The Grimm Legacy (10 page)

“Um, I’m not crazy about sausage—maybe just some potatoes?”

“Okay,” said Anjali. “
Kartoffelbällchen, kartoffeltopf, kartoffelkroketten, kartoffelbrei, kartoffelknödel, kartoffelkrusteln, kartoffelnocken, kartoffelpuffer, kartoffelklösse,
or
kartoffelschnitz?
Or maybe some
schmorkartoffeln
? Or just plain fries?”

“I don’t know—surprise me.”

“Here.
Überbackene käsekartoffeln,
my favorite. It has cheese.”

“Thanks.” It was delicious and very rich—tender potato slices, with a creamy cheese sauce. “How do you know all those names?” I asked.

“I looked them up. I wanted to know what we were eating.” Anjali peered under more lids.

“You know Anjali—she loves to look things up. Any
spätzle
?” asked Marc.

“What’s
spätzle
?”

“Sort of a cross between homemade pasta and dumplings,” said Anjali. “Oh, here’s
hasenpfeffer
! I love
hasenpfeffer
!”

“What’s
hasenpfeffer
?”

“Stewed rabbit with black pepper.” She dished herself a plate. “Mmmm! Don’t tell my parents—we’re vegetarians at home.”

“Can I have some of that too?” Marc handed her his plate.

“One thing I don’t get,” I said, taking another bite of cheesy potatoes. “If these magic objects are so strong and powerful, how come you don’t have people using them to take over the world? Or do you? Is that what the thieves are after?”

“I wondered that too, when I first got here,” said Anjali. “But a lot of them aren’t as powerful as they sound, to begin with, and we have modern technology now.”

“Yeah,” said Marc. “There’s magic swords and sticks that can beat people up, but that’s nothing compared to guns and bombs.”

“Or like the enchanted ram’s horn that lets you speak to someone miles away,” said Anjali. “Hello? Cell phone, anybody? Or the flying carpet. It’s nice, but it’s not like we don’t have airplanes. These things are amazing, collectors love them, but they wouldn’t be that much help conquering the world.”

“Yes, but surely there are some things in the collection that haven’t been invented yet. Like invisibility cloaks. Or what about the lamp in that Grimm story ‘The Blue Light,’ where the dwarf appears and grants wishes whenever the soldier lights his pipe with the magic light? That would be pretty useful for taking over the world.”

“Yeah, that’s true. But most powerful objects have minds of their own—I wouldn’t count on being able to control them.”

“I guess,” I said.

“Time for dessert?” asked Marc.

“Maybe we should do a little, you know,
work
first,” said Anjali, looking in the cabinet again. “Here’s a pair of flying sandals; it looks like they need a buckle replaced.”

“Flying sandals?” I said. “Like, actual
flying sandals
?”

“Flying sandals,” said Anjali, holding them up. They had wings on their heels. They looked like the ones that had fluttered at me. I wondered how they’d gotten here so quickly.

“I can do that,” said Marc. He opened a cabinet drawer and sorted through buckles.

“And here’s the brimming bowl,” said Anjali, holding a stone bowl full of water, which was dripping from the bottom. “I need caulk.”

“Try the plumbing supply cabinet,” suggested Marc.

“Got it. Elizabeth, can you give me a hand?”

“Sure,” I said. I held the bowl over the sink while she worked on it. It seemed pretty incredible that we were using ordinary, everyday silicone gel to caulk an endlessly brimming magic basin.

“Thanks, Elizabeth, I think that’s good now . . . Merritt! What are you doing?”

Marc had taken off his shoes and was buckling on the winged sandals. “I have to make sure the buckle holds, don’t I?” He jumped up into the air and glided forward like an airborne ice skater. He made it look so easy. “Need anything from up here?” he said. I stared, my eyes wide. Bits of dust came raining down. I sneezed, rubbing the dust out of my eyes. “Sorry, Elizabeth,” he said. He did a loop de loop and landed with a flourish.

