The Grimm Legacy

“It’s those boots again. I need you to help me get them downstairs to the GC before someone requests them. Ms. Minnian is expecting me up on Stack 6 right now. She sent me down here to pick up that hand truck.” 

“Okay,” I said, though I didn’t understand why Anjali couldn’t just put the boots on the return truck with the rest of the stuff for reshelving. “Wouldn’t it be better to have Aaron do it, though? He knows his way around the Dungeon, and he’s obviously dying to help you.” 

“No—don’t tell him! He’d decide it was his duty to tell a librarian. He hates Merritt, for some reason. You’ll keep it a secret, won’t you? Promise?” She sounded terribly alarmed. 

“Of course,” I said. I didn’t exactly see what Marc had to do with it, but returning the boots didn’t seem like such a big deal to me. After all, putting something back in the right place wasn’t like stealing it. Besides, I was flattered that Anjali wanted me to help her—and even more flattered that she trusted me to keep her secret. 

“Thank you, Elizabeth! I really owe you.” She handed me a plastic shopping bag. I peeked in and saw the familiar boots. “Take these down to Stack 1,” she continued. “They go in the Grimm Collection, I *GC 391.413 S94. Can you remember that? Here, I’ll write it down. There’s another pair that look just like them where these are supposed to go. Switch the boots and bring the other pair up here, Stack 2. They go in that aisle with the rest of the boots, call number II T&G 391.413 S23, like it says on this tag. Remember to switch the tags too.” 

“Okay. So I can just walk into the Grimm Collection? It’s not locked?” 

“No, you need a key. A key and a password.” 

“Is that the key you were talking about in the MER? The one I don’t have yet?” 

“Yes, the Grimm Collection key. It’s irreplaceable, and I’m not supposed to give it to anyone. You’ll take really good care of it, won’t you?” 

“I promise.” 

“Then here. 

Anjali took a barrette out of her hair and handed it to me. 

“What’s this for?” 

“That’s the key.” 

“This is a key?” I turned it over. It still looked like a barrette. 

“It’s . . . disguised. For security. When you get to the Grimm Collection, hold it against the door and sing this:

Out is out and shut is shut,

Turn the key and crack the nut.

Push the door and break the shell:

Let me in and all is well.” 

Anjali had a sweet, high singing voice. 

“What’s that, some kind of voice recognition thing?” I asked. 

“Something like that. Sing it back so I know you know it. You have to get the tune right.” 

“Maybe you’d better write it down, so I don’t forget,” I said. 

She scribbled hastily. “Don’t lose this! I could get in big trouble if the wrong person finds it.” 

I sang the rhyme until I got it right, feeling pretty silly. No surprise Mr. Theodorus never picked me to do solos in chorus. “Will the door know my voice?” I asked. 

“It responds to the words and the tune, not the voice. It only works when you have the key, though.” 

“Anjali,” called Aaron from the front of the stack. 

“Boy, that’s some sophisticated security! How does it work?” I asked. 

“Anjali!” called Aaron again. “You still back there?” 

“Just a moment, I’ll be right there!” she yelled back. She looked worried and impatient. “I can’t explain now,” she told me. “Listen, though, this is important. Don’t touch anything! That stuff looks harmless, but a lot of it’s seriously dangerous.” 

“I’ll be careful,” I promised. 

“Good. Now hurry. But don’t get caught! If you do, blame me—say I told you Doc wanted you to do it. I’ll back you up, and there’s a chance they’ll believe us. But please, don’t get caught.” 

“Anjali?” Aaron loomed toward us through the gloom. “Ms. Minnian needs that hand truck. I can help you bring it up if you want.” 

“I’m coming,” she said. “Thanks a million, Elizabeth, I owe you,” she whispered, and followed Aaron down the hallway. 

Then I was left alone with the mysterious boots. Clipping the barrette in my hair for safekeeping, I twisted one of the timers that controlled the lights. To the sound of its buzzy ticking, I took the boots out of their bag to get a better look. There was nothing much to see: a pair of plain brown leather boots, old-fashioned, a little scuffed, the heels worn. Much too big for me, probably, if Marc could wear them—I have big feet for a girl, to my sorrow, but nowhere near as big as a basketball player’s. But when I held the boots up to my feet, they looked as if they might fit. Weird. I was tempted to try them on to see, but the ticking of the light timer reminded me that Anjali had said to hurry. On an impulse, I brought the boots up to my nose the way the patron had done upstairs, scolding myself as I did it: Eww, Elizabeth, what’s the matter with you, sniffing old boots? 

To my surprise, I smelled something. 

Well, I had expected to smell something—old leather, old wool, maybe old feet— but not this. The smell was faint, but the sensation was powerful, flooding over me like a memory of . . . of what, though? Summer rain on cement? Rye toast at my grandmother’s? Something floral and fragile, like individual soap bubbles . . . no, something thick, like milk . . . but briny . . . no, lemony . . . I took deeper and deeper sniffs, chasing the smell farther and farther out of my mind’s reach like a splinter you pursue hopelessly through the sole of your foot with a needle and tweezers. The sensation was almost as painful. Raw oysters? Marjoram? Jet exhaust? Wood? 

The timer ticked its way to the end and the light snapped off, startling me with darkness. I stuffed the boots in their bag and hurried down to Stack 1, the Dungeon. 

I expected something spooky, but despite its sinister name, Stack 1 looked bright and ordinary—far less dungeony than Stack 2. Fluorescent tubes lit the aisles, humming slightly, as if bored. The usual metal cabinets stretched out to the right and left, interspersed with the usual file drawers and oak desks. The dumbwaiters whirred at the staging area, just as they did on all the other stacks, and the occasional pneum thumped through the tubes. The only difference I could see between the Dungeon and the rest of the library stacks was a number of areas fenced off with metal gratings, like the bicycle storage locker in the basement of my old school, and some closed doors. 

A coat hung on a hook in the staging area, but there was nobody in sight. I’d better put the boots away before whoever it was came back, I thought. But which way was the Grimm Collection? I checked the wall map. There were several rooms marked off at the ends of the stack, like the *Vs on the other floors: *GChr, *LC, *GoS . . . There, that must be it, *GC, at the far west end. I hurried down the aisle. 

I half expected to find a spectacular entrance in the spirit of the Tiffany windows and the carved front desk, but the door to the Grimm Collection was as unremarkable as the rest of the stack. Just a plain metal door like all the others, rather scuffed, with *GC Grimm Coll stenciled on it in shiny black paint. 

I pressed down on the handle—it was the standard bar type, the kind they use to make doors easier to open for people with disabilities—but it wouldn’t budge. Feeling foolish, I took the barrette out of my hair and pressed it against the door. “Out is out and shut is shut, turn the key and break the nut. Push the door and crack the shell: let me in and all is well, ” I sang under my breath. 

I tried the handle again. Nothing happened. 

I sang it again, louder. Still nothing. 

Was Anjali playing some kind of mean trick on me? But she had sounded so sincere, so genuinely panicked. Hearing footsteps in the aisle, I started to panic myself. 

I was pretty sure I’d gotten the tune right. Maybe I’d gotten the rhyme mixed up? I got out the slip of paper to check. 

“Out is out and shut is shut,” I sang, my hand on the handle. “Turn the key and crack the nut. Push the door and break the shell: let me in and all is well.” 

This time I felt a tiny click. When I pressed the handle, the door opened, just as it was supposed to. I slipped in and pulled the door shut behind me.