The Grimm Legacy (7 page)

“I’ll be careful,” I promised.

“Good. Now hurry. But don’t get caught! If you do, blame me—say I told you Doc wanted you to do it. I’ll back you up, and there’s a chance they’ll believe us. But please, don’t get caught.”

“Anjali?” Aaron loomed toward us through the gloom. “Ms. Minnian needs that hand truck. I can help you bring it up if you want.”

“I’m coming,” she said. “Thanks a million, Elizabeth, I owe you,” she whispered, and followed Aaron down the hallway.

Then I was left alone with the mysterious boots. Clipping the barrette in my hair for safekeeping, I twisted one of the timers that controlled the lights. To the sound of its buzzy ticking, I took the boots out of their bag to get a better look. There was nothing much to see: a pair of plain brown leather boots, old-fashioned, a little scuffed, the heels worn. Much too big for me, probably, if Marc could wear them—I have big feet for a girl, to my sorrow, but nowhere near as big as a basketball player’s. But when I held the boots up to my feet, they looked as if they might fit. Weird. I was tempted to try them on to see, but the ticking of the light timer reminded me that Anjali had said to hurry. On an impulse, I brought the boots up to my nose the way the patron had done upstairs, scolding myself as I did it: Eww, Elizabeth, what’s the matter with you, sniffing old boots?

To my surprise, I smelled something.

Well, I had expected to smell
something
—old leather, old wool, maybe old feet—but not this. The smell was faint, but the sensation was powerful, flooding over me like a memory of . . . of what, though? Summer rain on cement? Rye toast at my grandmother’s? Something floral and fragile, like individual soap bubbles . . . no, something thick, like milk . . . but briny . . . no, lemony . . . I took deeper and deeper sniffs, chasing the smell farther and farther out of my mind’s reach like a splinter you pursue hopelessly through the sole of your foot with a needle and tweezers. The sensation was almost as painful. Raw oysters? Marjoram? Jet exhaust? Wood?

The timer ticked its way to the end and the light snapped off, startling me with darkness. I stuffed the boots in their bag and hurried down to Stack 1, the Dungeon.

I expected something spooky, but despite its sinister name, Stack 1 looked bright and ordinary—far less dungeony than Stack 2. Fluorescent tubes lit the aisles, humming slightly, as if bored. The usual metal cabinets stretched out to the right and left, interspersed with the usual file drawers and oak desks. The dumbwaiters whirred at the staging area, just as they did on all the other stacks, and the occasional pneum thumped through the tubes. The only difference I could see between the Dungeon and the rest of the library stacks was a number of areas fenced off with metal gratings, like the bicycle storage locker in the basement of my old school, and some closed doors.

A coat hung on a hook in the staging area, but there was nobody in sight. I’d better put the boots away before whoever it was came back, I thought. But which way was the Grimm Collection? I checked the wall map. There were several rooms marked off at the ends of the stack, like the *Vs on the other floors: *GChr, *LC, *GoS . . . There, that must be it, *GC, at the far west end. I hurried down the aisle.

I half expected to find a spectacular entrance in the spirit of the Tiffany windows and the carved front desk, but the door to the Grimm Collection was as unremarkable as the rest of the stack. Just a plain metal door like all the others, rather scuffed, with
*GC Grimm Coll
stenciled on it in shiny black paint.

I pressed down on the handle—it was the standard bar type, the kind they use to make doors easier to open for people with disabilities—but it wouldn’t budge. Feeling foolish, I took the barrette out of my hair and pressed it against the door.
“Out is out and shut is shut, turn the key and break the nut. Push the door and crack the shell: let me in and all is well
,
”
I sang under my breath.

I tried the handle again. Nothing happened.

I sang it again, louder. Still nothing.

Was Anjali playing some kind of mean trick on me? But she had sounded so sincere, so genuinely panicked. Hearing footsteps in the aisle, I started to panic myself.

I was pretty sure I’d gotten the tune right. Maybe I’d gotten the rhyme mixed up? I got out the slip of paper to check.

“Out is out and shut is shut,”
I sang, my hand on the handle.
“Turn the key and crack the nut. Push the door and break the shell: let me in and all is well.”

This time I felt a tiny click. When I pressed the handle, the door opened, just as it was supposed to. I slipped in and pulled the door shut behind me.

The room looked ordinary, with the same standard-issue metal shelves and cabinets as the rest of the library, the same fluorescent lights. And yet something was different here. Behind the usual buzz of the fluorescent lights and the pneumatic tubes, I heard another, deeper hum.

Then I noticed the smell. It was the same smell I’d noticed in the boots. Or was it? I stood just inside the door sniffing the air, mesmerized. Raw pumpkin? Mineral oil? Blood?

