The Grimm Chronicles, Vol.1 (3 page)

“And Prince Charming,” I added. I looked up at him. “Right? Prince Charming is real, isn’t he?”

He smiled and kissed me on the forehead. “Of course, my love.”

“What’s this?” I asked, grabbing a flat wooden box sitting on one of the shelves. There was glass over one side and when I saw what was inside, I nearly dropped it.

“Careful,” Edward said, taking it from me. “They’re just butterflies.”

“
Dead
butterflies!” I exclaimed, wiping my hands on my pants. “Stabbed with needles!”

“That’s how they’re displayed.”

“Well, it’s gross. Almost as gross as spiders.”

He seemed offended, sliding the box back into the bookshelf between two books. “I have a lot of these, all over the house, so you might as well get used to them. I collect them. Every butterfly species is different. They’re all beautiful in their own way.” He looked at me and smiled devilishly. “I bet spiders can taste the difference, too.”

My stomach lurched. “Oh that is so gross. Please stop.”

He put an arm around me. “If you insist, my love.”

We went upstairs. I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong: I didn’t sleep with him. In fact, I’d never slept with him. It was strange, especially since we’d been dating for more than half a year, but I was having doubts about whether we should go that far at all. He seemed so much more mature than me. He didn’t laugh at Seth’s ridiculous jokes—he just smiled. He didn’t get excited at the hockey and basketball and football games we went to—he just clapped. He didn’t goof around with his track mates in class.

If we were going to have sex, I wanted to make sure it meant something. And I still didn’t know Edward, not really … I mean, what about that butterfly collection? What was that all about? Was he going to work in a museum or something? And I hadn’t even met his parents yet! Always so busy, running around making money.

We necked. There was nothing wrong with that, right? His bed was soft. His dark blue sheets felt silky on my bare toes. His lips pressed against mine, then made their way down to my neck. This is nice, I thought. This could be every night for the rest of my life and I would be happy.

His hand crept lower. I let it happen until he reached my waist, then pulled it back. “Not now,” I said.

“When,” he whispered into my ear. I could sense the longing. It was hard not to give in. Still, I felt something was
wrong
about this moment.

“Soon,” I said. “I promise. I turn eighteen on Monday, remember?”

He rolled back, sighing. His tight shirt had rolled up a bit and his strong abs were visible now. I had to fight the urge to run a hand along them. Gawd, I was fighting a lot of urges.

“I’m sorry,” I told him. “Really. You’re wonderful. Almost
too
wonderful. But I want to wait until I’m eighteen.” There. A little lie, yes, but it would buy me some time before I had everything figured out. Plus, I’d be a thousand dollars richer, too.

“It’s OK,” he said, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s OK. This just feels so right for me, that’s all.”

Yeah. Right. I bet it did, Edward. I didn’t think any of that at the time, though. At the time, I felt nothing but shame. Like I’d done something wrong for saying no. Like I should feel bad because I wasn’t ready to have sex with him. Why wasn’t I? He was one of the coolest guys in school. He was dark. He was mysterious. And he was mine.

He drove me home in silence. I fought the urge to apologize. Be tough, I told myself. Be
tough
. You didn’t do anything wrong. Just because a lot of the kids in the cool clique talked about sex all the time didn’t make it
cool
. Or right.

I made it past the kiss goodbye. I made it past the kitchen, where my mom was sitting at the table reading a magazine. I made it to my room. Then I cried. I felt as if I’d done something wrong saying no. I felt as if I was
supposed
to sleep with Edward.

Mom came into my room without knocking. Her soft hand rested on my back and stayed there while I let it all out.

“It’s hard,” I said into my pillow.

Mom—ever the understanding one in these moments—simply affirmed my outlook on life with a quiet “Mmmm-hmmm.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because,” Mom said, “that’s just the way it is. Life isn’t a fairy tale. It has a lot of ups and downs.”

