Polly Shulman - The Grimm Legacy

He made a face. “I should have known. This thing is barely shimmering. What’s it the key to?”

“Something about mythology,” said Marc, shrugging. “Use the Golden Key, Elizabeth.”

I tried. It didn’t work. “I guess that’s not what it’s supposed to open. It must be for some other lock.”

“Are you sure that’s the real Golden Key?” said Aaron. “Let me see.”

“You’re really going to give it to him? After what he did?” asked Marc.

“I’m sorry about the rat. I really am!” said Aaron. “I rescued you, didn’t I?”

“Will you give it back?” I asked.

“Yes. I promise,” said Aaron.

I gave him the key. “Oh!” he said, staring at it. He tried it in the lock himself, but it didn’t work.

“Convinced?” I held out my hand.

“Yes . . . yes, it definitely has that shimmer. It’s so strong! I’ve never seen anything like it.” He continued to stare at it, turning it in his hand.

“Aaron! Give it back now. You promised.”

“Oh. Sorry, I was just . . . sorry.” He handed it to me.

“You know what?” I said slowly, “you hold on to it.” I gave it back to him.

Marc shrugged. “Fine, Aaron can carry it, but I’ll be watching,” he said. “We don’t need it to get in, anyway—I have the magic stick that opens doors.”

“No, don’t use the stick,” I said. “That thing’s pretty loud and dramatic. What if she’s home?”

“One way to find out,” said Jaya, running up the steps. “Ring the bell.”

“Stop,” Aaron shouted, but it was too late. A sweet double chime was echoing dimly behind the door.

“Who is it?” called a voice behind the door.

We all looked at each other. Once again, we hadn’t prepared a story.

“We’re students at Vanderbilt and we’re doing a project on Manhattan’s historic wood-frame houses,” said Aaron.

It might have sounded convincing if Jaya hadn’t been speaking at the same time: “I’m Jaya Rao, and I’m looking for my sister.”

The door opened. “A project on wood-frame houses and looking for your sister? You’d better come in.”

I recognized Gloria Badwin, Esq., from the Main Exam Room at the repository. She was wearing a pantsuit and pearls, with narrow black pumps. Her lipstick picked up the highlights in her auburn hair, which matched the deep-red leather briefcase standing on the hall table. She ushered us into a living room with chrysanthemums on the coffee table. “Please sit down, and tell me how I can help you,” she said.

Marc, Aaron, and I sat down on the sofa. Jaya remained standing, staring with her mouth open. I turned to see what she was staring at: a display cabinet lined with row after row of dolls and figurines.

My first reaction struck me hard—it looked so much like my mother’s doll collection! Tears flooded into my eyes. My mother, my mother—I missed her so much! If she were here now, everything would be better.

I shook my head. My mother was gone and all I had now were my new friends. And those weren’t really dolls; they were enchanted people. One of them could be Anjali!

“Ah, you’re drawn to my collection,” said Gloria Badwin to Jaya. “Little girls usually are. Aren’t my princesses special?”

Jaya was too riveted even to object to being called a little girl.

How could we get into the cabinet so we could find Anjali? I remembered how collectors love to talk about their collections—at least, my mother did. Maybe I could get Ms. Badwin talking and flatter her into opening the cabinet.

“What an impressive group! Is that top one on the left Chinese?” I asked.

“The benjarong porcelain? Thai, from the Ban Phlu Luong dynasty. She’s a beaut; let me show you.” Sure enough, Ms. Badwin unlocked the cabinet and brought out a colorful figurine. “She’s in excellent condition, considering that the men who transformed her had to use elephants to hold her down. It’s rare to find them with all ten fingers.”

“What about the beautiful blue one behind her?”

“My, you really have an eye! Egyptian faience, from the Middle Kingdom.”

“And the lacy china one on the next shelf?”

“A Bourbon. Every collection needs one. They’re not all that rare, actually—a lot of them came on the market during the French Revolution. Though their heads do tend to come off.”

Aaron figured out what I was doing and joined in, with his usual tact. “What about that big doll with the loud colors that looks like a lumpy egg?” he said.

Ms. Badwin chuckled. “Oh, the Russian family—that’s a bit of an embarrassment. I keep it to remind me that we all make mistakes.” She took out a wooden doll shaped like a squat bowling pin and twisted its middle. The doll came apart. Inside was another doll, which also twisted apart. “See?” said Ms. Badwin, twisting apart the nested dolls until she had a row of five. “A dealer in Leningrad swore the little one here was Anastasia, the youngest daughter of the last tsar. That was long before they identified Anastasia’s bones. Well, of course I didn’t really believe him, but I wanted to believe, so I took a chance. I paid three thousand dollars for the set of five. Dollars! Hard currency! Of course, the real Anastasia would have been worth a thousand times that. How they laughed at me when I got to West Berlin. A fake, but a very clever one—the eyes are just the right royal blue. I suspect there might be a drop of genuine Romanov blood in her. You fooled me, little lady!” She held the smallest doll up and waggled her finger at it, then put the dolls back together, nesting them.

Jaya was having trouble sitting still through all this. I grabbed her wrist and squeezed it to keep her quiet.

“I must say,” Ms. Badwin continued, “it’s very nice of you young people to listen to me go on like this. We collectors can get a little obsessive, I know. Not everyone would be so patient. But I imagine you take a family interest—most of you royals are related somewhere along the family tree.” She turned to Jaya. “Was the raja of Chomalur your great-grandfather, dear, or your great-great-grandfather? The dealer told me when I bought your sister, but I can’t remember.”

“You bought Anjali from Mr. Stone?” Jaya was almost choking with fury.

“Yes, he’s a very reliable dealer—she came with all her papers. I’m meticulous about provenance. Well, you have to be, especially these days. I have a friend who’s always snagging what she calls bargains on eBay, but all her Tang dynasty specimens turned out to be looted and had to be returned. And between you and me, that Maltese she brags about so much isn’t royal at all—it’s just a duchess. But you didn’t come here to hear all this. Where are my manners? Can I offer you anything? Some gingerbread, maybe?”

“Yes, actually, that would be great, thank you,” said Aaron.

I kicked him. I tried to be subtle about it so Ms. Badwin wouldn’t see. He kicked me back, much less subtly. I managed not to say “ow.”

“Excellent! Back in a jiff,” said Ms. Badwin. She left the room.

“What are you doing, Aaron?” I hissed. “You know it’s not safe to eat anything here!”

“Getting her out of the room, you dimwit. Quick, let’s find Anjali!”

Marc rushed over to the cabinet. Jaya was already there, pushing princesses aside. “There she is! Marc, can you reach?” She pointed to a painted clay puppet in the back of an upper shelf, the kind with strings to control the arms and legs. It was wearing a cloth sari, and it had Anjali’s eyes.

“No, no. Don’t touch.” Ms. Badwin had come back. She was holding—I know this sounds lame—a magician’s wand. It looked like it came out of a magic kit, the kind an uncle might give his six-year-old nephew. She reached for Marc with the wand.