Free The Grimm Legacy by Polly Shulman Page B

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