Transformed: The Perils of the Frog Prince Page 6

  “Your call,” he said.

  She squared her shoulders, grabbed the marzipan girl off the table, and marched through the flap at the back of the tent with Jack on her heels.

  They emerged in another, connected tent that appeared to be the Copper Door’s temporary storeroom. Sensationally beautiful candies filled the bowls and boxes and platters that lined the shelves. Sugar-paste roses with delicate, velvety petals, rainbow jellies that were clear as glass and scattered colored light all around them like little prisms, marshmallow birds that fluttered and chirped, and gingerbread people unlike any Syrah had seen before. Instead of raisins for eyes and bits of licorice for mouths, they had painted candy faces that were unsettlingly real. Everything in the tent was a work of art. Rapunzel, Jack, and Syrah all gazed around for a minute, enchanted by the tiny wonders.

  “I’m so sorry I offended you,” said G. G. Floss, coming forward. “It was never my intention, Rapunzel. And you must be Jack.”

  He looked surprised. “How did you —”

  “I’m fond of stories.” Miss Floss gestured to a worktable where a long cylinder of bright green fondant was being shaped into a twisting stalk with great leaves protruding from it. Beside this, a small marzipan boy with sharp black hair and sharper black eyes stood, gazing up as though into the sky. “I should have the beanstalk finished tomorrow, if you want to come back.”

  Jack gaped. “You’re joking,” he said. “That’s about me?”

  “She doesn’t know anything about you,” said Rapunzel savagely. “She got my life all wrong.”

  “I was just playing to my audience,” said Miss Floss. An embroidered copper oven glinted at the top of her long black apron. “And I wasn’t all wrong. You did leave the tower. You did become the jacks champion. The only bit I’m not sure of is how you defeated the witch.”

  Rapunzel opened her hand and looked down at the marzipan girl and witch who were nestled there together.

  “I’ve heard many versions of your tale,” said Miss Floss, moving her purple fingertips through the air as though tugging invisible strings. The candy figures stood up in Rapunzel’s palm and faced each other. “In one of them, you slew the witch with a dagger.” The marzipan girl raised her hand as though to stab the witch, though she held no weapon. “But that seemed a bit far-fetched. Witches are harder than that to kill.” The marzipan girl lowered her arm again. “In another, you pushed the witch from the tower — and I won’t lie, that’s a crowd favorite. Another favorite is the one where Jack climbed your tower and saved you from harm.” The marzipan boy floated from his position near the beanstalk to join the figures in Rapunzel’s palm. “But I heard a different rumor,” said Miss Floss. “One that traveled north with a carpenter from the Redlands. According to his daughter, who works in the Fortress of Bole, Jack was nearly killed by the witch, and he couldn’t help you at all.”

  The marzipan witch struck Jack’s candy figure, and he crumpled. Syrah flinched at the violence of it. He had been deep in hibernation for that part of their journey, and — not for the first time — he was glad he’d slept through it.

  “Don’t do that,” said Rapunzel sharply.

  “But that part’s true,” said Jack, his voice quiet. “That happened.”

  With a gentle gesture, Miss Floss lifted marzipan Jack into the air and sent him soaring back to the worktable to wait beside his beanstalk.

  “And of course the story where Prince Dash rescues you is a complete fabrication,” said Miss Floss. “I didn’t even make scenery for that one, though people simply love to tell it.”

  “He was turned to stone,” said Rapunzel. “How could anybody think he saved me?”

  Miss Floss laughed. “People don’t care about facts,” she said. “They believe whatever gives them comfort. And in your case, the truth makes people very, very uncomfortable.”

  In Rapunzel’s palm, the little candy witch changed shape, shrinking until she was nothing but marzipan bones. The candy girl covered her face as though weeping. Then she knelt, snapped the spun sugar braid from her head, and gently wrapped it around the witch’s remains.

  Rapunzel watched, silent. Her face had slipped into a neutral position that Syrah had come to think of as her I’m-Not-Crying face. She closed her fist around the candy scene.

  “True stories have a certain ring to them,” said Miss Floss gently. “When I heard that rumor, I was certain. Your witch was different from all the rest. She loved you, and you loved her.”