A pneum whizzed through a pipe in the ceiling, startling me. I remembered what I was doing there. I had boots to shelve and no time to lose.

The shoe section—*GC 391.413-391.413099—filled a whole aisle. Those Grimm brothers, or whoever had continued their collection, apparently had quite a thing for footwear. Most of it was in pretty rough shape. On a low shelf I counted twelve pairs of fancy little slippers with holes in their soles, like the ones in my favorite story about the twelve dancing princesses.

Could they be
those
shoes, the ones that had inspired the story? Could the dancing princesses have been real, like Marie Antoinette?

I felt a shiver run through me, like the one I’d felt looking at Marie Antoinette’s wig. Not that their story made factual sense as the Grimm brothers told it, of course—it couldn’t actually be true, with its cloak of invisibility and its magical forests with gold and silver trees. But why couldn’t the princesses themselves have once been girls like me, living girls who loved to dance? Somebody with real feet had worn holes in those shoes—they looked as battered as my last year’s ballet slippers. I wished I could show these to my mother. She’d be as amazed as I was.

Nearby was a series of worn-out shoes with iron soles, all gaping at the heel. Above them, glass slippers. Hadn’t Dr. Rust told me they didn’t have Cinderella’s? These looked as though they could have been hers. They were far, far too small for
me,
anyway. Was there a real girl who inspired the Cinderella story too? A real Cinderella! Was I dreaming this?

More metal shoes, including some awful-looking iron ones, stained with what looked like old blood. Ugh! Just rust, I hoped. Pair after pair of boots. Wooden clogs carved like little boats, with dragons for figureheads. A pair of sandals with worn straps and tired-looking wings on the heels, folded like a sleeping pigeon’s. When I reached out to touch the wings, to see if the feathers were real, they fluttered, startling me. I pulled my hand back, remembering Anjali’s warning—though surely it was just a draft of air.

The decoy boots were right where Anjali said they’d be, in the second cabinet under call number I *GC 391.413 S94. Except for the number on the tag, they looked just like the ones in the plastic bag I was carrying. If I got the tags confused, I would never be able to tell them apart.

Maybe by smell? I sniffed the boots I’d taken from the cabinet. They smelled of leather and dust, with cheesy undertones of feet. I put them down and sniffed the pair Anjali had given me. Now the mysterious smell was so strong my eyes watered.

I switched the tags and put Anjali’s boots in the cabinet. It felt right, like a puzzle piece clicking into place. That made me feel better about what I was doing. My promise to Mr. Mauskopf and his warning about the thefts had been eating at me; switching the boots seemed so sneaky. But clearly the boots with the strong smell were the right ones, the valuable ones—and I was helping return them, not steal them. That couldn’t be so wrong, could it?

I heard a slight noise. Footsteps! Someone was coming!

As quietly as I could, I shut the cabinet and looked around for somewhere to hide.

Against the wall were some metal mesh sliding walls, like the ones that held the paintings on Stack 7. I slipped behind them and stood as flat and still as possible, trying to look like a painting.

I was only just in time. Peering around a picture frame and through the mesh, I saw Ms. Minnian, the skinny, bespectacled librarian, come striding down the aisle in her flat, pointy shoes. She stopped right in front of the cabinet where I’d just put the boots.

She opened the cabinet and took out the boots. She stroked them with her fingertips, frowning, then brought them to her nose for a sniff. Still frowning, she lifted her head and sniffed the air.

I had a horrible feeling she was sniffing for
me.

I froze and held my breath.

To my relief, Ms. Minnian shut the cabinet and walked back up the aisle. She paused again at another cabinet, then continued on toward the door. I heard it click shut as she left.

I let out my breath but stayed behind the picture wall for a minute, just to make sure she wouldn’t come back.

When I reached the door, though, I found my relief had been premature. I was locked in.

Chapter 7:

A disagreement with a mirror

I rattled the door handle as I sang the rhyme and tried the barrette at different angles, but nothing worked. Had I gotten the rhyme wrong again? I didn’t think so—I was using the same one that had opened the door before.

Maybe that was the problem. I wasn’t out this time; I was in. Maybe I needed to tell that to the door.

“In is in and shut is shut, turn the key and crack the nut. Pull the door and break the shell: let me out and all is well,”
I sang hopefully. I took a deep breath and tried the handle.

Still nothing.

Forget secrecy. Now it was time to panic.

I banged on the door. It hurt my hands, but it barely made a noise. I banged again harder and hurt my toes kicking, but I couldn’t hear anything except the hum of the lights and that strange hum behind the hum.

My cell phone had no signal. I walked up and down the aisles looking for a phone to call for help, but I didn’t see one anywhere, just metal shelves and cabinets laden with sinister objects. No other doors, and no windows, either.