“Flying sandals!” I said. “Flying.
Sandals.
”

“Want to try?”

“Really? Me?”

“Of course.”

“But—but don’t you need some special—I don’t know . . .”

Marc laughed. “You’ll get the hang of it; it’s not that hard. I’ll show you.” He unbuckled the sandals and handed them to me.

His feet were much bigger than mine, but the sandals still fit me. Magic, I thought. “How do I get them to work?” I said.

“Jump as high as you can and start the wings. You have to sort of flutter your heels.”

I tried it. I had gotten about six inches off the ground when my feet shot straight out from under me. I landed hard on my rear.

Marc started to laugh, but Anjali frowned at him and he straightened his face. “That was a good start, Elizabeth, but you have to sort of follow your feet with your body,” he said. “Keep your weight centered right above your feet.”

“You better spot her,” said Anjali, hauling me to my feet.

I tried again, this time with Marc standing behind me, his hands under my upper arms. His closeness was as strangely thrilling as the winged sandals on my feet.

He pushed me forward over the sandals. I lurched forward, then back; I almost fell again, but he lunged and caught me, pushing me straight.

After a couple more falls, I started to get the hang of it. It was a little like skating, only slipperier—there were more directions for my feet to fly off in. I had to sort of teeter and glide, teeter and glide.

“What are you doing?” The voice came from the door, startling me so that I fell over.

Fortunately, I was high enough off the ground that I didn’t hit my head. I just hung upside down from my feet, the wings at my heels beating furiously.

Aaron snorted. He was standing in the doorway.

“Oh, hi, Aaron! You startled us,” said Anjali.

“Why’s Elizabeth hanging upside down? Why are you showing her this stuff?”

“It’s okay, Aaron. I know about the magic. I passed the test and Doc gave me the key.” I fished it out of my pocket and held it up—that is, down.

“They gave you a key? And the first thing you do is play with the magic?” He sounded as stern as Mr. Mauskopf giving back exams.

“I’m not
playing,
” I said with as much dignity as I could muster while hanging upside down. “Marc fixed these sandals, and I was testing them.”

Aaron bent over so that he was looking at me right-side up. “Oh, you were ‘testing’ them, were you? I have to say it’s a little hard to take you seriously with your hair standing straight up. Though you do look kind of cute that way,” he said. “Like a broom with a face.”

“Thanks—your hair’s pretty funny too,” I said, feeling as witty as an eight-year-old. I put my arms down and lowered myself onto the worktable. I had a little trouble getting my right foot to come too. Aaron guffawed.

Anjali distracted him. “Want some dessert?” she offered. “We were just about to have some.”

“Well . . . maybe just a little.”

“Table, be cleared!”
said Anjali. All the
kartoffel
-this and
kartoffel
-that and something-wurst and something-else-schnitz vanished in a twinkling, leaving drips and crumbs in their wake. She gave the table a perfunctory wipe with a sponge and said, “Dessert now, please.
Table, be set!
”

The table groaned again. Even in my wildest childhood dreams, I had never seen so many cakes and tarts and puddings.

Marc and Aaron helped themselves.

“What would you like, Elizabeth?” asked Anjali.

“It all looks so good. Maybe that chocolate cake in the corner, the one with the cherries and cream?”

“One slice of
Schwarzwälder kirschtorte,
coming up.” She handed me my plate and helped herself to apple strudel. “So, Aaron,” she said, “what’s up? Were you looking for something?”

“Just you,” he said. “I mean, I wondered where you disappeared to,” he added, a little stiffly. “It’s after closing time. Doc will be locking up soon.”

Anjali looked at her watch. “Oh, you’re right. Time flies.
Table, be cleared!
Sorry, little thing, I’ll give you a thorough cleaning next time.” She patted it.

I helped her put the table back in the cabinet and we all gathered our things to get ready to go.

