Polly Shulman - The Grimm Legacy

I crouched beneath the shelving unit, flinching away from the dust bunnies. Bunnies, ha—dust ogres was more like it. A tangle of hairs like monstrous, scaly wires. Clumps of green and yellow fibers, lots of pale, flaky stuff, and ugh, was that a fly wing?

I turned my back on the mess and looked out from under the shelf. Overhead I saw the sole of one sandal, wings beating at its heel. Its mate was suspended by its straps, flapping in a panic.

“Easy there,” said Marc softly, leaning out of the steady sandal to put his hand on the panicked one. “Hey, boy—nice and easy. Steady now.”

The sandal continued to thrash in the air.

“Elizabeth! Can you grab the straps?”

The frightened sandal dove and bucked. Marc threw me one of its leather straps, and I caught the end. That seemed to panic the sandal even more; it flapped away, dragging me along the floor. I hung on, pulling it down with all my weight as Marc landed his own sandal beside me.

“We’d better switch,” he said. “Yours is freaking out. It’s the left one—the pair must be right-handed.”

“Right-handed?”

“Okay, right-footed.” He stepped out of the right sandal, where he’d been sitting like a kayaker with his legs stretched out in front of him along the sole and his back against the heel, where the wings attached. He held the straps in one hand like reins.

“Stay,” he told the right sandal sternly, handing me its straps and taking mine. He turned to face the shoe I’d been struggling with. “Now, you! Lefty! Are you going to behave for me?” He pulled hard on both straps, and the left sandal subsided beside him, its wings twitching. “That’s better. Good boy.” He stepped in and sat down, holding the straps with both hands. The sandal gave a little flutter but obeyed. He patted its side.

“Well? Get in and buckle up,” Marc told me. I jumped to obey. The man was a born leader.

Unfortunately, his shoe wasn’t. It wanted to follow mine, its dominant mate. That would have been fine if I’d still had my sense of direction. As I lifted off, I heard Marc yelling behind me, “Elizabeth! Stop! The other way!”

I tugged at the reins to turn my sandal around. I could tell it was doing its best to obey, but I didn’t know how to guide it. Should I pull the left strap to go left and the right to go right, like a charioteer? Should I pull left to go right and right to go left, like a sailboat helmsman? Which way was left, anyway?

“The other way! The other way! No, the other other way!” I turned and collided with him.

“This is like having two left feet,” he muttered.

I lurched from side to side. Marc fluttered after me. We had rounded a corner into a lane of cabinets that looked just like every other lane of cabinets when Marc shouted, “Stop!” and reached over to catch my reins. “This is it,” he said. He reached out with his other hand and turned the handle.

The sandals went wild with excitement, bucking and dragging the door open. It was all I could do not to fall to my death. Marc soothed the shoes and we flew to the fifth shelf.

“I’d better stay with the sandals and keep them calm. Can you find the key yourself?” asked Marc.

“I’ll try.” Stepping off my hovering shoe a zillion inches up from the hard floor was child’s play after the trip in the pneum—or at least, that’s what I told myself.

I lost myself quickly in the forest of locks and keys. The smell of magic came off them in waves and puffs. Some were old and rusty, some elaborately carved and jeweled. Some were tiny, no bigger than my finger; others towered over my head. Many shone like gold. Which was the Golden Key?

I checked the labels and followed the numbers in what looked like the right direction only to find I had gone past the key’s call number and was wandering through an entirely different sequence of numbers.

“Find it yet?” called Marc.

“Still looking.”

This was taking forever. There had to be a better way. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The magic smelled stronger to my left, so I went that way. I sniffed my way past an ivory box the size of a coffin and a brass padlock the size of my skull.

A wave of shellfish—oysters?—was coming off a mother-of-pearl casket, masking the smell I was following. I circled it, sniffing. Another heavy reek interfered, like a butcher’s shop. I put up my hand to push through a curtain of keys and felt something warm and wet. Blood.

I hastily wiped my hand on my jeans and checked the tag on the bloody key. It was Bluebeard’s—it must be the key to the chamber where his murdered wives lay hidden! I shuddered away, trying to ignore the reek of blood, and sniffed for the subtler fragrance I’d been following. Forward . . . around again . . . there!

I had reached the back wall of the cabinet. All I could see was a blank wall, but the smell was strongest here. I shut my eyes and reached out. My hands closed on something smooth and cold. I opened my eyes and found I was holding a plain gold key the length of my forearm.

It was very heavy, but somehow I didn’t mind. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. It was like when you dream of walking along a street you thought you’d never find again or like waking up on the first day of spring.

I checked the label. The numbers were right.

“I found it!”

“Great. Let’s get going.”

“Keep talking, okay? I have to follow your voice.” I made my way over to Marc where he hovered on his sandal.

“Wow.” Marc couldn’t take his eyes off the key either. “Wow, is that it?”

I nodded.

“Can I hold it?”

I handed it to him reluctantly. He leaned back against the heel of his sandal holding it and staring.

“We’d better get going,” I said. “Here.” I held out my hand for the key.

“I can carry it,” said Marc. “It’s pretty heavy.”

“That’s okay, I’ll take it,” I said.

He gave it back reluctantly. I put it in my backpack—it just fit in the biggest compartment—and buckled up. “Which way’s the door?” I asked.

“To the left, but shouldn’t we get supplies first?”

“Like what?”

“Lots of things. The cloak of invisibility. The Blue Light. The Bottomless Purse. Even the Table-Be-Set, in case we get locked in someplace without lunch,” Marc said.

“How are we supposed to carry all that? We’re six inches tall, remember?”

“Strap it to the sandals. They can carry a full-grown man.”

“Yeah, but . . . I don’t know, Marc. I don’t think it’s such a good idea. You know how fairy tales work. They punish the greedy and reward the restrained.”

“They give the hero the magic items he needs. Heroes are always stealing stuff. Like the giant’s magic harp that plays itself or the goose that lays the golden eggs.”

“Yes, but if you remember that particular story, the harp doesn’t appreciate being stolen. It yells and gets Jack in trouble.”

“Okay, so we won’t take the harp.”

“You know what I mean. We were told to take the Golden Key. Nobody said anything about lamps and purses. Remember what happened with the cudgel? Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“Oh, all right,” said Marc.

With the usual false turns and accidental zigzagging, we flew to the door. Steadying my sandal, I hefted the Golden Key and tried it in the keyhole.

It didn’t fit.

“Now what?”

“I have an idea—I think I we passed something useful near the keys,” said Marc. “Wait there.” He flew back the way we’d come.

He was gone for a while. I stroked my sandal’s wing. While I waited, I took a minute to marvel at my position: six inches tall, riding a winged sandal through a storehouse of magical items. If anyone had told me a year ago I’d be in this position, I would have laughed and then edged away.