Cloaked (6 page)

Chapter 12

Six swans came flying through the air.

—“The Six Swans”

Everything’s black. Cave black. I feel walls around me like I’m in a box. Or a coffin. Is that it? Am I dead? Did the guard kill me? No. Death would be drier. There’s something cold and clammy under my hip.

And there’s dripping, water dripping on my head. Drip, drip, drip. Am I in a tomb or a catacomb? It feels like something from an Indiana Jones movie. I listen. The voices, Victoriana’s and the guard’s, are gone.

I sneak my hand down to the cold, clammy thing. It’s not moss or some small, dead creature. It’s cloth. A washcloth. I feel hard porcelain beneath me, like a bathtub. But something’s different. It’s small, like a regular bathtub. I smell Irish Spring soap.

We use Irish Spring.

Am I home?

No. Not possible. I was at the hotel, seconds ago, listening to Victoriana with the guard, clutching the cloak around me, trying to hide, wishing I was home.

No.

I pull off the cloak, look up. It’s dark, but I see the outlines of familiar shapes. The indisputable truth of it hits me.

I wished to be home, and now I am.

I pull the cloak away and sit up, barely missing the leaky faucet, which pays me back by shooting water into my eye. I peek out from behind the shower curtain.

I’m home. The cloak worked.

The faucet’s dripping on my forehead. The washcloth’s soaking my jeans. The bathtub is tiny and hard. I wish I was out of this bathtub.

And then, I’m dumped onto the bathroom floor.

Cool!

I wish I was in the kitchen.

I am!

I wish I was back in the bedroom.

This is so bizarre.

But it’s happening. It’s magic. There’s magic here, magic in this cloak. Maybe there’s magic in all of it, in the world—the frog, the spell, the witches!

Maybe there’s magic enough, even for me, for me to find the frog and be with Victoriana, to live like a king instead of a shoe repair guy.

But that’s crazy. There’s no magic. I blacked out. The guard caught me and hit me in the face. I’m working too hard, not sleeping enough, stressed out. Maybe it’s all a dream.

I feel the cloak around me, soft and warm like nothing I own. I didn’t dream this. I touch my jeans pocket. The earpiece Victoriana gave me is there too. It’s real. I put it into my ear, but of course, there’s nothing to test it on.

Still, I hold the cloak tighter around me.

“I wish I was at the hotel.”

And then, I am. I blink. It’s blinding in the silent lobby. The night clerk is asleep at the desk, his hand still on the mouse, and the screen open to a site the management wouldn’t much like. The fountain is off, and the swans are in their house.

I sneak over to the parrot’s covered cage and remove the canvas covering. If the cloak works, then maybe . . .

“Hello?” I whisper.

It takes a few tries to wake the bird, but finally, it repeats, “Hello?”

“Um . . .” I’m at a loss for words. “Whatcha been up to, ah, boy?”

Nothing.

“Hello?” I say.

“Hello?” the parrot repeats.

No answer. I fiddle with my earpiece, then try again. “Hey, if you don’t want me bothering you, I won’t. Just let me know you understand.”

“Would you look at that?” a voice says somewhere in the room. “Boy’s trying to talk to that dumb-cluck bird.”

I jump back, embarrassed at being caught. “Hey, I was just . . .” I look around. No one’s there. I glance at the parrot again.

“AWK!” it squawks.

No. Not him. But if not him, then who? The desk clerk? Still snoring. There’s no one else here. Unless . . .

I pull the cover back over the cage, then start toward the fountain where the voice came from. A swan is standing there, dipping a webbed foot into the water. When I get close enough, I look around again before whispering, “Were you talking to me?”

The swan raises his foot close enough to his chest that I can imagine it saying, “Me?” At least, I could if I was crazy. Which maybe I am.

“Yeah, you. See anyone else around here?”

“You seem to prefer speaking to that azure-colored goofball,” it says, then turns away.

It works. It works! At least, I think it does. I’ve never heard a swan say anything before, and now I’ve got one mad at me.

“I’m sorry,” I tell the swan’s retreating back, “but everyone knows parrots are the ones that can talk. I mean, usually.”

The bird turns back. “Parrots merely mimic, repeat what they have heard a thousand times. The only animals who can truly speak are those who were once human.”

“So you were once human?” Just like Victoriana said.

“Obviously.”

“And you were . . . someone turned you into a swan?”

The bird raises the feathers above his beady, black eyes.

“Okay, you were. But I’ve never heard you talk before, and I’ve been at this hotel my whole life.”

“Maybe,” the bird says, “you didn’t listen properly.”

This is incredible. “So there are others like you, others who can talk?”

“More than you’d think.”

“And do you talk to one another?” An idea’s dawning on me. “Could you help me? Do you know other talking animals? Would you know where to find more of them, like a network?”