  Rapunzel’s chin jutted out, and Syrah heard her teeth scrape together. She was really working hard to hold it in now. “Then why,” she managed, “don’t you tell the truth?”

  “Because no one wants to hear it,” said Miss Floss. “They want to hear that the witch is dead, and that you’re a brave hero. And why shouldn’t they? Witches are bloodthirsty, White-hatched monsters, and the citizens of Yellow have had to deal with more than their share of them. Like the Mercy Witches, who ate all the children in their village rather than allow the Pink Empire’s soldiers to enslave them — you’ve heard that grisly tale, I’m sure.”

  Rapunzel shook her head.

  “Really? You’ve never … Well, it was a hundred years ago.” Miss Floss pointed to another worktable, where various shades of blue fondant had been blended and sculpted until they resembled a flowing river. Stuck into this river were little hard-candy children on lollipop sticks who looked like they were bobbing in the water. “What about the River Witch, who lured children into deep waters and then forced them to bargain with her rather than drown?”

  Syrah looked away, nauseated. Why, he wondered, had the wishing well ruined his life for doing something as small as giving a letter to a scribe, when there were evil witches in the world who truly deserved punishment?

  “I’ve only heard of the Witch of the Woods,” said Rapunzel slowly. “I read about her in a book. She ate hundreds of children, it said.”

  “The most famous of famous. As a matter of fact, I was telling that story just yesterday.” Miss Floss rolled up her sleeves, raised her purple fingertips, and flicked them toward the shelves. The little gingerbread children with the painted faces came marching through the air toward her. “The Witch of the Woods. She stole dozens of children from Cornucopia — and dozens more right here, in the woods around Plenty. That was only thirty years ago, so most of them have family who are still alive and grieving.” The gingerbread children stopped and turned toward Rapunzel, standing hand-to-hand like a little cookie fence. “Whenever the witch had more children than she needed, she turned them into gingerbread to save them for later. They were still alive, and they knew what was happening, but they could not run away. They starved to death.”

  Jack looked as queasy as Syrah felt.

  “Or so one version of the story goes,” said Miss Floss. She dismissed the gingerbread children back to their platter. “The Witch of the Woods lived in a house made all of sweets — did you know that?” Miss Floss reached under the table and brought out a stunning gingerbread house, its roof brilliant with sparkling gumdrop shingles and its garden bursting with taffy flowers and trees that blossomed with spearmint leaves and marshmallow fruit, in spite of the white-frosted, snow-covered ground. “Children who approached would break a piece of chocolate from the fence, or pluck a candied apple from the tree, not realizing that in doing so, they entered into a terrible bargain.”

  “I don’t see how that’s a bargain,” said Jack. “It’s theft, sure, but it’s not a deal.”

  “There was a sign on the door,” said Miss Floss. “Very small, and written very fine. Children who wanted candy did not bother to read it.”

  “But that’s not fair,” said Rapunzel. “Not if they didn’t know.”

  “Since when do bargains have to be fair? You were bargained away at your birth, with no say in the matter. How fair, exactly, was that?”

  “How did she die?” Jack demanded. “Did Nexus Keene kill her?”

  “The greatest witch slayer in all
of Tyme?” One corner of Miss Floss’s mouth lifted in a smile. “A good question. After all, who else could manage it? But he denies the deed, and I’m inclined to believe him. Why wouldn’t he claim responsibility, after all, for ending such a monster?”

  “Maybe he’s just humble?” said Jack.

  “Maybe.” Miss Floss tilted her head. “He is powerful, intelligent, and brave. Why not ascribe every noble quality to him? But no — I think not. This, I think, he would have told the world.”

  It was true, Syrah thought. Nexus Keene hadn’t hidden any of his other great deeds — so why hide this one? No, it must have been somebody else … but who?

  “Then who did it?” Rapunzel asked, frowning.

  Miss Floss snapped her purple fingers, and the door of the candy house opened. Syrah’s heart gave a nasty thud. Inside that house was an unnatural darkness — and from the thick gloom emerged two tiny, pasty children, dressed in rags, and hand in hand. They had no faces. Syrah felt suddenly as cold as if he were sitting in a puddle of ice water.

