Andrew Buckley - Stiltskin

“Or how about the fact you just got knocked out by a Fairy?”

“Well, yes, that was strange,” admitted Robert, “but honestly, I just want to be left alone.”

Lily’s anger was starting to get the better of her, the heat rising to her face as she spoke. “It’s a hard thing to explain all in one shot so I’m not even going to try but you have to come with me. Dwarves don’t show up in people’s bathtubs just for the hell of it so you need to get some clothes on and come with me.”

“Thanks but I’ll pass.”

“I can start slapping you again, if you like?”

Robert’s shoulders sagged dejectedly. “I’ll go get dressed.”

Against its better judgment, the rain had become a light drizzle and the sky grew darker as Robert Darkly, dressed in jeans and a sweater, stepped out of his apartment building with Lily close behind.

“So where are you taking me?” asked Robert.

“We need to go to the Exchange. It’s the first place the Dwarf will head, and maybe we’ll get lucky and arrive there before he does. We’ll need to get you a passport while we’re there, too.”

“Ya know, it’s bizarre but I understood maybe ten percent of what you just said,” replied Robert.

“You’re an accountant, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“Only accountants speak in percentages.”

“In my defence, I’m not a very good accountant.”

Lily crossed the street and Robert obediently followed.

“We’re going to need a cab.”

“Why don’t we just take your car?” asked Robert.

“Don’t know how to drive.” Lily stopped at the corner and whistled for a cab parked across the street.

Robert looked at Lily, really for the first time since he put on some clothes. It’s amazing, the way perception shifts from when you’re wearing clothes as opposed to being stark naked and getting hit with your own frying pan. When Lily had kicked open his door she had been, well, beautiful. Now as she stood in the pouring rain she looked like the most beautiful and strange thing he’d ever seen. Her hair had seemed black at first but now he could see streaks of auburn, and her eyes had been dark brown but in the natural light outside they seemed almost amber and twinkled ominously. She was at least a foot shorter than Robert was, but if someone was to look at the pair they would instantly recognize who was in charge, and it wasn’t Robert.

Possibly the strangest thing about Lily was the way that the rain didn’t seem to touch her. Robert’s sweater was already covered with a thin sheen of classic London rain. London rain was the sort of water that even if someone found themselves stranded in the middle of the Sahara Desert on the hottest day of the year with no clothes and a sunburn with their camel lying dead next to them, even then they wouldn’t even consider drinking it for fear of illness and instantaneous diarrhea.

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.