Page 25 of Yellow Belly

Stefano swallowed. “Help. Ball.”

“It is you speaking! I’ve never heard of a talking frog before. What kind of magic is this?”

He wasn’t really a talking frog, of course, but explaining the curse was beyond his current abilities. And he was feeling increasingly frantic with every minute that passed, knowing that each of those minutes might be filled with agony for Henry.

“Ball,” he said as insistently as he could.

“Oh! You’re offering to fetch my ball. Yes, that would be lovely.” She gave him the smile of a person who was accustomed to having everyone do her bidding but was being polite about it. Stefano himself had likely displayed the same smile many times.

Stefano blinked at her. “Kiss. Me.”

She immediately wrinkled her face in disgust, and the friends standing behind her made ew noises. Ridiculously, this hurt Stefano’s feelings. He wasn’t as handsome as Henry, but he wasn’t ugly either, and he’d always thought they made a pretty couple.

But of course this was not the time for vanity. “Kiss,” he repeated. It was a very difficult word to say. “Ball.”

Dianora’s gaze shifted suddenly, as if she was looking at something behind him. He couldn’t see what that might be and couldn’t turn around in her grip, which was firmer than he liked. But then she gave a quick nod and returned her attention to him. “Fine. Bring me my ball and then I shall kiss you.” And she tossed him into the pond.

The ball had been bright in the sunshine, but searching was difficult in the murky water. The light was mottled due to leaves floating on the surface. Plants grew on the pond bottom, their gently waving fronds obscuring what lay at their base.

Stefano looked around frantically, trying to tamp down his rising panic as he nosed and poked through debris and soft mud. His movements caught the attention of some of the big fish, which swam slowly closer, rather ominously. He’d never been hunted before but was fairly certain it was happening now.

Acting on instinct, he froze with arms and legs outspread—looking, he hoped, like a piece of vegetation floating aimlessly. The fish came a little closer and then, either growing confused or losing interest, swam away. Stefano was afraid to move.

Afraid.

Hadn’t his fears put him and Henry in this situation to begin with? Hadn’t his fears kept him from standing up to his father for years, leading to Henry being subjected to beatings that left him scarred? Fear hadn’t just unsettled Stefano’s stomach over the years. It had made his and Henry’s lives inestimably worse, and it was well past time to find the courage to work past that fear.

All right, Stefano scolded himself silently. You’ve searched before for things that were difficult to find. Tiny insects in thick brush. Minuscule footprints and scat and gnaw marks of rodents. Birds’ nests hidden in tree canopies. Even frogs, dozing on the banks of a pond. You’ve found those things by being careful and methodical. You can damn well find a golden ball.

He began moving again, but it wasn’t the agitated kicks and sweeps of before. Now he surfaced briefly to get a better idea of where he was in relation to where the ball had gone into the water. He did his best to plot a likely trajectory—which wasn’t so different from projecting where to shoot out his tongue at a flying insect. Then he drifted slowly along the bottom, looking with his eyes but also probing with his long front toes.

And there, at last, was the ball.

It was nearly as large in diameter as Stefano and much heavier; gripping it was difficult too. He struggled for a while before getting it balanced on his back and then painstakingly rising close to the surface. Several times as he swam toward the island, the cursed ball rolled off, and he had to get it into place again. He was strong for his size, but this burden seemed beyond his ability—until he remembered that Henry had spent years burdened with Stefano and had never complained.

It felt as if it took years, but eventually Stefano managed to crawl to the very edge of the water where he remained, the ball weighing on his back.

Princess Dianora gave a happy cry and scooped up the ball. “It did it! It got it back to me!”

“Kiss,” Stefano reminded her.

Clutching the ball, she hurried away with her friends. They trotted over the bridge and then, accompanied by a pair of guards, toward the palace. She never looked back.

Chapter Thirteen

Apparently the Fraysian royal palace, in contrast to that of King Cyrus, didn’t have dungeons. Henry wasn’t relieved, however, because this place did have a small torture chamber, and that was where he was now. His captors had removed the bag covering his head, and they’d taken the gag away… along with every scrap of his clothing. He hung naked by his shackled wrists, the chains so short that he could barely scrape his toes against the cold tile floor.

Henry was accustomed to physical pain, so the ache in his wrists, arms, and shoulders was almost bearable. And the fear of what was going to happen to him, well, he felt it, but mildly. Merely an annoyance buzzing around his head. His cursed heart was likely the reason for that. But the iron bands had only a small impact on another emotion, which was the distress of being separated from Stefano.

Henry had yelled for some time, his shouts echoing off the plaster walls until his voice grew hoarse and his throat raw. He’d been pessimistic all along about the outcome of this journey, knowing that he was destined for loss and sorrow at the very least. But this wasn’t the ending he’d envisioned: his prince, abandoned and alone, so small that any number of things could harm or kill him, and completely unable to protect himself. What could a frog do if attacked?

“Stefano.” His moan crackled and burned like a flame.

Not long after, three people entered the room. The woman and one of the men were dressed in the uniform of the Fraysian royal guards. Neither of them looked happy to be there. In fact, the way they carefully avoided his gaze reminded him of the guards who’d whipped him in Stefano’s stead, fulfilling a duty, but one they didn’t relish.

The third person was a middle-aged man, tall and thin, clean-shaven, with graying hair pulled back in a queue. Although his clothing looked expensive, it was in understated tones of navy blue and without ornamentation. His only visible jewelry was a single large gold ring. Henry didn’t sense cruelty on his face, or even something like King Cyrus’s implacable coldness, but there was no warmth or sympathy either.

Henry wanted to beg for water, but instead he said, “Please. Stef⁠—”