  “I heard another rumor,” said Miss Floss, “from deep in the Arrowroot Forest, about two wretched children, a brother and sister, who were starving and near dead. They found the house. In desperation, they ate from it, and so became the prisoners of the witch. The boy was caged — the girl, enslaved. But in the end, the boy escaped. He killed the witch and ended her tyranny.”

  Syrah could not imagine how.

  “That’s pretty vague,” said Jack. “How did he kill her?”

  “Who knows? He could have beheaded or strangled her.”

  “A starving boy in a cage?” Jack frowned. “I doubt it.”

  Miss Floss shrugged. “All that is known is this: When Nexus Keene found the candy house, the witch’s body had already been carried away by the White. But her oven stood open, still ablaze, with one shoe on the floor outside it. Perhaps the boy pushed her in. Perhaps she burned.”

  Rapunzel opened her mouth in horror.

  “But why wouldn’t he tell the world what he’d done?” asked Jack. “He’d be a hero. Everyone would love him. There’s no reason why he wouldn’t take credit….” He narrowed his eyes. “Unless he had something to hide.”

  Miss Floss looked admiringly at him. “You’re a born storyteller, aren’t you?”

  Jack gave a modest shrug. “I don’t know,” he said. “I used to tell stories to my little sister.”

  “Ah yes. Tess, isn’t it?”

  Jack looked astonished. “You really do know about my life.”

  “I know that you went to great lengths to save your sister from the White —”

  Miss Floss stopped. She turned her face away and lifted a hand to flick a tear from the corner of her eye. The copper cuff on her wrist glinted. “Forgive me,” she said, almost inaudibly. “Real heroes have that effect on me sometimes. Enough now — let me give you both something. Please.” From the pocket of her apron, she withdrew two miniature copper oven charms, designed exactly like the one that was embroidered at the apron’s top. “Bring these to any Copper Door Confectionary and you may have anything you like, free of charge, for life.”

  Jack took his.

  Rapunzel did not. “I don’t want that,” she said. “I want you to stop telling my story.”

  “There’s no stopping stories,” Miss Floss replied. “Even if I say yes, it won’t matter. The Vox already sing legend songs about you.”

  Syrah croaked in amazement.

  “The Vox?” said Jack. “Are you serious?”

  “Just take it.” Miss Floss gave Jack the second charm, and smiled at him. “The Vox sing about you too, you know.”

  He grinned.

  “Best of luck in the jacks tournament, Rapunzel,” Miss Floss called after them as they left the tent. “I’ll be cheering for you.”

  “We’d better run,” said Jack, once they got outside. “We’re definitely late. Come on.”

  They hurried past the inn’s carriage house and around the back gardens until they reached the grand front doors of the Royal Governor’s Inn. A wide, busy road separated it from the shorefront, where a collection of enormous connected tents flew Yellow Country’s flag from the highest peak.

  Syrah had a mad urge to leap toward that flag — the Gourd family would be there, he was certain. If he sprang away now, he might make it across the busy road. He could be careful, time his progress, make sure that he avoided horses’ hooves and carriage wheels. But even if he made it that far, he would still have to brave the sandy shore, where birds would spot him instantly, and he’d have to make his way through tall grasses, where snakes might be waiting.

  He had waited too long and come too far to make a mistake now. He clung to Rapunzel’s shoulder and rode with her into the inn. A clerk gave Rapunzel and Jack each a room key, and they made their way up the stairs.

  “You okay?” Jack asked, setting down the parcels to unlock his door. “All that stuff about witches …”

  “I’m fine.” Her voice was subdued, but Jack asked no more questions. Rapunzel bent down with unexpected swiftness to grab the parcel with her new gown in it, and Syrah lost his balance and had to hop down onto the floor. Rapunzel usually picked him up again when this sort of thing happened, but this time she was distracted. She shut herself in her room.

  Syrah followed Jack into his room instead, and he waited on the windowsill while Jack dressed. Dusk had fallen. Across the road, along the shore of Lake Tureen, hundreds of lanterns had been lit, and fashionable people had begun to gather, mingling in the twilight, laughing and eating and being human together.