The bird says nothing, walks away, and returns a moment later, followed by five other swans. “My siblings,” he says, “Harry, Truman, Jimmy, Mallory, and Margarita.”

The swans ignore me, talking among themselves.

“Is it true?” one says.

“Can he really hear us?” says another.

“Yeah, right,” says a third. “Ernest’s always messing with us.”

“Ask him,” says the swan I was talking to, who I guess is Ernest.

Finally, another swan turns to me. “I know you can’t understand, but I’m Mallory.”

“Hi.” I start to hold out my hand, then realize they don’t have hands. “I’m Johnny.”

The swan flips its wings, shocked, then runs over to the others. They all start whispering at the same time, but so softly I can’t understand them. Finally, Ernest says, “They want to know what you want.”

“What I want? I guess . . . I want to see if you could find out about another, um, transformation. See, there’s this guy, a prince, who’s been turned into a frog. Have you heard about him? I think he’s down in the Keys.”

At the word “Keys” they all start whispering again, which I think is a little rude, actually. Finally, I say, “So, do they know anything?”

Ernest turns back to me. “No.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, no, we haven’t heard of this particular frog. But it’s possible we might find out about him. There’s a great deal of connectivity between transformed beings. I’m told there’s even an e-group, though my siblings and I haven’t been able to participate due to an unfortunate combination of lack of fingers and the fact that the desk clerk is online all night.” He gives the sleeping clerk a reproachful look. “So we may be able to help you. We’re from the Keys ourselves. But we’d want something in return.”

“Like what?”

“Our sister. You need to find her.”

“Is she a swan? There’s a swan missing?” I look around, surprised I haven’t heard about it before. Mr. Farnesworth loves those swans.

“No, no, not those sisters. One who is still down in Key West, a human. She’s the only one with the power to save us, but she doesn’t know we exist.”

“Why not?”

“We were sent away before she was born.” The swan glances around and, seeing no one watching, jumps onto the sofa. When he has made himself comfortable, he begins again.

“Our father was the king of Key West,” he says.

“Um, Key West doesn’t have a king.”

“He was. It’s true.” He looks at Margarita for validation, and she nods.

“It’s true,” she says.

“He was the king of Key West,” Ernest continues, “and our mother died. Daddy married a mean woman who was really a witch in disguise. She banished us to Plantation Key and turned us into swans. When she found out our father visited us anyway, she sent us to this . . . this petting zoo of a hotel. The only way for the enchantment to be broken is . . .” He begins to cough and spit.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I’m sorry. I guess”—cough—“I’m just not used to talking anymore. Margarita, can you tell him?”

Margarita says, “For the enchantment to be broken, our sister must find us and make shirts out of flowers.”

Shirts out of flowers? But I let it go. “And you’ll help me find the frog if I—?”

“If you promise to look for our sister, Caroline, while you’re in the Keys.”

“But I don’t know anything about her.”

“It should be easy to find her. Her name’s Caroline, and her father was the king of Key West.”

“There’s no . . . ,” I start, then think better of it. “Okay, I’ll look. I promise.”

Margarita nods her long neck. “Then we’ll help you.” She waddles over to the group and says, “Harry! Truman!” When two swans look up, she says, “This young man is looking for a frog who used to be a prince.” She turns to me. “What does he look like?”

I take out the photo I’ve been carrying around and explain that the frog is named Philippe and is the crown prince of Aloria.

Harry, or maybe it’s Truman, shakes his head. “Ah, yes, it’s hard being a prince. I was once a prince too, Prince Harry of Key West.”

With his beak, he plucks the photograph from my fingers, then brings it to the other swans. They examine it, then Harry tucks it under his wing. He turns to me.

“My siblings and I will do everything we can to help. We want to help transformed creatures. But, of course, you must remember your promise to us.”

“I will.”

The two swans raise their wings as if in salute. Then, looking left and right to make sure no one sees them, they push through the revolving door and down the street.

I watch them leave. Farnesworth is going to flip.

“They’ll come back if they find something?” I say to Ernest and Margarita.

“As soon as we hear something, I’ll tell you,” Margarita says.

I’m still wearing the cloak, so I wish myself back home.

As soon as I do, I’m there in the kitchen. My mother sort of starts when I appear. She stammers, unable to speak.

“It’s real,” I tell her, “all of it.”

Chapter 13

It being real changes everything. It means I’m not taking Princess Victoriana’s money for a free trip bumming around the Keys. I’m taking it for a quest, a discovery—like Christopher Columbus discovering America, only for real. And if I find the frog, I get the princess. Mind-blowing. I woke up this morning an ordinary slob who didn’t know there was such a thing as curses and spells and swan people, and now . . .

Whoa.

So I’m going on a quest. For real. First, I send a bill up to Victoriana’s room with the words “Paid in full for services to be rendered” written on it. Then, I need to talk to Meg.

As soon as she comes in, I corner her. “Hey, got a minute?”

