Polly Shulman - The Grimm Legacy

“Wallace Stone,” I said. “I’ve heard that name before.”

“Where?” asked Jaya.

I thought about it. “Something about the page that got fired for stealing stuff. I think they said he recommended her.”

“Great! So we’re on the right track, at least,” said Jaya.

“I guess the best thing to do is just to go down to Twenty-third Street and look for him,” Marc said.

“I don’t know—that’s probably what Anjali did, and she’s missing,” I said.

“Got any better ideas?”

“Shouldn’t we ask Doc for help? Or the other librarians, or Mr. Mauskopf ?”

“No! We don’t know who Doc will tell about it, and any one of the librarians could be involved with the thief. They all have access to the Grimm Collection. The fewer people we trust, the better.”

“You think the librarians are involved?” That sounded crazy.

“I don’t know who to trust,” said Marc.

“I think he’s right,” said Jaya. “Anjali disappeared because of the repository. I don’t trust anyone there—except you, of course, because you’re nice, and Marc, because he’s Anjali’s boyfriend.”

But the Twenty-third Street address was a dead end. There was no Benign Designs listed on any of the buzzers, and when we rang them anyway, nobody’d heard of the place—at least, that’s what they said.

“What do we do next?” I asked.

“We go see the owner—Wallace Stone,” said Jaya. “I got his address and phone number. It’s on Otters Alley, downtown. Let me see your ankle.”

“What?”

“The knot. I need to see your knot.”

“Oh.” I stuck out my foot.

“Other foot.”

I stuck out my other foot. She pushed up my jeans leg to look at the knot and nodded. “Good, it’s still there. Here, you make me one.” She pulled a ball of yarn out of her bag and snapped off a piece with her teeth.

“I don’t know how.”

“That’s okay, I’ll show you. First take both ends in your left hand and wrap the whole yarn—no, your left hand—no, that’s still your right hand—yes, that’s it—now wrap it clockwise—no, clockwise —the other way. Okay, now hold the loop under your left thumb and take the two ends with your right hand and loop the top one around your index finger and the bottom one around your pinkie—no, the bottom one, that’s the top one—”

This went on for a long time. I wondered whether tying knots would be easier if I had a sense of direction. The cold made my fingers extra clumsy, and people walking past us on Twenty-third Street gave us little amused glances.

“Do we have time for this?” asked Marc. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“Making a knot of protection,” said Jaya. “It’s very important. It keeps you safe from magic attacks. No, Elizabeth, the other way. You have it backward.”

Eventually I produced a lump that seemed to connect the two ends. “Now the rhyme—repeat after me,” said Jaya. “By this charm, be safe from harm.”

“By this charm, be safe from harm,” I repeated, pulling the knot tight. “Okay?”

Jaya tugged at it dubiously. It slipped a little, but it didn’t come untied. “I hope so,” she said. “Your turn, Marc.”

“Jaya,” he said, “that yarn’s pink.”

“Oh. You’re right. Well, I didn’t bring any other color.” She snapped off a length with her teeth again, pulled his arm toward her, and began weaving the knot.

Marc crinkled his forehead, but he didn’t stop her. I guess Andre gave him plenty of practice indulging little siblings. “You better take Jaya home while I go downtown and deal with this Wallace Stone,” he told me.

“If you try, I’ll scream and say you kidnapped me,” Jaya said. “They’ll believe me too—I don’t look a thing like you. You have to take me with you.”

“Maybe we can find an ogre who’d like to eat her,” said Marc.

“Maybe that’s what Wallace Stone is,” I answered.

The building on Otters Alley was an old factory with huge windows and eight buzzers. Marc pressed the one that said W. Stone.

After a minute a crackly voice came out of the loudspeaker: “Who is it?”

Marc and I looked at each other in dismay. We’d forgotten to come up with a cover story. Before we could stop her, Jaya pushed her face forward and announced, “It’s Jaya Rao. I’m here to rescue my sister.”

Silence for a few seconds; then the door buzzed open. We took the clanking old elevator up to the seventh floor and rang the bell.

It only took me a second to recognize Wallace Stone: the repository patron, the man who had tried to take the box of acrobats on Fifth Avenue.

“Well, it’s you! Hello again,” he said. “Have you brought me back my package?”

“You!” I said.

“Where’s my sister?” said Jaya.

He turned to look at her. “My, my, my,” he said. “The other one—a matching pair.”

“Where is she? Where’s Anjali? Give her back!” Jaya filled the hallway.

“I wish I could, but I don’t have her.”

“Anjali! Anjali! Where are you hiding her?” Jaya pushed past him and stuck her head in the apartment door. “Anjali!”

Mr. Stone opened the door wide. “By all means, come in and look around. Bring your friends. You’ll see I’m telling the truth. Your sister’s not here.” He cocked an eyebrow at me and Marc with polite, almost affectionate patience. We all followed Jaya into the apartment.

The smell overwhelmed me for a moment. It was as unmistakable and impossible to pin down as the smell in the Grimm Collection, yet rawer, harsher. It smelled like the false package Mr. Stone had tried to give me instead of the acrobats. Not hyacinths but paint thinner; not loam but wet ash.

Reeling from the smell, I looked around to get my bearings. The apartment was a big loft with a high ceiling. It seemed to be part home, part warehouse. Pedestals, tables, and stands displayed lovely old objects—clocks, paintings, vases, radios—that all looked as if they might be magical. On the computer, some sort of dizzying screen saver whirled and churned sickeningly. It reminded me of the swirling inside the kuduo. I looked away.

“Can I get you anything? A soda?” offered Mr. Stone.

“My sister!”

“Excuse me a minute.” Mr. Stone went behind a low wall. We could hear the refrigerator open and shut. Jaya stomped around, looking behind furniture for Anjali.

Mr. Stone came back with drinks and cookies. “Root beer? Sparkling water?”

“My sister!”

He poured a glass of root beer and held it out to me. “No, thanks,” I said. He offered it to Marc, who shook his head. Jaya didn’t even acknowledge the offer—she just glared at him.

Mr. Stone shrugged and sipped the soda himself. “So,” he said. “Perhaps we should introduce ourselves. I’m Wallace Stone, but I imagine you know that already. I think you said you were Jaya Rao?” He held out his hand to Jaya, but she put hers behind her. Mr. Stone seemed to find that funny—at least, his eyes twinkled. “And you?” He offered me his hand. “We’ve met before, of course, but I don’t know your name.”

I didn’t want to shake his hand, but I thought it was probably a good idea to be polite if we wanted to get any information out of him. “Elizabeth Rew,” I said.

“A pleasure.”