  He distracted himself from painful envy by using his tongue to write the letters of his name in the thin film of humidity inside the window.

  S … Y …

  It was an effort to create letters that looked like letters. His tongue was suited to flicking quickly out and in again rather than licking anything at length, so he mostly made small dots close together in a pattern. It took a long time, and he didn’t expect it to get results — he couldn’t count how many times he had tried to spell things out for Jack and Rapunzel, but they never noticed. Sometimes he hopped out the pattern of his name in the dirt; other times, he painstakingly crafted wet letters on a window or mirror. And then, without fail, something happened to get in the way. Rain fell and washed the letters away, or a carriage came by and trampled them. Or — worst of all — Rapunzel and Jack simply did not see them there. After months of this, Syrah had a terrible suspicion that Rapunzel and Jack couldn’t notice his efforts.

  The wishing well won’t let them, said a voice inside him. It was a horrible voice. Syrah tried to block it out, but as the months ticked by, the voice got louder.

  Syrah croaked to get Jack’s attention, but Jack was busy cracking a Ubiquitous acorn. It fell open to reveal a greasy substance that filled the room with a pungent smell, like body odor and pinesap mixed together. Syrah closed his mouth to keep the smell out. “Ugh,” said Jack. “Never mind.”

  There came a knock at the door.

  “Are you ready?” called Rapunzel from the corridor.

  “One sec.” Jack opened the window without even glancing at the S Y that Syrah had managed to draw, and he chucked the Ubiquitous cologne outside. He finished buttoning his vest, shook out his bloused sleeves, and opened the door.

  Rapunzel stood there in her new blue gown, holding a golden badge shaped like two crossed sheaves of wheat. The crest of Yellow Country.

  “This was in my room,” she said, “with a note that says I’m supposed to wear it whenever I represent Yellow. But I don’t know where to put it.”

  “On your collar.”

  “I don’t have one.”

  Her gown had no straps either. Syrah saw the lump in Jack’s throat bob.

  “You have to pin it to the top of your dress, then,” Jack said.

  “I tried,” said Rapunzel, laying the badge against the center of her bodice, like a brooch. “But it keeps going sideways, when I do it.” She h
eld the badge out to Jack again. “Would you try?”

  Syrah hopped closer to them and sat on a side table, watching in high amusement as Jack grappled with his charge. He took the badge of Yellow Country, uncapped the pin, and tentatively held it near Rapunzel’s bodice.

  “Hold out the top of the dress, so I can — well, don’t hold it out that far,” Jack said, closing his eyes. “Rapunzel …”

  “What?”

  Syrah longed for the power to snicker. Go on, he thought, grinning inwardly. Do it.

  As if Jack heard him, he opened his eyes. “Don’t move,” he warned. And then he seized the front of Rapunzel’s dress in one hand and attacked it with the pin in the other.

  “Done.”

  The pin shone, straight and golden, at the center of the garment. Rapunzel looked down at it and twisted this way and that to make it pick up the candlelight.

  “I wonder if I get to keep it after the games?” she said. “Thanks for making it look nice.”

  “Sure.” Jack gave his hair a casual toss. “Anytime.”

  “I have something for you to wear too,” she said, and she fished a thick bracelet out of one of her Practical Elegance parcels. “Hold out your hand,” she said, and Jack did so, looking curious. Rapunzel clasped the bracelet around his wrist. “See, it’s made of braided rope,” she said. “It feels light, but there’s actually a lot, and you can unwind it in an emergency. So you won’t have to use Ubiquitous.”

  “Aw, Ubiquitous is fine. People are just people panicking,” said Jack. “I’ve never had a problem —”

  “Don’t use them anymore,” said Rapunzel. “Promise me.”

  “But —”

  “Please.” She met his eyes.

  Jack looked away and fingered the bracelet. “Fine,” he said, a bit gruffly. “Thanks.”

  “Come here, Prince Frog,” said Rapunzel, dunking a handkerchief into a pitcher of water and placing the wet rag on her shoulder. Water drizzled down her arm and collarbone, staining the gown slightly. “You can sit with me at the feast.”

  “Leave him here,” said Jack. “They won’t let you in with a frog, I bet.”