“I have to put the coffee on. Have a seat.”

I sit, figuring it will be a long wait while she cleans out the old coffee, then starts new. But she walks across the shining white floor, flips a switch, then returns. “’Sup?”

“I have to go away for a while.”

“Away?” She looks surprised. She knows I never go anywhere or do anything. I knew there’d be questions, so I’d worked on my lie.

“It’s about my father,” I say. “We have some news about him.”

“Your father?” More surprise. I never talk about my father, mostly because I don’t know anything about him. “Wow, that’s great, Johnny. But didn’t you think he was—?”

“Dead? Yeah, he’s been as good as. I haven’t seen him in forever. But my mom heard from his sister, my aunt Patty. She says he showed up, and he got some money. He, um, won the lottery.”

“Really? The Florida lottery?”

I think fast. She’d be able to find out if he won the Florida lottery, so I say, “Ah, no. The Alabama lottery. That’s where he lives, Alabama. So I’m going up to see him. In Alabama.” Alabama is a ten-hour drive. “The money would really help now.”

“Your mom’s sending you?” Meg glances at the coffeemaker to see if the light’s on. “Wouldn’t it be better to hire a lawyer?”

“That’s our backup plan, but it would take a long time. She figures maybe if I showed up, he’d just write a check. Besides, I wouldn’t mind seeing him. He’s my father.”

Her dark eyes meet mine. She looks disappointed, somehow, and for a second, I’m sure she knows I’m lying.

“Yeah, I guess you’re really excited about meeting him. Where in Alabama?”

“Montgomery,” I say, remembering the name from when we learned state capitals in fifth grade. If I thought hard enough, I could probably come up with the state flower too. “The Yellowhammer State.”

Meg nods. “Well, that sure is exciting, him winning the Alabama lottery and all.” Again, there’s something in her voice like she knows I’m lying. But she can’t. All I’ve ever told her about my father is that he’s gone.

“Yeah, anyway, I was hoping you could, um, keep an eye on Mom while I’m gone?”

“In Alabama?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. I worry about her.”

“Yeah. She’ll worry about you too. I hope you’re not doing anything dangerous.”

I guess I didn’t think out the story well enough, but it’s not like I could tell Meg the truth. She’d never believe me. I mean, I didn’t believe all the stuff about enchanted frogs, at least not until I met the nice talking swan. Besides, I told Victoriana I’d keep her secret. And Meg doesn’t approve of Victoriana. She’d have major problems with me marrying her.

Still, it feels crummy lying to Meg. She’s my best friend.

“Don’t worry.” She touches my hand and looks all sympathetic, which makes me feel worse. “You know what Maya Angelou said.”

“What?”

“‘All God’s children need traveling shoes.’ Oh.” She points at a one-shoed businessman at my counter. “Looks like you’ve got an emergency.”

It’s hours before I talk to Meg again. Every time I try to look at her, she becomes very involved in sweeping crumbs or straightening croissants. So I’m surprised when, at three o’clock, she shows up at my counter.

“I wanted you to have this.” She holds out a small, blue drawstring bag. “For luck.”

I pull the bag’s silken strings and find inside a man’s gold ring with a flat white stone. When I look closer, I see every color I can imagine, gleaming like the scales of a reef fish.

“It’s an opal,” Meg says. “Been in my family for generations.”

“You want to give it to me?”

“It’s a loan. My grandmother Maeve gave it to me. You can give it back when you return.”

“But what if—?”

“Opals are fragile, so don’t wear it all the time. But if you’re ever in trouble, put it on, and it will bring you luck. Luck o’ the Irish, you know.”

“Luck. Good. I’ll need it.

Meg smirks. “At least, that’s what my grandmother says. Superstitious. I’m not sure I believe in luck, but I’ve worn it for big tests, and I’ve always done well.”

“Could be because you studied?”

And yet, it doesn’t sound as dumb as I thought it would. I believe in magic now, so why not good old Irish luck. I return the ring to its bag and pocket it. “Thanks, Meg.”

“Only put it on if you’re in trouble. But if you’re ever having a hard time in Alabama, it may work.”

“I will.”

“What’s going on with the shoes?”

I shrug. “Still breaking.”

“No, silly, your designs. The ones you were going to ask Princess Perfect to wear.”

“I guess I’ll finish them when I get back.”

“Do you have the designs you drew?”

“Under the counter.”

“Why don’t you leave them with me while you’re gone?” Meg asks.

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. If your mom hires someone to help, they might snoop through them.”

I start to point out that I could just leave them at home, but I stop myself. Why not let Meg hold on to them while I’m gone? I trust her. I know she’d never lie to me the way I’m lying to her. So I hand them over.

“When are you going?” she asks.

“I’m not sure. Soon as my mom gets everything together.”

Nothing happens the next day or the day after. But on the third morning, when I go to open the shop, I see something jammed in the lock.

It’s a white feather.