Page 19 of Yellow Belly

In any case, Henry was glad he’d stocked up on provisions before crossing the former border. But night approached quickly in the forest, and there was no inn to be found.

When he and Stefano were boys, they used to occasionally camp out in the garden. They would build a makeshift shelter out of sheets and then spread blankets and cushions on the ground. They rarely got much sleep as they lay next to each other, listening to the night sounds and talking endlessly about whatever flitted through their heads. It was during those evenings that Henry first started to fall in love with Stefano—when Henry sensed the light in the prince’s soul, and when he realized that despite their vastly different statuses, Stefano considered him an equal.

But now they were no longer children, and the Innisbar forest was not a palace garden. Furthermore, Stefano lacked sheets, blankets, or pillows. He found a little stream near the road, however, and cleared away larger branches and stones from a small spot along its bank. In the day’s last light, he sat down, unpacked Stefano’s cage, and opened it up.

Stefano didn’t hesitate to hop out. He landed on the ground and looked around.

“At least you’ll be comfortable tonight,” Henry said.

Instead of replying, Stefano hopped into the stream and disappeared from sight.

Henry had walked all day and was exhausted. He barely had the energy to drink a few mouthfuls of water and eat an apple and a small sausage. He certainly wasn’t capable of tracking down a frog in the dark. He lay down on the bumpy ground with his bag as a pillow, and he listened to his own heartbeat. It sounded different than it used to, the beats weaker and slightly out of rhythm, and he didn’t know whether to blame the curse or losing Stefano. He felt very sorry for himself, which did nobody any good. It was too bad the bands didn’t stop self-pity.

If he dreamed of anything that night, it didn’t stick. But when he woke up to pale morning sun, his body aching, Stefano was perched on a nearby stone, looking as if he’d been guarding Henry as he slept.

“Thank you for returning,” Henry said quietly. He got slowly to his feet and stretched out a few of the kinks. “Did you eat?”

Stefano tilted his head slightly before sticking out his tongue and using it to lick his lips, which Henry decided meant that Stefano had had his fill of insects and other tiny creatures.

“All right. Do you know how long before we reach the princess?” The question assumed that she was at her palace, that Stefano knew where the palace was, and that Stefano also knew the distance and could calculate Henry’s pace.

After a long pause—Stefano never had been good with numbers—he croaked four times.

“Four days?”

This time, Stefano nodded.

Henry suppressed a sigh. “You’ll need to direct me. Do you want to travel outside the cage, now that there’s nobody to see?”

Another nod.

After a quick meal and rudimentary washup, Henry tied his bag to his back. Stefano clambered up as if Henry were a tree, then settled on one shoulder. Although his weight was barely noticeable, Henry was very aware of his presence, which was both reassuring and disheartening.

As Henry walked, the road grew narrower and more uneven, with bits of fallen tree branches often in the way. A coach couldn’t have passed here. In fact, as Henry trudged endlessly uphill, he saw only two other people: an older man and woman astride a single sturdy horse. They were heading in the opposite direction and didn’t say anything as they passed. If they noticed the frog on Henry’s shoulder, they didn’t react.

There were no villages here, no farms. Just… nature. A lot of nature, including twittering birds, buzzing insects, and a dizzying array of plants in every possible shade of green. Stefano would have been delighted; perhaps he still was. Henry wouldn’t have minded making this journey with human-Stefano at his side, thrilled with every new discovery, explaining what they were seeing. But frog-Stefano was silent.

Shortly before nightfall, they reached a high ridge with sweeping views of the forest below. A small waterfall cascaded from an even higher point, and Henry made camp near its base. He sat on the ground and removed his boots. Although they were well-made, his feet were not accustomed to so much walking. He ate a little and, while Stefano splashed in the water, he lay back and gazed up at the stars. The night sky reminded him of one of King Cyrus’s capes, a great length of black velvet embroidered with gold thread, studded with jewels, and edged with fine fur.

He slept soundly despite his hard bed.

* * *

Three days later, it seemed to Henry as if he’d been walking through the forest for his entire life. The aches had faded—or perhaps he’d simply grown accustomed to them—but his entire body felt worn and insubstantial. And filthy. He was hungry too, having depleted his meager store of food. Thankfully, Stefano had hopped around in the woods, indicating fruits and plants and mushrooms that Henry could eat, and that had certainly helped. But he wanted a proper meal, with meat and bread.

Also, some conversational company would be nice. Stefano hadn’t uttered a single word since they’d crossed into Innisbar.

Every time that Henry’s thoughts strayed to the lover he’d lost, his heart felt frailer and more confined.

So it was with great relief that he noticed the trees thinning and then caught sight of the first human habitation he’d seen in days. The route had leveled out, and cultivated fields appeared with young plants in orderly rows. Henry was too much of a city boy to know what crops were growing.

He wondered idly what it would be like to be a farmer, faithfully tending plants and livestock. Always worried that a storm or sickness or other calamity would destroy everything, yet also proud to feed others. That might be an interesting life.

And what about the life of a blacksmith, muscles bulging, skin slick with sweat? A smith’s back might fail him early, but until then he was mighty, crafting necessary items out of useless chunks of metal.

Or a craftsman? Henry thought about the men and women who wove clever baskets, built sturdy kegs, created shoes or jewelry or fine clothing, who built ships or houses or stone walls that would last for generations.

Henry had never before given thought to his fate. When he was very young, the assumption was that he’d eventually join his family at the textile mill. Nobody questioned this because there were no other real options for people like him. The only variable was how long his parents could afford for him to put off the inevitable. A bit later, at the poorhouse, he’d been taught to make furniture, and he was expected to be grateful for the opportunity. He had been grateful, vaguely, although mostly he was shrouded in grief and loneliness.