Then suddenly Anjali screamed.

“What? What is it?”

“Anjali!”

Both boys ran over to her. She was pointing to the skylight, her other hand at her neck. “There! It’s really there, the bird!”

Chapter 10:

A mysterious menace

Anjali was right—something was outside the skylight. The shape was dark and hard to make out against the evening sky, but we could clearly see a hooked beak and huge yellow eyes. Then, with the beat of what looked like a giant wing, it was gone.

I found I was trembling.

“Wow, that really was a giant bird!” Marc sounded freaked out. “Are you okay, Anjali?”

“I’m fine. Just scared,” said Anjali.

“You’re not walking home alone. You’ve got to let me take you,” said Marc.

“Marc—you know you don’t have time!”

“Let me, then,” said Aaron.

I noticed nobody was offering to walk
me
anywhere. “You think the bird’s after Anjali?” I asked.

“She saw it once before,” said Marc. “It could be following her.”

“We’d better tell the librarians,” said Aaron.

Marc and Anjali looked at each other. “He’s right,” said Anjali. “They should know.”

Doc was already gone, but we found Ms. Callender on Stack 6. “Oh, how scary!” she said. “What was it doing, just looking through the window? Or did it try to get in?”

“It was looking through the skylight,” said Anjali. “It flew away as soon as I saw it, like it noticed me noticing it. What do you think it wanted?”

“Were you working on any Special Collection objects?” “Yes, the winged sandals and Table-Be-Set—the German one.”

“Well, this is very troubling. We’ll have to talk to Dr. Rust tomorrow. You better all be extra careful. Are you going home together?” Ms. Callender asked.

“Good idea,” I said. “Let’s go together.”

“Yes, honey,” said Ms. Callender. “Stick together and stay safe.”

The four of us put our heads down and hurried through the cold. Anjali’s building wasn’t far, just a few blocks away. As we reached her corner, a sharp, icy wind caught us and shook us. I pulled my collar up around my neck and wound my scarf around it, but the wind came in anyway.

“Why don’t you replace that top button?” asked Anjali.

“You saw how I sew.”

“You should have told me upstairs; I would have done it for you.”

“Thanks, maybe I’ll take you up on that next week.”

“You know what? Come upstairs and I’ll sew it now,” she said.

“Oh, that would be great. Are you sure?”

“Of course. It’s easy.”

“Thanks, Anjali!”

We said good-bye to the guys at Anjali’s door. She lived in one of the grand apartment buildings on Park Avenue. I often walked past them and peeked in at their gilded, marble-lined lobbies, but I’d never been inside. A doorman in a uniform, with brass buttons and a peaked cap, hurried forward to open the door. “Good evening, Miss Anjali,” he said.

“Thank you, Harold,” she answered without a trace of embarrassment, as if men in uniform opened the door for her and called her Miss Anjali every day of her life. Well, I guess they did.

The elevator had satinwood paneling and leather upholstered benches. We got off on the fourteenth floor. There were oil paintings hanging on the walls and a vase of fresh flowers standing on a little table. Anjali opened the door on the right. A delicious, spicy smell spilled out onto the landing. I followed her in.

“Anjali? Is that you?” someone called from deep within the apartment.

“Hi, Mom! I brought a friend home,” Anjali answered. She hung up her coat in a closet by the door and took mine over her arm. I followed her down a hallway to a large living room. Her mother jumped up when she saw us and walked quickly across the carpet with the same springy pace as her daughter. She had on a conservative skirt and sweater, with expensive-looking shoes and rubies in her ears. She was about six times as beautiful as any mom I’d ever seen. I would have felt very intimidated if she hadn’t been smiling so warmly.

“Mom, this is Elizabeth,” said Anjali.

“Elizabeth Rew, yes? I’m Krishna Rao,” said Mrs. Rao, holding out her hand. “I’m so very glad to meet you at last. Anjali has told me so much about you.”

“She has?”

