Stiltskin (Andrew Buckley) (7 page)

Lily was almost completely dry. It wasn’t that the rain wasn’t falling on her but rather it chose to ignore her completely.

“Stop staring at me, it’s creepy,” said Lily suddenly and fixed him with those amber eyes.

Yes, definitely amber.
“Sorry, it’s just… how come you aren’t wet?”

The cab pulled up and Lily opened the door.

“Your world doesn’t believe I exist,” she said with such a matter of fact tone as if to convey her answer should explain everything.

“Right, then,” said Robert agreeably and got into the cab.

The Royal Exchange had existed in one form or another since the mid-sixteenth century and was still considered to be the hub of London commerce, although where once it was used for trading, it now stood as more of a mall for rich people. The current Royal Exchange building was built in 1844 and sported some lovely columns that gave it a somewhat Roman feel, as if an escaped lion from the Coliseum could suddenly pounce from its doors at any moment.

In 2001, it was remodelled to accommodate the sale of some of the finest and most prestigious brands in the world, including Gucci and Tiffany, not to mention a restaurant and a coffee shop.

Patrons of the Exchange, located on the corner of Cornhill and Threadneedle Streets, didn’t notice as a small figure dressed in a long waxed jacket, recently stolen from a now emotionally and mentally incapacitated member of the North London Association of Khuzdophobia Sufferers, made his way past the entrance and headed down the side of the building on Cornhill Street. He walked around the right-hand back corner of the Exchange and stopped in front of a large, old, wooden door that had been painted red.

The door didn’t look like it should have been a part of the Exchange, and at closer inspection, the doorway itself looked like it had been carved away by hundreds of rabbits scratching at it. This was, of course, entirely inaccurate as there had been only ninety-three rabbits.

He knocked on the door three times and stepped back. The sound of ancient bolts being unbolted could be heard, followed by rusted hinges protesting as the large door swung open to reveal a crudely carved staircase. Only ninety-two rabbits had the opportunity to work on the stairway, as Floopsie, as he had been affectionately known by his friends, had been crushed in a tragic accident earlier in the day. Thankfully, Thiside Rabbits were notoriously unemotional and the accident didn’t halt construction in the slightest.

It appeared that the door had opened of its own accord. The staircase was lit by light bulbs hanging from the ceiling with bits of chain. Rumpelstiltskin entered and began down the stairs as the door swung itself shut behind him.

Unbeknownst to the tourists and London residents milling around the Exchange, the lower regions of the building were untouched by time, ignored by everyone for hundreds of years. The last resident of Othaside to fall upon the Lower Exchange was Sir Thomas Gresham in 1565, the original architect of the building.

After the Royal Exchange was complete, Sir Thomas spent many hours inspecting every facet of the structure. During the last several months of construction the doorway was built, the red door moved into place, and the Lower Exchange had been excavated. Thiside magic ensured the doorway would never be noticed by any Othaside resident, but as it turned out, Sir Thomas happened upon the door before the magic could fully take effect.

He couldn’t open the door, as it only opened for the right people, with the right knock. He’d berated the construction council for the eyesore and horrible workmanship that had been put into the door and questioned why it had been built in the first place, as it could not be found anywhere in the plans. He dragged the lead foreman at the time around the back to show him the door, by which time the magic was in full effect and Sir Thomas was told he’d been working too hard and should go home, have a nice bath, and maybe a strong nightcap.

As Rumpelstiltskin descended, he went over his plan that was nestled in the tiny inner workings of his devious little mind. It all stemmed from his frustration, of course: limitless power within his little Dwarf body but a complete inability to do anything with it unless someone made a wish. His original plan was reaching the pinnacle when those damn Agents threw him in the Tower. But now he’d have his revenge; all he needed was the key. He cackled and the noise bounced around the stairwell as the dim light from the bulbs skittered shadows hither and thither.

He reached the bottom of the stairs that opened up into an antechamber. The little room contained nothing but a small table with a thick, black, leather-bound book and a writing quill. The wall directly facing the stairs didn’t have the same look as the rest of the tunnel. Rather than looking like the antechamber, which definitely looked as if it had been tunnelled out by ninety-two rabbits, the adjacent wall looked smooth, with a silvery quality to it so that when looked at from the right angle it seemed to shimmer slightly, and at a second glance, it just looked like a regular wall.

The Dwarf flipped open the leather-bound book and took up the quill. He jabbed the point of the quill into his hand, drawing blood, and then, with the utmost calligraphic skill, wrote his name in the book. The name faded away into the page as if it had never been written.

The shimmer in the wall rippled, giving it a liquid-like quality. Rumpelstiltskin licked his bleeding hand and cast off his disguise. He walked up to the wall and placed the palm of his hand up against it. There was a sucking sound, much like a five-year-old makes when he’s trying to get the last bit of milkshake through a straw. And with that, the Dwarf was sucked into the wall. For a while there was nothing but silence, but there then followed a screeching sound that only rabbits can make when they’re extremely excited or extremely distressed. The reason for the screeching in this instance was the latter.

Rupert was the name of the taxi driver who was haphazardly driving Lily and Robert in the general direction of the Royal Exchange building. The taxi smelled faintly of hotel soap which, as Rupert enjoyed explaining at length, was due to his hobby of collecting different kinds of soap that he stole from hotels around England. Rupert’s interjection was making normal conversation difficult but the day was hardly turning out normal.

“Back there at your apartment you seemed not to care what was going on. Doesn’t it bother you that there was a Dwarf in your bathtub? That a Fairy knocked you unconscious? Aren’t you even curious about where we’re going?” asked Lily impatiently.

“Of course I’m curious but weird things have always happened to me; I suppose they just don’t make the same impact that they used to,” explained Robert.

“You see, it’s not just the smell of the soap that’s appealing, there’s also texture, the amount of oil they contain, the class of hotel, there’s a lot of things to take into consideration,” explained Rupert.

“Look,” said Lily, “for argument’s sake can you at least appear to be concerned?”

“Fair enough. How about you start with telling me who you are?”

“No,” said Lily.

“Okay then, how about explaining what that Dwarf said about my father?”

“No.”

“How about you just tell me what you’d like me to ask you? It might speed up the conversation.”

“The funny thing about hotel soaps,” explained Rupert, “is that a lot of them are switching to that liquid stuff. I don’t stand for that kind of thing myself.”

Lily sighed. “You can ask me about the Agency.”

“All right, what’s this Agency all about?”

“The Agency was formed hundreds of years ago for the sole purpose of policing the border between Thiside and Othaside.”

Robert’s right eyebrow rose of its own accord. “This side of what?”

“What?”

“You said this side and the other side. What sides are we talking about?”

“Ya see,” carried on Rupert, “it’s a security measure so that people can’t steal the soap, no one wants to steal liquid soap. It really takes the fun out of it all.”

“There is no side, it’s the name of the realities,” explained Lily.

“So there are two realities?”

“Yes. Thiside and Othaside.”

“So this reality is Thiside?”

“Other way around, this is Othaside.”

“Of course nothing can beat those little seaside resorts up in Blackpool, they have custom made soaps in their very own little boxes.”

“Will you shut up!” said Lily. “We don’t care about your bloody soaps.”

“I was just trying to make polite conversation,” said Rupert.

“Well, make it with someone else. Look, Robert, it’s all very simple, I’m part of an Agency that makes sure no one from Othaside goes to Thiside and that the residents of Thiside don’t cause any trouble in Othaside.”

Robert stared at her blankly in much the same way that cats stare at pretty much everything. “What does any of this have to do with me?”

“I’ll leave that for Jack to explain; he’s going to meet us at the Exchange.”

“Okay, so what’s the Exchange all about?”

“We’re here,” said Rupert in a sulky voice.

“I’ll explain once we’re inside.”

“The Royal Exchange?” said Robert as they stepped out onto the soggy sidewalk. “What are we going to do, shop for shoes?”

“No, we’re here for blood.”

Lily led Robert down the right-hand side of the large building.

“What do you mean, blood?”

“The two realities have always been separate but thousands of years ago there were doors, like a hole in reality, and they were everywhere so residents of both sides could cross over whenever they liked. This caused more problems than you could ever imagine. Some people simply fell through the doors by accident, others abused the fact that they could skip between two worlds. It caused a great deal of chaos. Ever heard of the Dark Ages?”

“Of course.”

“That whole time period came about because of the doors. In the end, the Four Witches and the Wizards of Oz banded together to create a Regulator for the doors. One being who could control the passage of anyone between Thiside and Othaside. Now all the doors in Othaside are hidden unless you’re carrying a passport. The Wizards did that to protect your world. The central office for the Regulator was built into the basement of the exchange in 1844. Now if you want a passport to cross between the two worlds, this is where you come.”

“Did you just say the wizards of Oz?” asked Robert.

“Shush, we’re here,” said Lily.

Lily and Robert reached the doorway at the back of the Exchange and Lily knocked three times. The door swung open and the pair entered.

“It smells like rabbit droppings in here,” said Robert.

“They’re actually very clean creatures once you get to know them.”

They walked down the stairs into the antechamber. Lily took up the quill pen, jabbed herself in the back of her hand and scrawled her name in the leather-bound book. She held the quill out to Robert.

“Your turn.”

“My turn to what? I’m not jabbing myself with a pointy feather.”

“You need to sign your name so we can enter the Exchange.”

“I’m pretty sure I have a pen here somewhere.”

“Doesn’t work, the ledger needs your blood to let you through the wall.”