out here, and few trees, but there were no people either. They met no one in the fields. Harrow kept running until he found a large oak, which he collapsed against, panting. Syrah hopped into his palm, annoyed.

  I said it was juggetsbane, I didn’t say she was chasing you with an ax.

  “I just wanted to get out of there,” Harrow managed.

  Wh
y? I could have gone back into the house and listened to see what she was up to. You could have asked her about the plant and pretended you thought it was watercress to see her reaction.

  “She has juggetsbane in her yard and she wanted me to get in a shed! I think leaving was reasonable!”

  We could have found out more. Now we can’t go back. If Clementine’s the culprit, she’ll know something’s up. You’re miserable at this.

  “Well sorry I’m not as good at sneaking around and lying as you are,” Harrow retorted, shaking Syrah out of his hand so he could cross his arms. Syrah leapt up onto him and pushed against the hand he had tucked under his elbow. Harrow gave an exasperated sigh and let Syrah back into his palm.

  “Juggetsbane roots make a really strong purple dye,” said Harrow. “I forgot about that. She probably uses it for her hair. I wish I’d thought of that before —”

  Just let me see that Crier.

  Harrow spread the paper out on the ground, and Syrah searched for something that might be related to Burdock. He found it sandwiched between an article about an orphan girl who had become Plenty’s youngest bakery apprentice and a recipe that promised perfectly balanced lemon curd.

  THREE FOUND DEAD IN ARROWROOT FOREST

  The story beneath the headline was brief. The bodies had been found in two separate homes. One was the cottage of Ava Cass and Holly Seaberry, an older couple who lived in a tiny glade. The two were discovered lying in their garden on a picnic blanket with mouths full of blue foam and what looked like a blueberry tart still unfinished between them. According to the story, the tart had been made from poisonous bluepeace berries, which were tragically easy to mistake for the real thing.

  The third body belonged to woodcutter and recluse Grausam Steppe, who lived in a hovel in the very deepest part of the woods. The report said that he had been dead a few days longer than the two women. He had choked to death on a morel mushroom.

  A morel. Syrah remembered Rapunzel reading something about morels in Edible Plants ~ An Illustrated Guide, and he thought back now, trying to recall what he knew. Morel mushrooms looked like something else. He couldn’t think of its name, but it was poisonous. It would steam silver if it was crumbled into hot liquid, swallowing a little bit would make it hard to breathe, and swallowing a lot would cause a person to suffocate. Grasuam Steppe might have looked like he choked, but really he would have stopped breathing from the poison.

  One by one, the details clicked together with what Syrah already knew. He nudged Harrow’s hand to be picked up.

  Juggetsbane looks like watercress. Bluepeace look like blueberries. Morel mushrooms look like something too, I can’t remember the name of it —

  “Slumbercap,” whispered Harrow. “Skies.”

  This is how he kills people. Plants that look like food.

  It made him sick to think it of Nexus Burdock. But there was no denying it now.

  “But an old couple and a poor woodcutter? Why would he do that?”

  No idea. Maybe he likes killing. Or maybe they were in his way. Look at the front article again. Did it say something about an empty treasure chest in the witch’s house?

  Harrow flipped it over and nodded. “You think Burdock stole it for himself and killed those people because they tried to take it from him?”

  I don’t know.

  “All right, that’s it,” said Harrow. “We have to tell somebody. Somebody who can move on Burdock fast, before he hides.”

  We can’t. We have no proof.

  “I have to. If I don’t, and he does this again to somebody else, it’ll be my fault.”

  They’ll think you did it. How else could you know about the juggetsbane in Calabaza’s basket?

  “I know because you told me. So I’m going to have to tell them about you too.”

  No, not yet — I knew you were miserable at this —

  “I’m telling Luffa Gourd,” said Harrow, getting to his feet. “We’re going to the Thatch.”

  No! If you go there, the Exalted Council will arrest you —

  “Nice to know you care so much.” Harrow patted Syrah on the head.

  Stupid glittering oat-headed sweat monster —

  “Love you too, little fella.”

  I will seriously kill you.

  Harrow lifted Syrah to his shoulder. “You do that,” he said, and he strode west toward the Thatch.

  HARROW took a long path toward the governor’s property, avoiding people as much as possible. He walked all the way around the north end of Cornucopia, then back to the river, where he walked west until he finally came to a small town that had its own bridge. He cut across the river and doubled back, staying near the woods. When he finally drew near to Cornucopia again, Syrah began to protest.

  Two hops. Two hops. Don’t do this. Don’t tell them. Let’s finish this on our own. But Harrow could not hear him and didn’t bother to pick him up. He kept walking, determined, ignoring Syrah’s insistent croaks.

