Polly Shulman - The Grimm Legacy

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!”

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.