Transformed: The Perils of the Frog Prince

by Megan Morrison

  “Alas for those poor children,” Miss Floss whispered. “It was then they learned they knew nothing of horror.”

  “The Witch … of the Woods …” said Harrow, and though his voice was usually low and slow, now it dragged like dead weight. “Hansel … killed her.”

  “Hansel has never killed anyone,” said Miss Floss, her voice suddenly sharp and bitter.

  “Was it … Gretel?” Syrah wheezed, sucking for air.

  Miss Floss laughed. “Poor Prince Syrah,” she said. “You swallowed a little slumbercap, didn’t you? You sound like you’re choking to death.” She came toward him and crouched before him. “To think, the missing prince of Olive, right here in my shop. Everyone thinks you’re dead, you know. That makes things much neater for me.”

  She went to her copper oven and opened its door. She stoked the flames.

  “No one will look for you,” she said. “They stopped looking ages ago. But I’ll have to be careful about your friend here.” She ruffled Harrow’s curls, then returned to the hearth. “Your father will try to find your body, won’t he? If he’s free to do so, that is. He might just wind up in Exalted prison for the rest of his life, which would be ideal. If not, then you’d better hope he doesn’t try too hard to figure out what happened. People who poke around in my business don’t last long.”

  “Leave … my pa … alone.” Harrow’s voice sounded stronger.

  “You were almost clever,” said Miss Floss. “You knew about the bracelets, but you didn’t know what they were for, did you? If you had, you wouldn’t be in this fix — with those cuffs on, I couldn’t have done a thing to harm you. Never mind, though. It all worked out.” She added chocolate to the pan and poured off some of the cream into her mixing bowl. She took up her whisk.

  “Ava Cass …” Syrah rasped, trying to affect the same drugged tone as Harrow. “Holly Seaberry … Did they … poke around in your business?”

  “Now, how would you know about Ava and Holly?” asked Miss Floss, whipping the cream with quick, confident turns of her wrist. “You’ve been busy reading old Criers. Who showed you those stories?”

  “Clementine Pease,” Harrow answered.

  “Another one who needs a good serving of mushrooms and gravy,” said Miss Floss. Her eyes were dangerous. “And she’ll get them.”

  “You’re her,” Syrah rasped. He drew a ragged breath. “Gretel. G. G…. You never died. You killed … your uncle. And those women.”

  “Two nearly clever boys,” said Gretel, looking at Syrah with interest. “I always heard you were a selfish little half-brained witch, but there’s no denying you’re brighter than people said. Not nearly as handsome, though. Everybody said you were handsome. I guess they just meant rich.”

  Syrah prickled in spite of himself. He focused on breathing. In. Out. Just enough air to keep him going. He watched Gretel’s movements, waiting. If he couldn’t tie her up, then he was going to have to do something else with her. He could push her into the oven — but he wasn’t sure he had the stomach for that. Push her into the storage room, maybe. Lock her up. She had the keys, though. He would have to wrestle them away.

  She poured cream into the pan, and sugar. She stirred for a minute. “It’s a little lumpy,” she said apologetically. “This batch wouldn’t win any awards. But there’s no time to get it right.” She poured hot chocolate into two cups, and Syrah tensed. He had an idea.

  “Drink these,” she said. “When you’re dead, I’ll just pop you both into the oven so there’s no trace that you were ever here. That’s how I killed the witch, you know. I was so young and so afraid, but I still tricked her into drinking the chocolate. She fought, once she realized she was suffocating. Fought like a donkey. Kicked me so hard she knocked out three of my milk teeth. And then, when I was still trying to push her through the oven door, the White came to get her and take her away.”

  She spooned whipped cream into the cups, and the copper oven on her apron glittered in the firelight. Copper Door, Syrah realized, his stomach turning. She had named her candy shop after those brutal events. She was totally unhinged.

  “The White … can’t come to Tyme,” said Harrow.

  “Not the Great White Fairy,” Gretel agreed. “But a big shiny White light. It went right through my back, snatched the witch, and lifted her away. She was just a hunk of charcoal on top, with two hairy old legs sticking off. And then all the gingerbread children turned back into real children and fell on the floor, dead. And then I set Hansel free, and — Wait. Where’s my shaker?” She set her hands on her hips and looked around for the slumbercap that Harrow had already tucked into his pocket. “I thought I left it right here.”