“Oh yes!” She had a high voice like her daughter’s, with a melodic accent. “You work in the repository with Anjali and you go to Fisher High School and you are a great fan of basketball. Did I remember everything? It was so very kind of you to invite Anjali to the basketball game. I know how much she has been looking forward to it.” She gave my hand a last squeeze and let go.

I glanced at Anjali, who seemed tense. “Our games are nothing compared to Fisher’s,” she said. “Fisher is so much bigger than Wharton, and of course Wharton is all girls, so Fisher’s literally out of our league.”

“That’s right, and we have some amazing guys on the team. Like our star forward,” I said, a little pointedly. “I think you know—” Anjali shook her head slightly with a panicky look, so I changed course. “You know what a blast the games are,” I said instead.

Mrs. Rao beamed at me. “You are staying for dinner, of course? Do you like spicy food?”

“Oh, I . . . I don’t know.” I looked at Anjali, trying to get a sense of whether I was really welcome. She nodded almost imperceptibly. “I mean, yes, I love spicy food.”

“Why don’t you call your parents, then?” suggested Mrs. Rao.

As if they’d care, I thought, but I called home and got Cathy. “You were supposed to clean the bathroom tonight, but I guess you can leave it for tomorrow,” she said.

“My stepmother says it’s fine,” I told Mrs. Rao. “Thank you so much.”

“Lovely,” she said. “Anjali, tell Aarti not too spicy. We don’t want to scare away Elizabeth on her first visit.”

Anjali’s bedroom was vast for Manhattan, big enough for a queen-size bed, a desk, a small sofa, an armchair, and two floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

“So,” I said, “we’re going to the basketball game.”

Anjali sat in the armchair opening a sewing box. It was made of dark wood, elaborately carved and inlaid with contrasting materials—ivory and mother-of-pearl. She bent over it so I couldn’t see her face.

“I hope you don’t mind. I wanted to meet Merritt and watch him play,” she said. “But my parents . . . my parents think I should date Indian boys. Or nobody. Preferably nobody.”

“Well, you can certainly come to the game with me. It’ll be nice to have someone to go with.”

Anjali looked up. “Thanks,” she said. “Really, thanks. Do you have that button?”

I handed it to Anjali. As soon as she touched it, she looked startled. “This is from your coat?” she said. “Where did you get your coat?”

“Hand-me-down from my stepsister. But I lost the original top button. Dr. Rust gave me this one when I passed the sorting test.”

“Oh! Should I sew on an ordinary button, then? I think I can find one that would fit.” She handed it back.

Holding it up to my face, I knew at once it was no ordinary button: I caught a faint whiff of smell that reminded me of the Grimm Collection. Where had Dr. Rust gotten it? What do magic buttons do?

“No, let’s use this one. Dr. Rust must have meant it for my coat—it matches the rest of my buttons,” I said.

Anjali pulled the head of her gooseneck reading lamp closer and threaded a needle.

As I watched, something caught at the edge of my vision, something out the window. How many floors up were we? Fourteen? A noise came from my throat, half gasp, half scream.

“What? What is it?”

I pointed to the window.

Anjali jumped out of her chair and snapped down the shade. She pulled the silk curtains shut. “What did you see?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. I think it was the gigantic bird again. Was Marc right—is it following you?”

“There’s nothing there now.”

“You’re right. I could be imagining it. We’re both jumpy.”

From behind the door I heard a little shuffle. I gasped again. Anjali spun around. “Jaya!” she cried.

She leapt across the room to slam the door shut, but it was too late. There was a foot in the way—a biggish, sneakered foot on a skinny leg. Anjali seemed to grow bigger, like a great, glaring, black-feathered hawk herself. “Out!” she shrilled.

The sneaker didn’t move.

“Jaya! I said
out
!”

“Anjali!” wailed the voice behind the sneaker. “What’s following you?”

“You are, obviously. Get out of my room.”