What if there were a fire? What if the ceiling collapsed? What if I were stuck here forever?

I sat down and leaned against the door, telling myself to calm down. I took stock of my supplies. I had a granola bar and half a bottle of water in my jacket pocket; at least I wouldn’t die of starvation and thirst even if I had to stay overnight. Someone was bound to come, I told myself. The worst I could expect would be a boring few hours, followed by getting caught and losing my job.

What if I needed to go to the bathroom, though?

As soon as I thought of it, my bladder started making itself noticed.

Well, there might not be a ladies’ room in the Grimm Collection, but there was sure to be something I could use, like a witch’s cauldron. I checked the card catalog for cauldrons and found three of them, call numbers I *GC 133.44 H36, I *GC 133.44 M33, and I *GC 133.44 T47. They were shelved with bowls, cauldrons, and brooms in a row of cabinets facing the picture rack.

I was reaching for the smallest one—not to use it right away, just to make sure I could, if worse came to worst—when I remembered Anjali’s warning. If the thought of me touching the stuff on the shelves was enough to make her frantic with worry, what would she say to my using one of the items as a Porta Potti?

On the other hand, maybe that wouldn’t be so inappropriate after all, I thought bitterly. The urine of a terrified maiden sounded like exactly the sort of ingredient witches liked to put in their cauldrons.

A thud came from the front of the room, making me jump.

When the thumping sound came again, I recognized it: a pneum falling into a basket in the front of the room where the GC had its staging area.

Of course! I kicked myself for not thinking of it sooner. I could send Anjali a pneum asking her to let me out.

Anjali—help, I’m locked in,
I wrote on a blank call slip. I didn’t put in any details in case the note fell into the wrong hands. I wrote
Anjali Rao, Main Exam Room,
tucked the slip into an empty carrier, pulled the tube door open, slid it in, and let go. The pneum vanished after a small struggle, like a mouse down the gullet of a snake.

Now that I had taken some action, I felt much calmer. I strolled around opening cabinets and looking in, careful not to touch anything. There were knives and combs, laces and walking sticks, lamps and bottles. All sorts of shells: eggshells, nutshells, seashells. A whole cabinet of balls, mostly golden, but some made of wood, or rubber, or red or black or blue stone. Dresses sewn from cloth of copper, silver, and gold; dresses spangled with sparkly stones; dresses made of fish scales or feathers or the skins of animals I couldn’t identify. Lots of objects in sets of three—either one copper, one silver, and one gold, or one brass, one silver, and one gold, or one silver, one gold, and one spangled with diamonds. Boxes. Tiny cages. A sinister-looking oven the size of the largest dumbwaiter, big enough to hold a medium-size child.

If only there were a dumbwaiter down here—maybe I could fit inside if I scrunched up small. But the nearest dumbwaiter was out past the locked door.

At last, a pneum thumped into the basket. I ran to get it and pulled out the slip.
I can’t believe I forgot to teach you the exit rhyme! I’m SOOOO sorry! It’s just like the entry rhyme, only backwards.You have to sing the tune backwards too,
she had written.

“Well is all and in me let: shell the break and door the push. Nut the crack and key the turn, shut is shut and out is out,”
I sang. But it was no use. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t get the tune right.

I sent Anjali another pneum:
It’s not working. I suck at music.

OK. Send up the key. I’ll come down and get you as soon as I can,
she wrote back.

I wrapped the barrette carefully, taped it inside a pneum, and slipped it in the pipe. The vacuum sucked it away with a whoosh like a sigh of relief.

Anxious and bored, I distracted myself again by strolling around. Something moving behind me caught the corner of my eye. I spun around and froze.

Whatever it was spun and froze too.

To my relief, I saw it was just me—my reflection in a large mirror hanging on the picture rack. Did I really look that haggard and grim?

I made a face at myself. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?” I said.

My own lips moved in the mirror and I heard a voice just like mine answering:

“You have to ask, Eliza Rew?

Then listen up: it isn’t you.”

I think of myself as a pretty savvy person. I grew up in New York City; I’ve seen a thing or two. I’m not the sort of girl who confuses fairy tales with reality. But as soon as I heard the mirror speak, I knew I wasn’t imagining things—it really was magic. I knew it the way you know which way is up, the way you recognize your mother’s voice, the way you know to pull your hand away from a hot stove before your brain registers the pain. My heart began pounding with excitement—excitement, but not doubt.

As soon as I had accepted this, other things started dropping into place in my mind. I could almost hear them, a light, sparkling clatter like ice crystals falling in a frozen street. The moving freckles, the ensorcelled door—all magic. My heart beat hard with the thrill of it. The boots too. That must be why Marc had borrowed them, why it was so important that I get them put back. And the smell, that vivid, shifty smell: the smell of magic.