  She turned her back to search the nearest table, and Syrah moved as fast as his weakened state would allow. He stood, grabbed both cups of chocolate from the hearth, and when Gretel turned toward him again, he flung the scalding liquid right into her face. She screamed and clutched her eyes as Syrah grabbed for the pockets of her apron, trying to find the keys. Gretel kicked him with surprising force, and he stumbled back and fell to his knees. Gretel continued to moan, one hand over her face, but now her other hand was groping along the front of the hearth. When she found the poker, she gripped it like a sword. She swung it wildly, and nearly struck Harrow. She swung again.

  “Harrow, duck!” Syrah gasped, and Harrow did as he was told, leaning forward just in time to avoid being smashed in the head.

  “Harrow,” Gretel cried. “Help me!”

  Harrow rose from his chair. He lurched toward Syrah, raised his boot, and shoved it against Syrah’s shoulder, knocking him to the floor.

  “Harrow,” Syrah managed in a rasp, “help me!”

  Harrow obeyed. As Syrah struggled to kneel, Harrow swept Gretel’s ankles with his foot, knocking her legs out from under her. She dropped to her knees hard, shouted in pain, and swung the poker. Syrah tried to jump out of the way, forgetting that he was no longer a frog and couldn’t jump anywhere. The poker collided with his temple, and he fell sideways onto the floor, stunned. Gretel uncovered her eyes, which were red and squinting. She struck at him again, but this time she missed. The poker slammed against the wooden floor near Syrah’s hand, and he grabbed the end of it in his fist. Gretel kept a tight hold, but he fought her for it.

  “Harrow, get the pan!” she screeched. “Burn him!”

  Panicked, Syrah finally wrenched the poker from Gretel’s grip just as Harrow brought the hot copper boiler down on his foot. Syrah did not have enough air to scream. Momentarily blind with pain, he kicked against the agony, knocking the pan out of Harrow’s hand. It flew at Gretel and struck her in the back of the neck before clattering to the floor. She made a noise of rage and picked up the pot by its handle.

  “Harrow,” Syrah managed, his voice barely audible. “Stop.”

  Harrow returned to his chair. Gretel launched herself at Syrah, armed with hot copper.

  Syrah rolled onto his back, holding the poker like a lance, its sharp point angled toward Gretel, who had already flung her whole weight forward. She could not stop in time. She fell onto the poker, impaled on its point. Her eyes popped wide. Her mouth stretched in a scream, but she made no sound. She released the copper pan, which fell to the floor with a clang.

  Syrah let go of the poker. Gretel thudded to the floor beside him, staring at him, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

  “NO!” cried a familiar voice.

  A wall of shining light appeared instantly between Syrah and Gretel.

  “Hansel,” Gretel whispered. Her eyes filled with tears.

  Syrah pushed himself to his knees but could not stand; the bright light was a cage, and it held him where he was. He looked up to find Burdock standing over them both, stricken. The Nexus dropped to the ground beside his sister and touched the place between her ribs where the poker had gone through. Light played from his fingers, and she took a sudden, deep breath. The color came back to her face. Burdock pulled the poker free from the wound, and no blood s
eeped from it. Still, she did not move.

  “What happened? Why did he do this?” Burdock took one of her hands and lifted it. “Where are your bracelets?” he whispered. “I came back to make sure you wouldn’t really burn them off again —”

  “Harrow cut them off,” she choked, gazing up at him. “He knew things. He thought you poisoned Calabaza. I couldn’t let him go.”

  Burdock’s face crumpled. “No,” he said, his voice breaking. “Not again.”

  “I told him not to cut them off,” she cried. “I tried to run. It’s not my fault.”

  “What did you do to Harrow?”

  “I tried to give him slumbercap, but his frog stopped me.”

  “His …” Burdock’s eyes moved to Syrah. “Your Highness,” he breathed. “Syrah. Is it you?”