“I’m not in your room.”

“Your foot is.” Anjali kicked at it.

“Don’t stomp! I’ll tell Mom!”

“Go on, tell her. Run along and tell her and get your foot out of my door.”

The foot didn’t budge. “Come on, Anj, let me in. I want to meet your friend. I promise I’ll sit very quietly in the corner; you won’t even know I’m there. If something scary is following you around, I have a right to know. I could help. Or I might even be the one it’s after.”

“Yeah, right. It’s a pest eater.”

“Come on, Anjali! Please?”

“Oh, let her in,” I said. “What’s the harm?”

Anjali paused and looked pained. “This is a mistake,” she said, slowly opening the door. A bundle of knees and elbows, topped with eyebrows, liquid black eyes, and a spiky dark cloud of hair flounced in and threw itself on the bed.

“Jaya! Get your sneakers off my quilt!”

Jaya shifted slightly so that the sneakered part of her legs was sticking out over the edge of the bed. She turned the eyebrows my way. “You’re Elizabeth, right? You go to the school with the good basketball games. Can I come too?”

“No,” said Anjali.

“But I want to see Merritt play!”

“Jaya! You disgusting little spy!”

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t tell Mom and Dad. Who’s Merritt, anyway? Your boyfriend?”

“Get off my bed! I mean it, get off!” Anjali lunged. I was amused to see she was so bad at sister-wrangling. Was this the poised, unflappable Anjali I’d been admiring ever since I started work at the repository?

“Anji has a boyfriend! Anji has a boyfriend!” Jaya singsonged, kicking her feet in the air. Anjali looked ready to tear her to pieces.

I stepped in hastily. “Do you play basketball, Jaya? You look like you’d be good at it,” I said.

“Really?” She sat up and looked at me. “Why?”

“You’re tall for your age, and you have those long arms and legs. Get up, let me see you.”

Jaya jumped up, leaving the quilt crumpled behind her.

“Catch!” I tossed a little lace pillow from the sofa. She snatched it out of the air and threw it back.

“Gently,” I said, throwing it again. “You want to go for precision and control. Yeah, you’d definitely be good. You’re not just tall for your age, you’re quick too.”

“How do you know I’m tall for my age? Do you know how old I am?”

“Ten,” I said.

She looked disappointed. “Did Anjali tell you?”

“No, you look like a ten-year-old.”

“If I look like a ten-year-old and I
am
a ten-year-old, how can I be tall for my age? If I’m tall, I should look like a twelve-year-old.”

“You look like a tall ten-year-old.”

Anjali was starting to look impatient. Still, at least Jaya wasn’t talking about Marc anymore.

Now that she was no longer lying on Anjali’s bed, Jaya threw herself around the room pretending to shoot baskets with the pillow. “Put that down, you’re going to break something,” said Anjali.

“Here,” I said. I held my arms in a circle. Jaya made the layup, and I kept the pillow. I kicked off my shoes, stretched out on the sofa, and tucked the pillow under my cheek. Jaya pouted, then walked around the room, picking things up.

“Put that down, Jaya! It’s fragile.”

Jaya was holding a sandalwood fan. “Is this the fan from Auntie Shanti?” She inspected both sides. It was elaborately carved with what looked like stylized feathers.

“Yes. Put it down.”

Jaya flounced carelessly over to the sofa where I was lying and fanned me. The air coming off the fan had a faint, disturbing, familiar smell. Sandalwood, yes, but what else? That fresh smell in the air after a thunderstorm? Vinyl? Toast? “Can I see that a sec?” I held out my hand.

Jaya looked at me suspiciously. “Why?”

“I want to check something out.”

“Promise you’ll give it back.”

“We’ll see.” I kept my hand out.

Curiosity won over contrariness. She handed it over. I fanned my face and sniffed; I sniffed at the back, the front, the handle. Definitely magic. I looked at Anjali. “What is it?” I asked.