Polly Shulman - The Grimm Legacy

“Come in? Ah, Elizabeth. What can I do for you?”

“Ms. Callender says I need to give you a deposit before I can borrow a comb from the Grimm Collection.”

“A comb? As your first loan—are you sure? Some of those are rather dangerous . . . Sit down, sit down. Let’s have a look.”

I handed Doc the call slip.

“Oh, a mermaid’s comb. Heady stuff, but safe enough as long as you don’t use it around water. Or a busy highway. You’re not planning to lure any young men to their doom, are you?”

How embarrassing! I shook my head, blushing. “I just want to look nice for the big basketball game.”

“I see. You know there’s a three-hour limit on this?”

“Three hours? But Ms. Callender said I could bring it back on Saturday!”

“No, I mean a limit on the effects. They taper off, and everything goes back to normal after three hours. Most of the Grimm Collection objects have a time limit—some of them last three days, or a fortnight, or a year and a day. This one’s just three hours. If you’re looking for a permanent love potion, this isn’t it.”

A freckle was floating up Doc’s nose like the shadow of an airplane skimming across the grass. It fascinated me. I made an effort and tore my eyes away. “Really? Is there a permanent love potion in the Grimm Collection?”

“Interesting question. There’s a great deal of scholarly debate in the community over whether any artificially induced love can ever be permanent. Or any natural love, for that matter. Any so-called natural love, assuming any love is natural.”

I noticed that wasn’t really an answer. I also noticed Doc didn’t seem to be signing the slip. “So, the deposit,” I said nervously.

“Mmm.” Doc didn’t seem to be in any hurry. “Let me explain how this works. Here in the repository we keep the objects safe under lock and key. Out in the world, the borrower is responsible for them. When you sign the slip, you’re pledging not to use the object for ill. You’re also pledging to return it whole and potent by the appointed hour. Otherwise your deposit is forfeit. You understand?”

“Of course.”

“I just want to make sure you understand how serious this is. It’s not always easy to keep the objects safe. Not everyone who’s part of our knowledge community is well intentioned, unfortunately. There’s a thief out there, not to mention that bird. It’s possible someone could try to take the comb. It might make you a target, and you’re responsible for keeping it safe.”

That sounded serious. Was it worth it, I wondered, just for pretty hair? But Doc had said to start with something small. If I didn’t have the guts to borrow a mere mermaid comb, how would I ever work my way up to something really big, like flying shoes or an invisibility cloak?

“Are you saying I shouldn’t do this?”

“Not at all. We trust you. You passed the test, and I believe you’re ready. And you’ve chosen something appropriately small to start with. I just need to make sure you’re going into this with your eyes open.”

“I see. Yes, I’m ready.”

“All right. Now, where did I put that kuduo ?” Doc opened and shut desk drawers, stood up, scanned the bookshelves, walked over to a closet and peered in. “Do you see it behind your chair?”

“I don’t know. What does it look like?”

“It’s rather ornate. It has a puff adder and a hornbill on the lid.”

I didn’t know what a puff adder or a hornbill looked like, but there was nothing behind the chair. “I don’t think so,” I said.

“Oh, there it is!” Doc pointed to the top of a bookcase. “Drag over that chair, would you?” I held the chair while Doc handed down a heavy bronzy-black object, roughly cylindrical, about the size of a cantaloupe.

A puff adder is a snake and a hornbill is a bird, evidently.

I put the object on the desk. “Thanks,” said Doc, scrambling down from the chair and lifting the lid.

I peered inside. There seemed to be things in it, but I couldn’t make out what. Looking at them made me dizzy. “What is this thing?” I asked.

“It’s a kuduo, a ceremonial vessel from the Akan people. They’re traditionally used to hold a chief’s gold and spiritual treasure.”

“Is it from the Grimm Collection?” I asked.

“No—it’s on loan to the repository from one of our close families.”

“Like the way Anjali’s family has magic?” I asked. Thinking of my own family, I felt faintly jealous. “Do all the other pages have magic families—the Grimm pages, I mean?”

“Not all of them, but some do, yes.”

“Who does the kuduo belong to, then?” I asked.

Looking a little uncomfortable, Doc answered, “Marc Merritt’s uncle. He loaned it to the repository to use for keeping the deposits. Now, what deposit would you like to leave?”

“I don’t know,” I said doubtfully. “How much is it supposed to be? I have about two hundred dollars saved up.” It didn’t sound as if it could possibly be enough. A mere two hundred dollars—for real magic?

“Money?” Doc sounded shocked. “No, no, Grimm deposits are never money. You’ll have to leave something else.”

“Oh. Like what?”

“You have plenty of choices. We’re quite flexible. The most traditional forfeit, of course, is your firstborn child. Or your skill with your right hand, but that could be inconvenient. Your beauty, your courage, your eyesight, your sense of gravity, your free will, your luck. Those are some of the more common deposits. But most of them are a little heavy for a mere mermaid’s comb, and giving up your beauty would defeat the purpose, I imagine. Your sense of smell, maybe?”

I shook my head, horrified by all these options, especially smell. How would I do my work in the Grimm Collection if I couldn’t smell magic?

“No? Many people don’t mind giving that up for a few days, but of course it’s a matter of individual preference. Your sense of humor, then?”

“Are you joking?”

“Your ear for music? Skill at games? Ability to take tests? Childhood memories? Sense of direction?”

“Sense of direction,” I said quickly. It seemed like the least important of all the possibilities Doc had mentioned. My sense of direction wasn’t all that great to begin with, and it was only for a few days.

“You’re right-handed, right? Give me your right hand.”

I hesitated. “You want my right hand? Didn’t you just say my sense of direction?”

Doc smiled reassuringly. “Not as the deposit. Just as a conduit.”

“Oh. Okay.” I laid my hand in Doc’s cool, dry one.

“Orientation,

Spatial relation,

Out of this body and to your new station!” Doc intoned impressively.

Nothing happened.

I cleared my throat.

“My, my,” said Doc mildly. “I wonder why that didn’t . . . Ah, what’s this?”

“This” was the matted remains of the yarn Jaya had tied around my wrist.

“Just a knot Anjali’s little sister tied.”

“Clever girl. What’s her name?”

“Jaya.”

“Jaya Rao. One of Abigail Bender’s students, isn’t she? Hm . . . Would you mind taking that off?”

“Not at all,” I said.

I pulled on the yarn, but it wouldn’t break. I sawed at it with my teeth; no good. I picked at the knot, but I couldn’t tease it loose.

“Do you have scissors?”

Doc reached into a drawer and handed me a pair. It looked sharp, but like the cheap, blunt baby scissors they give kids in grade school, it just gagged uselessly on the yarn.

“You might try saying a word or two of encouragement,” suggested Doc. “Tell it you forgo the protection and so on. In rhyme, if you can.”