Polly Shulman - The Grimm Legacy

He turned to Marc next and held out his hand. “And you’re the great Marc Merritt, aren’t you?”

Marc towered over Mr. Stone and didn’t offer his hand.

“Now, have some gingerbread and tell me why you thought your sister would be here,” said Mr. Stone, holding out the plate of cookies.

“We know she came here this morning, and now she’s missing,” said Marc, accepting one.

I couldn’t resist taking one too and bit off its leg. It was delicious. I tasted ginger, cinnamon, cloves, and some other spice—what was it? Nutmeg? Cardamom? No, something a little more unusual in gingerbread—orange peel, maybe? Not quite: it was a darker flavor somehow, more like, I don’t know, caramelized apples or wood smoke. I took another bite. Sweet and dark, like roast duck or cedar pencils.

“Well, you’re right—Anjali did come to see me,” said Mr. Stone. “But as you can see, she’s not here anymore.”

“She was here? When? What happened to her?” Jaya chomped the head off a gingerbread man furiously, as if it were Mr. Stone himself.

His eyes flared. “Thank you, my dear. You’re about to find out.” He cleared his throat and intoned:

“All who gobble gingerbread,

Whether from the feet or head,

Be you swineherd, king, or queen,

Turn into a figurine!”

Nothing happened.

Well, Jaya seemed to sort of shudder for a moment, rippling around the edges like a reflection in a pond on a windy day; also, my stomach felt odd. Marc leapt to his feet. But nobody turned into a figurine.

“That’s strange,” said Mr. Stone. He looked annoyed.

“Did you miss what I just said?

By the power of gingerbread,

Whether swineherd, king, or queen—

Turn into a figurine!”

Jaya rippled again. “Stop it!” she yelled, shaking herself like a wet dog.

Marc grabbed Mr. Stone by the shoulders. “What are you doing? Did you just try to turn us into figurines?” he growled, his nostrils flaring.

“Yes, of course. What on earth went wrong? By the power of gingerbread . . . Let me see that!” He caught hold of the knot on Marc’s wrist. “What is this? Abigail Bender’s work?”

“Mine,” said Jaya, with a touch of smugness mixed into her fury. “Miss Bender taught me. Is my sister a figurine? Where did you hide her?” She began tearing through the closet, flinging coats on the floor and dumping out the contents of hatboxes.

Marc wrenched his arm away from Mr. Stone. He opened his knapsack and reached in. He held up a burlap sack and said, “Cudgel, out of the bag!”

A stout wooden club with a leather handle flew out of the sack, straight at Mr. Stone. He threw his hand up in front of him. The club paused in mid-flight, beating at the air. Then slowly, thrashing and struggling as if it were being dragged against its will, it turned around and lowered itself, handle first, into his hand.

“Thank you, Marc—what a pleasant surprise. The bag too, please.” Mr. Stone held out his other hand and the bag twisted itself out of Marc’s grasp into his. “Did you really think you could beat your friend’s whereabouts out of me? In my own home? How crude.” He shook his head sadly.

Marc stared at him in horror.

“What was that? What’s going on?” I cried.

“The Grimm cudgel,” said Marc in a choked voice. “He got the Grimm cudgel!”

“The what?”

“The Grimm cudgel. It beats up anyone you send it after, until you tell it to stop. At least, it’s supposed to.”

“Marc, Marc, Marc. Don’t you know violence is never the answer?” Mr. Stone seemed to be enjoying himself. “Cudgel, back in the bag . ”

“You thieving piece of—”

“Please—you’re addressing a member of the Association of Authenticating Antiquarians, not to mention the Better Business Bureau. I prefer the term ‘art dealer.’”

“You sick little creep! You! You’re the one who stole that stuff from the Grimm Collection—just like you stole Anjali! Where is it?”

“Perfectly safe, I assure you. My clients are very careful with their collections.”

“You’ll tell me! I’ll make you tell me,” roared Marc.

“What about that other page—the one that disappeared? Mona? Did you take her too?” I asked.

“Mona Chen? Slippery little character. No, unfortunately—I don’t know where she is. I thought I could get her to help me in my business, but she not only refused to cooperate, she ran away.”

“Where is Anjali?” yelled Jaya again.

“Sit down, all of you, and please, stop yelling. Let’s settle this like adults,” said Mr. Stone. “I have something you want. You have something I want. I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”

“What arrangement? You’ll give me my sister back?”

“As I keep telling you, I don’t have your sister. But I do know where she is. I sold . . . that is, I placed her with a very good customer of mine, a distinguished collector, who might be willing to part with her if you can make it worth her while.”

“Who? Who is the collector? Where is she keeping Anjali?”

“Please. Sit. I’m willing to share that information in exchange for . . .” He paused. “Let’s see. You have access to the Grimm Collection, yes?”

“No!” I said. “Do your own dirty work. We’re not stealing anything for you!”

“Anything else, you mean?” Mr. Stone held up the cudgel bag. I shot a bitter look at Marc, who wouldn’t meet my eyes. “But I’m not asking you to steal anything,” Mr. Stone continued.

“I’m only asking for something that’s rightfully yours,” he said, turning to Marc. “There’s an Akan bronze ceremonial vessel with a puff adder and a hornbill on the lid. Bring me that and I’ll tell you where Anjali is.”

“You mean Doc’s kuduo ?”

“No!” I said. “Even if we wanted to, we can’t take it out of the repository. Doc says no one can except its rightful owners.”

“Ah, but that’s just the point.” Mr. Stone’s eyes were twinkling. “Young Mr. Merritt here is the rightful owner.”

“What are you talking about?” said Marc.

“Nobody told you? You, young man, are descended from great men and women. Chiefs in Africa, in what’s now Ghana. The kuduo in question belongs to your family. Those prigs at the repository? They have no more right to it than—well, than Jaya here. It’s yours to do with whatever you want. Including trade it to me, for information about your friend’s whereabouts.”

“The kuduo ? Mine?”

“Exactly.”

“He’s right,” I said. “Doc told me it belongs to your family.”

“Why tell you and not me? What’s it doing in the repository?” said Marc. “How did they get it?”

“How did they get any of their holdings?” answered Mr. Stone. “The place is rife with trickery, shady deals—”

“That’s not true! The kuduo’ s on loan. Doc said Marc’s uncle loaned it to the repository!” I said.

Mr. Stone said, “You think the people running that institution are paragons of virtue? Your people have a proverb, Marc: ‘If a bug bites you, it’s from inside your clothes.’ Believe me, I could tell you a thing or two about a few of your librarians . . . But I won’t. I’m a gentleman. Bring me that kuduo , and I’ll show you where to find Anjali.”

He got up and opened the door. “Well, this has been a pleasure. I look forward to further profitable meetings.”

“What now?” I said when we got downstairs. We were all three practically shaking with rage at our own powerlessness.

“Now Marc goes and gets that doodoo-oh or whatever it’s called and we rescue my sister,” said Jaya.