Polly Shulman - The Grimm Legacy

At last Marc came back, with a stick a little taller than him propped along his sandal.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The stick from ‘The Raven.’ It opens any door you hit with it.” He flew up and tapped the door with it. The door exploded inward; our sandals got out of the way quickly.

Aaron was there waiting. “Finally!” he said. “Did you get the Golden Key?”

I was so relieved to see him that if I had been my normal size, I would have hugged him.

We rode the sandals down the hall to the Wells Bequest. Aaron wanted to carry us in his pocket in case someone saw us, but Marc refused. “Your walking makes me seasick,” he said. “It’s not that far, and there’s nobody else down here.”

Aaron didn’t argue. Maybe he was being diplomatic, I thought, or maybe he didn’t want Marc throwing up in his pocket. In any case, Marc and I followed him at shoulder height. We landed on a shelf.

“Can I have the Golden Key now?” said Aaron.

“Why?” said Marc.

“Well, obviously, we don’t want it going through the shrink ray. If it’s the wrong size, it won’t fit in its keyhole.”

“That makes sense,” I said.

“No!” said Marc. “I don’t trust him. He can unshrink me first, and I’ll hold the key while he unshrinks you.”

“Come on, don’t be ridiculous,” said Aaron, holding out his hand. It reminded me of an inflatable raft. “Give me the key.”

“I don’t know, Aaron. Why not do it Marc’s way?”

Aaron gave an exasperated sigh. “Come on, Elizabeth, we don’t have time for this,” he said. “Give it to me or I’ll take it.” He reached for my sandal.

“What are you doing, Aaron?” I fluttered away.

“Oh, you think you’re a big man, don’t you, now that we’re small!” said Marc. “Let’s go, Elizabeth. We don’t need him. We can rescue Anjali by ourselves.” He kicked his sandal into the air. We flew for all we were worth, with Aaron underneath, jumping at us and yelling, “Wait, Elizabeth! Stop!”

But I didn’t count on my sense of direction. “Left, Elizabeth! Go left! No, the other way—LEFT!” shouted Marc. I tried to obey, turning and turning—and found myself flying right into Aaron’s arms.

Marc’s sandal whirled around. Marc had a powerful grip on the straps, but the pull of its mate was stronger. He crashed beside me into Aaron’s sweater-covered chest, a mass of coarse fibers. Aaron grabbed the ends of our straps and held on tight as our sandals bucked and fought, beating the air with their wings.

“Aaron! Let go! What are you doing?” I shouted.

“Quit kicking already! I’m not going to hurt you,” Aaron said. He gripped our sandals from beneath by the straps so we couldn’t reach his hands. My sandal flapped and I thrashed, but we couldn’t get away or even touch Aaron. Is this how lobsters feel when you hold them behind the shoulders so they can’t reach you with their claws?

Aaron lifted us to eye level. Such long lashes! “Okay, let’s try this,” he said. “Step out of these sandals and hand over the key. I don’t want to risk hurting you.”

“What is wrong with you?” said Marc. “You get a little power and you go crazy with it?”

“Aaron! What are you trying to do?” I said.

“You heard how Marc doesn’t trust me? Well, I don’t trust him, and I have much better reasons. I’m going to take the Golden Key and rescue Anjali. Then once I know which of the librarians I can trust, I’m going to hand Marc over to them. I’m sorry to do this, but believe me, it’s for the best.”

“You idiot! Can’t you see we’re all on the same side? Mr. Stone’s the bad guy, not us!”

“I know you mean well, Elizabeth. But you’re not seeing things straight. Marc has you enchanted.”

“Don’t do this, Aaron!”

“Just step away from the sandal.”

Marc gave Aaron the look a king might give a swineherd whose smelly animals were blocking his path. “Don’t bother fighting, Elizabeth,” he said, unbuckling himself from his sandal and swinging the stick over his shoulder like a spear. “He’s not worth it. I’ll give him the key.”

“You? But you don’t—”

Marc glared at me. “I said, I’ll give him the key. Get out of your shoe before he breaks your bones. He’s enough of a jerk to do it.”

Marc unzipped his backpack and took out a key the size of his calf. It was brassy yellow. He held it out to Aaron.

“Thank you, Marc. I’m glad you decided to be reasonable,” Aaron said. “The address too, please.”

“What address?”

“You know what address. The person who’s holding Anjali.”

“I’ll give it to you after you unshrink me.”

“Nope. You’ll give it to me now, or I’ll never unshrink you.”

I saw the muscle jumping in Marc’s tense jaw. He got a notebook and a pen out of his backpack, wrote something, and tore out the page. He handed it to Aaron, who held it by the corner like a postage stamp and squinted at it.

“Jeez, can’t you write a little bigger?”

“Use a magnifying glass.”

Aaron shrugged and put the paper carefully in his jeans pocket. He picked up a large archival fiber bag—the strong-but-breathable kind they use for storing flower bulbs on Stack 8—and lifted Marc around the waist.

“Aaron, what are you doing? He did what you asked! He gave you the key and the address!” I shouted.

Aaron dropped Marc into the paper bag. “Ow!” said Marc.

Aaron ignored him. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. It’s just until I rescue Anjali. It might be dangerous—you’ll be much safer here, and I can’t risk the chance that Marc is helping Stone. I’ll come back as soon as I can, I promise.” He picked me up too and slid me into the bag after Marc.

The bag opened again and something big, white, and wet fell in. An enormous slice of apple. We scrambled out of the way.

Aaron’s face loomed over us, blocking the light. “That’s in case you get hungry,” he said. The top of the bag folded down and the light disappeared. After a moment the bag shook and I heard the clunk-CLUNK of a stapler. Evidently Aaron wasn’t taking any chances.

A lurch, and the bag was rocking and swaying with Aaron’s footsteps, swinging Marc and me back and forth against each other. Marc grabbed me tight to steady me and keep me from bashing into him.

Two months ago, if you’d told me I would be lying in the arms of Marc Merritt, I would have thought you were describing heaven. But this? Of course, being six inches tall and stapled into a paper bag rarely features in visions of heaven.

Marc moaned. “I feel sick.”

“Please, please, please,” I told him. “Please don’t vomit.”

He just moaned some more.

“Marc,” I whispered, “what was that key?”

“Uh?”

“The key you gave Aaron. I have the real one. What was that one?”

“Oh . . .” He swallowed hard and took a gulp of air. “Something called the Key to . . .” Another lurch. “The Key to All Mythologies. It was in the cabinet with the other keys. I thought we could use it . . .” Another lurch. “. . . to figure stuff out.”

“Marc! You agreed not to take anything else!” I hissed. Not that I was such a big Aaron Rosendorn fan at the moment, but I was getting his point about Marc.