  “Yeah,” said Syrah, rubbing his chest and drawing a thin breath. “Hi.”

  “You’re here?” Burdock let out a sound that was half laugh, half cry. He looked down at his sister. “Did you trap him? Keep him here all this time? But why?”

  “It wasn’t her,” wheezed Syrah. “I was — a frog. Nobody knew.”

  “A frog,” said Burdock, and understanding dawned in his eyes. “A frog. It was you out there tonight. It was you in my room at the ATC. It was you on Walter’s shoulder — you’ve been everywhere. Seen everything.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Gretel, gazing up at her brother. “He can die. Everybody already thinks he’s dead.”

  Burdock bent his head and made a low, keening sound.

  “She drugged Harrow,” Syrah managed. “Some kind of grease. He can’t resist her.”

  Harrow moaned and closed his eyes. He looked like he was in pain.

  “Is it killing him?” Syrah demanded.

  “Servoil,” Burdock murmured. “No, but if he touched it, he’s extremely nauseated and he’ll pass out soon. Gretel, where did you get it?”

  “I stole it from your magic things,” she said. “I was going to use it on you. To make you take the shackles off.”

  “They protect you.”

  “I know. I can’t help it.” Tears slipped from her eyes and ran down her temples. “I’m so tired,” she said. “It’s your turn now. You owe me. You made me kill the witch all by myself.”

  “No!” Burdock cried. “I tried, you know I tried, but I was a boy, I had no practice —”

  “You could have killed Cousin Grausam.”

  Burdock pressed his mouth shut, gray-faced.

  “You made me do it.”

  “I never made you —”

  “You said you would protect me if anyone ever found out. You promised.”

  Burdock met her gaze.

  “Kill them,” Gretel urged, her voice growing fainter. “You have to. Put them in the oven so there’s no trace.” She breathed in and out. “You promised,” she said, and then her head lolled to the side. Her eyes closed and her mouth went slack.

  Burdock felt his sister’s neck. “She’s still alive,” he murmured.

  “Her tent at the ATC,” Syrah said, and gasped for more air. “It was behind the carriage house. She poisoned Calabaza.”

  Burdock looked at him, pleading. “You have to understand,” he said. “My sister is cursed. Witch magic — White magic — poisoned her when she was eight years old. It flooded her heart after she killed the Witch of the Woods. It twisted her. When she feels threatened, or believes I’m threatened, she can’t stop herself. I gave her those bracelets to stop her hands. I did everything I could.”

  “You should have told someone.”

  Burdock laughed miserably. “Put my little sister in prison? After she saved my life twice?”

  “She murdered your cousin.”

  “He deserved worse,” said Burdock roughly. “You cannot imagine. Our parents loved us. When they died and our uncle took us as his wards — you cannot imagine.”

  Syrah was sure that he could not.

  “He was a monster,” said Burdock. “He had no human heart. Gretel was so small, and I did everything I could, but I was a child too, and I failed her. I have always failed her. I couldn’t imprison her for what was not her fault.”

  “Ava Cass. Holly Seaberry.”

  Burdock made a noise of pain. “I know,” he whispered. “I didn’t realize what she was, what the White had done to her. We sought shelter with those women after we escaped the witch, and then Gretel thought they had to die. She was afraid they would find Cousin Grausam’s body and know that one of us had killed him. After that, I sent her into town alone, with a new name. We had found money in the witch’s house. Loads of it. I buried most of it where she could find it as she needed to, and I declared Gretel Rantott dead. Then I went north to Lilac, to the Exalted. As soon as I had enough training, I made the first bracelets.”

  “She got out of them. She poisoned the governor.”

  “Calabaza brought this on himself!” Burdock spat. “Every time he turned away from facing witches, every time he left his people unprotected in order to save himself — and his mother was no better! The great Luffa Gourd never vanquished the Witch of the Woods — a little child had to do it! My sister had to do it! And what did she get as thanks? White magic, burned through her heart! If only I could root it out of her — if only I could turn her back — I’ve tried so many times —”

  Burdock put his hands over his face. Gretel lay before him, breathing shallowly.

  “It’s time to turn her in,” said Syrah. “You have to.”