I sighed, dry-hiccupping. The tears were gone. If Dad was up here, he’d call this a “woman thing” and maybe he was right. My cycle had begun acting less on time for the last six months, ever since I’d started dating Edward. It was nothing spectacularly big—a couple days early, then a couple days late—but it was incredibly strange given how rigorous my cycle usually was. I didn’t want to mention that to my mom. Those types of topics had a tendency to lead to “sex talks,” and I’d had enough of those. Really, just one or two is enough, Mom.

“You’re starting your new job in a few days,” Mom said. “Look forward to that. Just get through these last few exams and then focus on that. I’ll run your pillow case through the laundry tonight, too.”

“It’s not a job,” I murmured. Gawd, what a teenager-thing to say. Here she was, trying her best to cheer me up, and I had to go and pick her words apart.

She was unfazed. “Books,” she said in her soothing “Mom” voice, “are what you love.”

Chapter 2

One day the servant, who took away the dish, was overcome with such curiosity that he could not help carrying the dish into his room. When he had carefully locked the door, he lifted up the cover, and saw a white snake lying on the dish. But when he saw it he could not deny himself the pleasure of tasting it, so he cut of
f a little bit and put it into his mouth. No sooner had it touched his tongue than he heard a strange whispering of little voices outside his window.
[ii]

Mom was right. The next afternoon after exams, I was inside Franken Library, sitting behind the check-out desk—behind the desk!—with Mary Waters, the head librarian. I only had one exam left and it was the last thing I was thinking about. This was my world now. Right here. Surrounded by books.

“You won’t be horribly entertained,” Mary said to me. That was her first rule of volunteering at the library, apparently. She looked at me over thin glasses with black frames. She was in her fifties, with a round pear-shaped bottom. She wore gray pants and a white blouse with a light brown sweater wrapped around her neck. Cute librarian duds.

“I’m always entertained here,” I said, challenging her.

Mary frowned. “Well, I hope you continue to feel that way.” She touched my arm. “It’s so nice having help. I can’t bend over as well as I used to.” She pursed her lips. “Now that I think of it, I can’t stand straight that well anymore either.”

We both chuckled.

“Do I need to tell you where the books are?” she asked.

“No, ma’am.”

“Oh sweet baby Jesus don’t go calling me
ma’am
,” she said. “It’s bad enough the janitor calls me Miss Waters.”

“Mary it is,” I said. “It’s just weird … we can never call our teachers by their first names.”

She smiled. Her skin wrinkled up around her lips. Laugh lines, my dad called them. Signs of a life well-lived. I liked that. I liked knowing that Mary had smiled so much. “Why don’t you start with the children’s books? No need to make multiple trips upstairs.”

“OK.”

“So grab the mail bin.”

“Right.” I spun around, walking over to Mary’s little desk and grabbing the empty white mail bin. I walked back to the check-out desk and set it down. We filled it with children’s books and young adult novels.

“I’m so sorry the elevator isn’t working,” Mary said in a barely audible whisper. “Budget cuts. Just not much money left for us.”

“I understand,” I said. “That’s why I’m here.”

Mary nodded solemnly. “I just wish we didn’t need you. Not that you’re not a wonderful addition, dear, but we could really use another librarian. We fall so far behind so quickly when new books need to be purchased. The girls, they come in and they want all these new vampire novels and werewolf novels and I just can’t keep them straight.”

I chuckled. “There are a lot of them.”

“And the covers!” she exclaimed in a low voice. “Lordy, the number of topless men I see on these covers … well, that’s not worth complaining about, I suppose.”

“I’ll do everything I can this summer to help,” I told her. “I promise.”

She smiled, loading up the last few books. I took the bin upstairs, feeling the weight in my legs. Well, I thought, at least I’ll tone my legs this summer. It would be good exercise. I needed it. I needed to get my legs back into the shape they were in while I was still taking gymnastics in middle school. In high school, that type of thing wasn’t “cool” and I’d quit. Not that fencing was “cool,” either. But it was a lot of fun. There was only one student I hadn’t beaten at fencing yet.

Edward.

