Transformed: The Perils of the Frog Prince

by Megan Morrison

  “Who’s there?” Burdock called. His voice was hard. Cold. “Come out.”

  Don’t do it, Syrah thought desperately, though Harrow could not hear him. Let me handle this. He bounced as high as he could and gave a mighty croak. He bounced again, closer to Burdock, and then he saw a small stick. He bounced onto it, deliberately causing another snap!, which badly stung his belly, but he kept croaking and bouncing, making his way closer to the lantern light until they could see him. G. G. jumped back as though frightened.

  “It’s only a frog,” said Burdock, and he crouched, looking amused. “Nothing to fear, see?” He set down the lantern and put out his hand.

  Apprehensive, but deeply curious, Syrah stepped into Burdock’s palm.

  The moment the Nexus touched him, the world vanished. He gasped as Burdock’s thoughts overwhelmed him, vivid and real, different from any other mind he had encountered. He was trapped in a place that was filthy, low ceilinged and dim. It stank of human waste and decay. In his hands he held the bars of a cage, which he rattled, shouting hoarsely. His fingers bled. He had tried so many times to use his magic to destroy the cage or change it into something else, but every time he did so, it grew smaller. If he tried again, the bars might crush him. Bones and hair littered the floor around his feet. Sudden screams, raw and terrified, cut through the filth and darkness. The screams became shriller, crazed with terror, shredding what was left of his courage, making him scream in reply —

  “Here,” said Burdock mildly, setting Syrah at the edge of a very small pond near the house.

  He sat in the mud, so distressed and disoriented that it took several long, shaking breaths before he was able to think. For a moment, in Burdock’s palm, he had been Burdock. No — not Burdock. Hans Rantott. He had been Hans, a young boy, trapped in the nightmarish house of the Witch of the Woods, forced to listen to his own sister’s murder.

  But now, Hans Rantott was the murderer.

  Syrah still had no proof. Maybe there was no proof. But his frog guts told him not to go into Burdock’s house, no matter what. They had to get out of here.

  “Come in,” he heard Burdock say to Miss Floss. “Let’s talk about the debate. About Clementine’s little surprise attack.”

  “I’m going home.”

  “You’re here. You might as well stay.”

  “Are you going to make me?” Miss Floss challenged.

  “Fine, go, if that’s what you want. Return tomorrow night.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “You will.”

  Miss Floss turned and fled into the darkness. Burdock picked up his lantern again, and his light eyes shone eerily in the flickering orange light. He went into his house and shut the door.

  Syrah hopped back to Harrow, who held out his hand. It was trembling, and his heart was beating so hard that Syrah could hear it.

  Don’t talk, he thought quickly. Stay low and crawl as quietly as you can toward the woods. I’ll ride on your back. If he hears anything and comes out, I’ll bounce a lot and pretend it’s me making noise again. Don’t stand up until you’re in the trees. Understand?

  Harrow nodded and began to crawl. His movements were nearly silent, but agonizingly slow. Syrah stayed on his back, anxiously watching Burdock’s house grow smaller behind them until it was out of sight.

  The moment Harrow had cover in the woods, he knelt up and took Syrah into his palm.

  “We’re going to the Copper Door,” he said, and got to his feet.

  We have to go to Luffa, Syrah replied. You were right. He’s insane. We need help.

  “I’m getting those cuffs off her wrists,” said Harrow, walking so fast that he was practically jogging. His voice shook. “That poor woman. He’s torturing her — we have to help her.”

  Didn’t you hear me? I said you were right.

  “No, you were right. We have proof now, just like you said.”

  Proof of what?

  “That he victimizes people. Miss Floss must know something, or he wouldn’t be doing this to her. We have to get those things off her and find out what it is.”

  What happened to this being the very last thing we did before going to Luffa?

  “You heard him — Exalted Nexus Keene is at the Thatch. If I go there, he’ll take me for questioning, and who knows how long he’ll keep me? We have to do this now.”

  Harrow stowed Syrah on his shoulder and hurried toward town, moving at such a pace that Syrah thought they might even catch up with Miss Floss before they got to the Copper Door, but they did not run across her. At the center of town, the cobbled streets were full of moonlit mist that had rolled off the river. It was so late now that few people were out — Shepard’s Alehouse was still open and noisy, but nearly all the other shops were closed.