  Burdock lifted his head. His eyes were red with tears. “No I don’t,” he said, gesturing to the magic light that still encased Syrah. “Nobody knows you’re alive.”

  Harrow moaned again, doubled over his knees, and dry-heaved.

  “Harrow knows.”

  “Then I’ll kill you both,” said Burdock. “I’ll tell everyone that you were never missing at all. You were hiding all year, on purpose, to take revenge on Harrow because Delicata Gourd hurt your feelings. Your ego couldn’t bear the humiliation, the rejection — you went mad from it, and you spent a year plotting to kill him. When I found you, I tried to stop you, but it was too late — and then you attacked me. I tried not to kill you, but you were vicious. You left me no choice.”

  Syrah stared at him. He sucked a breath. “No one would believe that!”

  Burdock gave a rough laugh. “You were never very self-aware. People don’t think much of you, Your Highness. They’d believe me. It would be easy.”

  Syrah tried to push against the magic bars that held him, but it was hopeless. He could not move. “Don’t,” he begged. “You’re not a murderer. You take care of your sister — you help Yellow Country — that’s who you are.”

  “An appeal to my sense of ethics,” said Burdock, nodding. “Not a bad strategy. But you forget: I’ve been lying for thirty years. This would just be one more lie — and I would have the comfort of knowing that, for once, I had protected Gretel instead of the other way around. My conscience would barely feel it.”

  “I want to see my family.”

  “I don’t care what you want,” said Burdock. “I’m sorry for your parents, but the truth is they’ve gotten over the worst of their grief already. It’s not as though you were a favorite.”

  Syrah drew a ragged, painful breath. “Fine, I’m worthless,” he said, “but Harrow isn’t. He should live.”

  “He’s a decent young man,” Burdock agreed. “But if you’re asking me to choose between his life and my sister’s …”

  “Nobody has to die.”

  Magic light flickered around Burdock’s fingers. “I wish that were true.”

  “Maybe it is. You don’t know, because you’ve never tried to save her.”

  Burdock fixed Syrah with a deadly look. “You know nothing,” he said.

  “You haven’t told Keene about her,” said Syrah, as quickly as his breath would let him. “You haven’t asked the Council for help. For all you know, they can save Gretel, but you’re too much of a coward to
find out.”

  Burdock flinched. A hit. Syrah kept talking, though his lungs burned and his head grew light. It pounded from the lack of air.

  “She always has to do the hard things,” he said, blinking hard to stay conscious. “She freed you from your cousin. She freed you from the witch.” He gasped and pushed on. “Now you’re the Nexus of Yellow, and you’re running for governor — and she’s in shackles, suffering. Is that how you want her to live her whole life?”

  “No.” It was a whisper.

  “Then tell someone.”

  “But if they can’t help her —”

  “You’ll know you tried. And no one else will get hurt.”

  Burdock shook his head. The light that weaved in patterns around his fingers intensified.

  “If you’re going to kill me,” Syrah said, his voice ragged, “just tell me first. Is my sister alive?”

  Burdock stared at him. “Your sister.”

  “Marsala. I saw her at the ATC. She had the Purge and I don’t … I don’t know if …”

  Please don’t let her be dead.

  “Keene developed a cure,” said Burdock faintly. “Marsala made a full recovery.”

  Tears sprang into Syrah’s eyes. “Good. That’s — really good. Thank you.”

  All the energy went out of Burdock’s face. His hands dropped to his sides, and the light around his fingers flickered out. The magic cage that held Syrah vanished. The moment he was free, he tried to push himself to stand. He had to get out of here before Burdock changed his mind.

  “Forgive me,” said Burdock softly, but he wasn’t talking to Syrah. He picked up his sister’s hand and held it. “It’s for you. I love you.”

  Syrah staggered toward Harrow, who was still doubled over, clutching his stomach. Syrah took him by the elbows and helped him stand. Neither of them had much strength, but they leaned on each other and hobbled slowly toward the stairs.

  “I’ll wait here,” said Burdock quietly behind them.

  Syrah didn’t answer. He needed all his breath and energy to hoist himself up the narrow steps. He just wanted to get out.