  By the time they reached the outer edges of the Gourds’ property, it was dark, and Syrah was furious. He slammed himself against Harrow’s neck to make himself clear. Harrow paused in the middle of a pumpkin patch and finally took Syrah off his shoulder to talk to him.

  “I have to do what’s right,” he said. “If Burdock’s really a murderer —”

  Shut up! Somebody could hear you!

  “Luffa will know what to do,” Harrow went on. “She can get in touch with your family for you too. Don’t you want to see them?”

  Syrah did, very much.

  “Then let’s tell them you’re alive.”

  I’ll see them when this is done. We have to figure this out on our own. We’re close to Burdock’s house — take me there. Let me go inside and see what I can find.

  Harrow said nothing, but as the moonlight played on his glittering face, Syrah could feel the turbulence in his mind. I’m not comfortable with that. What if Burdock catches us — hurts us? Syrah’s right, I’m miserable at this — I have to tell an adult —

  No you DON’T, thought Syrah angrily. I won’t play along. I’ll pretend I’m just a regular frog, and they’ll all think you’re crazy.

  Harrow made a noise of frustration. Selfish, he thought.

  But for once in his life, Syrah knew that he was doing the right thing.

  Take me to Burdock’s, he insisted. That’s where the proof will be. Look for an open window and let me loose, and I’ll hop in and search. Then we can tell, all right?

  Harrow’s acute discomfort permeated him. “This is the very last thing we’re doing on our own,” he said. “After this, we go to Luffa.”

  Fine.

  The official residence of Yellow Country’s Exalted Nexus sat just west of the Thatch, between the pumpkin fields and a watermelon patch. It was a house large enough for a family to be comfortable; the Nexus before Burdock had been married with several children. For a single man like Burdock, it was a huge amount of space.

  “It’s all dark,” Harrow whispered as they approached. There didn’t appear to be so much as a candle lit inside the house. “I don’t think he’s there. I’ll check for an open window —”

  Footsteps crunched toward them from the direction of the Thatch. Harrow gasped and dropped down behind a tree. Syrah hopped off his shoulder and out to where he could see what was happening.

  Burdock was on his way home, carrying a lantern. It swung in the darkness, reminding Syrah of the carriage house at the Royal Governor’s Inn. Fear skittered through him, and he retracted his eyeballs and swallowed hard. Maybe Harrow had been right. Maybe they shouldn’t have come here alone to do this.

  Another set of footsteps, quick and light, caught up with Burdock’s.

  “Where were you?” said a voice, and then its owner emerged into the pool of light cast by Burdock’s lantern. “You said to come, but then you were gone. I don’t exist at your convenience, no matter what you think.”

  G. G. Floss. She stood before Burdock, fists clenched.


  “I was at the Thatch,” said Burdock. “Keene arrived unexpectedly. He found a cure for the Purge — or at least, it was a cure in Plenty. It worked on everyone else in the Thatch, but for some strange reason it didn’t work on Calabaza. He’s still unconscious.”

  Miss Floss nervously pushed a strand of sandy hair behind her ear. “Why?”

  “I think we both know that.”

  The corners of Miss Floss’s mouth turned down. She looked away from him.

  “Show me your wrists,” said Burdock quietly.

  “I’m not going to come out here every night —”

  “Show me your wrists. Now.”

  Miss Floss pushed up her sleeves and held out her wrists, and her copper bracelets reflected the lantern light. They looked like shackles, Syrah thought. He hadn’t noticed that before.

  Burdock inspected them, turning her hands over. “Good,” he murmured momentarily. “Hands up.”

  Miss Floss’s hands rose into the air as though on strings.

  “Hands down.”

  They dropped limply to her sides, and Syrah shivered, cold through. He had never seen anything so disturbing.

  “You can’t do this to me forever,” she said, tearful.

  “Yes I can,” Burdock replied. “We both know that too.”

  “Physic Feverfew wants me to take them off. She says they’ll stop my burns from healing.”

  “And what do you say if someone wants you to take them off?”

  Miss Floss’s eyes dimmed. When she spoke, her voice was wooden. “I will say ‘No.’”

  “Good.” Burdock tilted his head. “Feverfew is pushy,” he said. “What will you say if she tries to remove them?”

  “I will say ‘Stop. Leave them as they are.’ Then I will run away and tell you.”

  “Perfect.”

  Miss Floss seemed to shake off the magic that had forced her to speak. Her face filled with rage. “I’ll burn them off again,” she spat. “I swear —”

  A loud snap! caused Miss Floss to gasp. She looked over toward the tree where Harrow was hiding, and Syrah froze in terror. Harrow must have moved, he must have shifted and snapped a twig —