  Syrah flung himself into the fountain when they passed it, forcing Harrow to pick him back up.

  Just hold on to me, all right? I can’t talk to you up there.

  “There’s nothing to say.”

  Uh, yes there is. Her bracelets are magic. How do you plan to get them off?

  This stymied Harrow for a moment, and Syrah heard his thoughts. That’s true. I don’t know.

  See? Syrah shot back. Let’s go to the Thatch. Tell Luffa. Tell Exalted Nexus Keene, even. He can probably do something about it. We can’t.

  “We’re already here,” said Harrow. “Plus which, Burdock told her not to let anybody take them off. Why would he bother to do that, if they can’t be removed?”

  He also told her to run away and tell him if someone tried it.

  “I’ll unlock them fast, and then she won’t have to run.”

  I didn’t see a clasp. They’re solid metal.

  “Then I’ll cut them off her,” said Harrow grimly, and he headed for the Copper Door.

  The shop was closed and locked, and dark within. Inside the window glass, written prettily in piped frosting, were the words PROGRESS IS SWEET! VOTE FOR BURDOCK!

  Harrow knocked, but no one came. A sign in the window directed deliveries to go around the back, so he went to the end of the row of shops and into a narrow alley, where he picked his way around barrels and over empty crates until he came to a door with a fancy CD painted on it. He pulled the delivery bell.

  They soon heard movement inside, and then a voice. “Leave deliveries on the step.”

  “Miss Floss, it’s Harrow Steelcut. Please let me in.”

  For a moment, the only reply was absolute silence. Then G. G. Floss opened the door. She looked ill and troubled, and not at all her usual stylish self. Her clothes were untucked, her sandy hair was in a loose, uneven tail, and she wore no shoes. She put her head out and looked both ways down the alley. No one else was there. She frowned and let Harrow in, then shut the door and locked it.

  “I was getting ready for bed,” she said. “I’m sorry to be so …” She glanced down at herself. “Barefoot,” she finished, and chuckled. “This isn’t usually how I welcome guests. But guests don’t usually show up at midnight, so you get what you get.” She paused and checked Syrah. “Everyone loves frogs lately,” she muttered, and then, “Why are you here?”

  “It’s about Burdock.”

  Syrah hopped twice. No it isn’t, remember? Don’t tell her why you’re here or she’ll run.

  But Miss Floss had no idea what Harrow really meant. “I see,” she said heavily. “The debate, and the way those people attacked you. It was dreadful, but it wasn’t Burdock’s fault —”

  “No, I know. I just … do you have a pair of shears?”

  Syrah groaned inwardly. Harrow was the worst.

  “Shears?” Miss Floss raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

  Harrow shifted. He scratched his head and set his hand on Syrah as though to pet him, and Syrah thought fast.

  There’s a tear in your boot and it’s giving you a blister. You need to cut it off.

  “There’s a rip inside my boot,” said Harrow. “A piece of leather came loose and it’s giving me a blister. I just want t
o cut it off before I walk home.”

  “Oh.” Miss Floss shrugged. “Sure, I have something you can use. Come on.” She opened a door beside her and descended a long flight of narrow steps into a big, clean, well-lit workspace. Shelves lined the walls on either side of the door, full of platters that were piled with finished candies. Several wooden worktops were stationed around the room, all covered with different tools for candy making. Syrah saw molds, spatulas, rolling pins, cutting boards, and tiny whittling knives. There were colored dyes in dozens of little phials, and sugars of every color in copper-topped shakers. Above one of the tables, Miss Floss had proudly framed a small article titled PLENTY’S YOUNGEST APPRENTICE.

  But it was the next table that really caught Syrah’s attention. On it stood a giant gingerbread house, half Miss Floss’s size, even more spectacular than the one she had shown them at the ATC. It was a child’s dream — with a chocolate chimney sticking out of a cloudlike meringue roof, nougat brick walls, pink sugar windows, and vanilla biscuit doors with gumdrop knobs. As a boy, Syrah would have longed to stick his fingers in the frosted front porch or snatch a shiny lollipop from the garden fence. Around the fence ran a stream that looked exactly like cool, flowing water. Beside this tempting house of sweets sat a smaller and much bleaker structure — a hovel made of black licorice and burned pastry. Outside it, a marzipan boy in ragged fondant clothing lay limp on the worktop.

  “That house is amazing,” said Harrow. “Curtains in the windows and everything. What are they even made of?”

  “Very thin fruit leather,” said Miss Floss. “It’s all for the campaign. I’m going to do some storytelling tomorrow in the town square. You should come.”

  “Storytelling?”

  “Clementine Pease wants people to think that Burdock is hiding his past, but that’s not true. He has nothing to hide. He’s a hero, in fact, and I’m going to make sure that everyone knows it.” She went to one of the worktops and opened a drawer.

  Maybe that was why Burdock was making her do things, Syrah thought. He wanted her to campaign for him. It made sense — G. G. Floss was influential. Lots of people would listen to her.

  “It’s warm down here,” said Harrow, and Syrah agreed. He felt tacky and thirsty, and it was easy to see why. At the back of the room, shining like it had just been polished, stood a great copper oven, with an elegant CD etched into its copper door.

  “How do you keep the candy from melting?”

  “Magic,” said Miss Floss, holding up a hand and wiggling her purple fingertips. Her copper cuff gleamed. “I can make candy do pretty much anything. Now, where did I put … Ah.” She plucked a pair of kitchen shears from among other tools, and handed them to Harrow. “Those ought to work,” she said.

  “They, uh — they will. I think they will.” He took a deep breath, and Syrah cringed, waiting to see what he would do. For a long moment, the answer was nothing. Harrow reached up to pet Syrah again, and Miss Floss watched him, frowning.

  “Don’t you need to fix your boot?” she asked.

  I’ll distract her, Syrah thought. I’ll mess with her stuff. When she tries to stop me, you take advantage and use the shears. Make it quick.

  “Okay,” Harrow muttered. He moved closer to one of the worktables and sat on a stool. He reached down as though to remove his boot, and Syrah leapt onto the table and headed for the sugar shakers. He banged into one, upsetting it. Yellow sugar scattered onto the worktop.

  “Stop!” said Miss Floss. She reached for Syrah, then withdrew. “Ugh — I don’t want to touch him. Harrow, would you please get your frog?”

  “Yep.” Harrow stood beside her, holding the shears open in his hand. Instead of reaching for Syrah he took Miss Floss by her fingertips and pulled her wrist up in front of him. With a quick, sure movement, he slid the shears between the bracelet and her skin. He closed them hard, and they sliced through the metal. The first copper cuff fell to the floor.

  Miss Floss’s face went slack. “No,” she said, in the flat, wooden voice she had used with Burdock earlier. She stared emptily down at the shining pink burn scars on her naked wrist. “No. Stop. Leave them as they are.”

  “I know you have to say that,” said Harrow. “I know what he’s doing to you. I’m here to help.” He reached for her other hand, but her wrist, still shackled, swung away from him, forcing her to pivot and pulling her toward the stairs like a leash. She began to run just as Burdock had told her to, dragged by the cuff she still wore, until she grabbed the stair railing with her freed hand and held on tight.

  “Stop,” she said. “Leave them as they are.” But she was crying. Her cuffed hand grabbed her free wrist and tried to rip it from the railing.

  Harrow got behind her and reached around to grab her by the cuff. She made a sound of rage and fought him hard, yanking against his grip.

  “Don’t move,” he shouted, holding up the shears. “Please, I don’t want to cut you —”

  Miss Floss grabbed her cuffed hand with her free one and tried to hold it against the wall to make it still. As she fought herself, she screamed the words again. “No — Stop — Leave them as they are —”

  Now, Syrah thought frantically, wishing he could do anything to help Harrow finish it. Cut it off now — you have to —

  Harrow pressed Miss Floss against the stairwell wall and pinned her forearm with his own, which was far stronger. With his other hand, he slid the shears into place and snapped them shut.

  The second copper shackle dropped.

  Miss Floss stumbled down the steps and sank onto the workroom floor, trembling. Tears stained her face. She stared in mingled horror and amazement at her burned, bare wrists.

  Harrow knelt beside her, distraught. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t trying to hurt you. Are you all right? Are you free?”

  She nodded. “I’m free,” she whispered. She turned to Harrow, and a smile broke across her face like the rising sun. “I’m free,” she repeated, and she threw her arms around him. “Oh thank you,” she said passionately. “Thank you.”

  Harrow returned her hug, though awkwardly. “It’s all right,” he said. “He can’t hurt you.”

  Miss Floss laughed breathlessly and let him go. She sat back. “How did you know?” she said. “I thought nobody would know — nobody else ever realized.”

  “Somebody poisoned the governor,” Harrow answered. “I thought it might be the Nexus. I was out there by his house tonight, and I saw him jerking you around like some kind of puppet.”

  “You were there,” Miss Floss repeated, looking around until she found Syrah. “The frog,” she said. “Of course — we thought that noise was the frog, but it was you, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. I followed you here to help you if I could. I thought you might know for sure what the Nexus has done. I figured maybe that was why he put those things on your wrists.”

  Miss Floss got to her feet, nodding. “I do know what he’s done,” she said. “Oh, there’s so much I can tell you about him. I knew him, you see. When he was Hans Rantott. I lived in the Arrowroot Forest, and I know everything — everything.”

  “Exalted Nexus Keene is at the Thatch,” said Harrow. “I’ll go there with you. We’ll tell him what we know, and he can help us.”

  “Yes, I’m sure he can.” Miss Floss went to the giant candy house and gently touched its chocolate chimney. “You freed me,” she said. “I have to do something for you.”

  “No, don’t worry about —”

  “Please.” She looked back over her shoulder at him. “Let me tell you what happened. I want to tell you now, before we go. Will you let me do that?”

  Syrah hopped closer to them, eager to know what she had to say. He had gone to serious lengths to find out whether Burdock had poisoned Calabaza, and now he would finally get the answers.

  “Of course,” said Harrow. “Tell me.”

  She took a black apron from a hook on the wall, looped it over her head, and tied it shut. An embroidered copp
er oven glinted at its top. She took a handkerchief from her apron pocket and wiped her eyes, then smoothed back her sandy hair and retied it neatly in a tail. “I’m also going to make you the best cup of chocolate you ever had in your life,” she said, squeezing Harrow’s shoulder. “I’ll just get the cream.” She vanished down a corridor that branched from the room.

  Harrow dropped into a chair by the oven, looking beat. He put out his hand for Syrah, who hopped into it. “We did it,” he said. “I can’t believe it.”

  Yeah …

  But something was bothering Syrah. He couldn’t quite say what, but he trusted the instinct. It was the same way he had felt about Calabaza’s basket and the book of edible plants — that somewhere, he had missed an important detail. Something that mattered.

  Harrow looked around the room. “Like what?” he said.

  Syrah wasn’t sure. He hopped down from Harrow’s hand onto the floor, and as he swept his bulging eyes around the cellar, he had the feeling again. There was a clue in this room. Something out of place, perhaps. He eyed the severed copper cuffs on the floor. No, it wasn’t those…. His gaze trailed along the giant gingerbread house and over the candy-making awards, then drifted to the framed article on the wall. PLENTY’S YOUNGEST APPRENTICE. That headline was familiar.

  Miss Floss returned, carrying a tray laden with two jugs, a bowl of large chocolate pieces, a copper cup, and a copper shaker. She set down the tray and took a double boiler down from a hook on the wall.

  “I have six awards just for hot chocolate,” she said. “I don’t even sell it in the shop — it’s something I only make on very special occasions.”

  “I’m honored,” said Harrow.

  She filled the bottom pan with water from one of the jugs, broke chunks of heavy dark chocolate into the top, and set the whole thing on the copper oven’s hearth. “What’s happening with your father?” she asked, taking up a wooden spoon to stir the chocolate. “Does he know you came here to help me?”

  “No. The Exalted Council arrested him.” Harrow looked uncomfortable. “Honestly, they probably wanted to arrest me too, but they didn’t find me. I’ll have to turn myself in when we go back to the Thatch.”