I stared around me. Everything—everything here must be magic! Boots, books, tables, telescopes—everything must have some special power! And the mirror itself . . . I turned back to it. My reflection was scary, a cold, cruel smirk. That couldn’t really be what I looked like—could it? I might not be the fairest of them all, but at least I was sure I didn’t look
evil.
Was it making me look like that on purpose?

“Don’t call me Eliza. My name is Elizabeth,” I snapped through my fear. I had always hated Eliza. That’s what my stepsisters called me to tease, usually in a fake English accent.

The mirror didn’t answer this time.

If the mirror really was the one from Snow White’s stepmother, no wonder it was so unpleasant—it had the excuse of belonging to somebody wicked. My skin prickled. But the Grimm stories weren’t all witches and poisoned apples. Some of them described good fairies and friendly magic, like Cinderella’s godmother. Were there any benevolent objects here?

Now the sense of magic all around me began to feel frightening, oppressive. No wonder Dr. Rust had called the objects here “powerful”!

I looked around again. On the sliding wall near the opinionated mirror hung several other mirrors and a dozen or so pictures, including one of a ship, one of a dragon, one of a hideous, leering old man, and one so dark and murky that I couldn’t make it out. None of the paintings looked particularly benign, and the dark one was positively threatening.

Anjali seemed to be taking her sweet time rescuing me. Was there anything here that could help me escape? A flying carpet, maybe? I couldn’t quite believe that I was thinking seriously about a flying carpet. But even if I found one, I was still trapped—not much use in flying a carpet indoors.

I thought about other magical devices from fairy tales. What a lucky chance I’d written that paper about the Brothers Grimm—or was it just chance? Who would have guessed all those childhood hours I spent daydreaming over fairy-tale books would pay off !

There was the cloak of invisibility from “The Twelve Dancing Princesses”—if the repository had it, perhaps I could hide by the door and slip out next time a librarian came in. Mom and I loved that story, with the trapdoor in the floor of the princesses’ bedroom that they snuck through every night to go dancing with twelve handsome princes. The girls danced until they wore holes in their slippers. I especially envied the youngest princess. She had an active social life, plenty of masculine attention, and big sisters who actually wanted to hang out with her—even if she did have to share her room with eleven of them.

Of course, there were other magical items that would be more efficient than an invisible cloak. There were tons of wish-granting objects in fairy tales. Usually they came loaded with three wishes; the trick was to formulate the wishes carefully. When I was little, I used to spend hours planning my wishes for just this day.

Which would be better: a cure for cancer? Universal happiness? Peace for all nations, forever? The people in the fairy tales always seemed to waste their wishes on ridiculous things like sausages or turning each other into donkeys and back into people again. Sometimes, though, the wishes would backfire. Someone would wish for a sack of gold and it would fall on their head and kill them.

So even if I could find a wishing ring, I wasn’t sure I would have the courage to use it. What if I wished to leave the Grimm Collection, only to be carried out in a body bag?

The whole thing was too freaky! I wanted to get away from this magic-soaked room and think about it calmly somewhere safe and normal, somewhere that smelled of daily life—like dust and dinner—not the shifting reek of enchantment. And in real life if I had been granted three wishes, I knew exactly what I would change—I would wish my mother alive, my father himself again, my best friend, Nicole, still here instead of in California.

I glanced behind me at the mirror. It was still smirking.

Where on earth was Anjali? I sent that pneum at ten to three.

Hey, that rhymed. I said it out loud:

“I sent that pneum at ten to three.

Where on earth is Anjali?”

My reflection raised an eyebrow and answered,

“Liz, are you addressing me?

She’s right where she’s supposed to be.”

“No, as a matter of fact, I wasn’t addressing you, I was addressing the painting next to you,” I lied. “And don’t call me Liz either. I’m Elizabeth.”

The mirror didn’t respond, but I noticed some movement in the neighboring picture as the murky shapes inside the frame started to change form in a random, incomprehensible way. It was nothing like any video effects I’d ever seen on a movie or computer screen—more like the forms you see when you press your hands against your closed eyes or the images from a dream that fade as you try to remember it the next morning.

To my astonishment the shapes in the middle resolved themselves into a picture of Anjali, hard at work in the Main Examination Room. I felt almost dizzy watching her slide briskly on her stool, popping pneums into pipes. It looked very busy up there; no wonder she couldn’t get away.

“Wow! Can you show me anything I ask for? Like, I don’t know, my friend Nicole?” I said.

No response; still Anjali.

Rhyme, maybe? “Picture, picture, on the wall, please can you show me my friend Nicole?” I tried.