Re-shelving the books took longer than I expected. And yes, it was a little boring. I found myself scanning the shelves after every book I put away. The habit grew worse when I put away books on the first floor in the early afternoon. I was discovering new books as I went, mentally arranging them in the “to-read” bookshelf in my brain. A book about oceans (why not? Deep sea creatures are weird and cool). A fiction novel by Sandra Cisneros. A collection of short stories by Alice Munro.

I worked through lunch, hoping to get out early enough to catch a few rays of sun. But by the afternoon there were more books that needed to be put away. I went through the process again, starting with the children’s books and moving down to the first floor.

When I was done the second time, Mary had an entirely new job. “Fairy tales,” she said. “Always a favorite.” She held the book out and I touched it cautiously. It looked old. It looked as if it belonged on one of the bookshelves in Edward’s house.

“Where does this go?” I asked, running my fingers across the golden type. The cover was brown, ripped, torn, flaking away, but the words were still readable.
Grimm’s Fairy Tales
.

“Basement,” Mary said. “Shelved by section, then author. Shelve it under Grimm.”

“It seems like a crime to let this sit in the basement,” I said. “I want to read it.”

Mary smiled. “You can check it out any time you want. But a book like this can’t stay on the shelves up here anymore. It’s just reached that point in a book’s life where greasy little fingers are causing too much damage.”

“OK,” I said. “So I’ll just put it away …”

“And then you can go,” Mary said with a wink.

I took the book and walked over to the door leading to the basement. I hadn’t touched this door in half a decade. I don’t think many people had. When I turned the knob, it clicked once before opening. I flipped the light switch and a single light bulb turned on halfway down the wooden staircase.

OK, I thought—here we go. Nothing to be afraid of. My feet padded cautiously on each creaky step. I tried not imagine something grabbing at my ankles between each step, fighting the urge to run back upstairs.

“No spiders,” I announced to the shadows below. “I’m not tasty. I’m not fun to crawl on, either. Keep away.”

At the bottom, I could see the basement was much larger than I expected.
And
more well-lit, too. There were ten rows of metal shelves that almost touched the ceiling and a single long horizontal light fixture for each aisle that made it tough for spiders to hide. I walked between the dusty old collections, inhaling through my nose so I could enjoy the
old book
smell. Why had I been scared? This place was amazing!

I found the G’s in the fiction section and ran my finger along the spines of dusty brown books whose lettering had faded so that their titles were unrecognizable. It would have to be a guess where “Grimm” should go, but I could make out enough letters on the neighboring books to get close. I was surprised none of the books were covered in plastic—budget cuts again, I figured.

“Still a shame,” I said to the pathetic old book in my hands. I ran my fingers along the title again. Well. What was the harm in just a little look?

And before long she opened her eyes, lifted up the lid of the coffin, sat up, and was once more alive. “Oh, heavens, where am I?” she cried. The King’s son, full of joy, said, “You are with me,” and told her what had happened, and said, “I love you more than everything in the world; come with me to my father’s palace, you shall be my wife.”

And Snow-white was willing, and went with him, and their wedding was held with great show and splendour.

“You poor fool,” I murmured to Snow White, closing the book. “Should have just chewed a little better.”

I slid my fingers between two books, feeling them crack apart as if they’d been glued together for an eternity. I was about to slip the
Grimm’s Fairy Tales
book in when something cut me underneath my nail.

“Ouch!” I said, pulling back. I pulled apart the two books and noticed a slip of paper—old, faded brown—and something silver sitting behind the books. I pulled out the slip of paper first, as carefully as I could, then reached back and grabbed the silver object.

Immediately, I felt something surge through my body. It was warm and for a moment, my eyes seemed on the verge of crying. I held the silver object in my hand and stared at it.

A pen. I pulled off the cap. It was a fountain pen. A beautiful arrow-shaped nib with curving capillary channels that brought the ink to the tip. It looked old. The silver had tarnished a bit and the nib itself seemed to have been added on; it looked centuries old!

I put the cap back on and carefully flipped over the crusty aged note, wondering if the pen had been left for someone.

It had.

Alice,

Go to the far wall. Use this pen to draw a door. Don’t forget the doorknob!

I think I read it ten times, at least. Alice. Alice? Me? Really? Was this some kind of joke? Was this some kind of weird initiation that librarians use on volunteers? A scavenger hunt? What kind of sick person was Mary, anyway?

None of this made sense. I set the note on the shelf, then set down the pen. Immediately, I felt something leave my body. The warmth had disappeared. The strange electrical sensation I’d felt behind my eyes was gone. I grabbed the pen again. The feelings returned.

This is the moment where some people just go ahead and make their way right back upstairs. And yes, I was thinking about doing just that. But I had a curious itch now—how, exactly, was this ancient fountain pen going to write on solid concrete? Why, exactly, was this old note telling me—me!—to draw a door?

You better believe I was going to do it. That isn’t to say I wasn’t a little nervous—I was!—but as I walked slowly to the other end of the basement with the pen in my hand, I had the strangest feeling that
this was the right thing to do.
I trusted my gut instinct. It was the same instinct that told me not to sleep with Edward. It was the same instinct that told me to volunteer at this very library. It was pretty darned good, overall.

At the far end of the basement, the light fixtures abruptly cut off. No-man’s land. The shelves stopped, too. There was just an open space between the concrete wall and the edge of the shelves, just wide enough to fit a small kitchen table. I tried not to let my imagination run away. Yes, it was a spooky scary corner of an old library. Yes, that note could have been written by some raving psycho who stalked me and knew I was going to volunteer here … but weird enough, that seemed like the
least
likely possibility.

I stopped at the wall. OK, I told myself, just do it. What are the odds the pen will work at all? It’s probably a practical joke. Librarians crack jokes
sometimes
, right? I mean, they can’t
always
be serious.

I took the cap off the pen, stuffing it in my pants pocket. OK. A door. A simple door, and don’t forget the knob. I bent down and pressed the tip of the nib against the concrete. I slowly drew up it upward, surprised to see not just a black line but something else as well. It was as if the ink was reflecting a very subtle fiery light source.

It was glowing.

I stopped. The ink slowly disappeared, leaving only the blank concrete wall as if I’d never drawn on it. I blinked a few times, not believing.

“OK,” I said, pressing the pen to the concrete again. This time I kept going, standing on my tiptoes to draw the very top of my close approximation of a door. I drew the pen down, stepping back when I reached the floor. There it was: a glowing black outline of a door.

“The knob, you doofus,” I muttered, stepping up again and drawing a circle where the doorknob would be. I stepped back again, blinking a few times, expecting the darn thing to up and disappear. It
was
disappearing. Very, very slowly, the glowing golden black ink was beginning to fade.

I don’t know what came over me right then. Maybe it was just morbid curiosity, like
how far down does this rabbit hole go
? Whatever it was, I watched my hand slowly reach out for the doorknob I’d drawn. It
felt
like a doorknob. I turned it. It turned!

And when I pulled, the door opened.

I stepped back. The door, such as it was, led into a small room with a single unlit candle and what looked like a silver covered dish. An old faded brown note sat in front of it. I stepped inside, keeping one hand on the door that just moments ago hadn’t been a door at all, and grabbed the note. I scurried back to the edge of the bookshelves so I could read the note under the light. The basement was quiet and I could hear my hurried breath.

Alice,

Congratulations. I knew you could do it. Now, draw a match on the wall. Take it. Strike it. Light the candle. Then uncover the dish.

I read the note twice. What the hell is going on? I thought. I had to laugh. It all seemed so fantastic. Of course I went back to the concrete wall and drew a little match. I even darkened in the head and gave the little splinter of wood three dimensions. It was the best match I could draw.

Then I grabbed it. Literally, I reached out, touched it, and pulled it from the concrete wall and there it was in my hands: a real match with a real wooden base. I crouched next to the candle and struck the match on the black floor. The head ignited. I pressed it against the wick of the candle. The black walls of the room were illuminated enough that it was clear something was written on them. I picked up the candle. The flame danced left and right. I brought it closer to the far wall to make out the writing: