Alistair Grim's Odditorium (8 page)

I
t was only a short distance down the hallway to the kitchen, but to me it seemed like miles. The smell of freshly baked bread had taken over me,
and instantly my stomach began to grumble.

“You’re on the first floor now, Master Grubb,” said Mrs. Pinch, eyes forward and always two steps ahead of me. “In addition to Mr. Grim’s shop, on this level
you’ll find the kitchen and the servants’ quarters.”

We stopped at the entrance to the kitchen and Mrs. Pinch turned around.

“You see that door down there?” she asked, pointing to a large red-painted door at the far end of the hallway behind me. “That door is off-limits to you, Master Grubb.
You’re never to go in there for any reason, you understand?”

“Yes, Mrs. Pinch.”

“You better, or blind me if my broomstick shan’t be the least of your worries.”

I nodded and followed Mrs. Pinch into the kitchen. Unlike the rest of the Odditorium, the windowless chamber had hardly a speck of black paint anywhere. And instead of the eerie blue light, in
the ovens there burned a brilliant bloodred fire unlike any I had ever seen.

Other than that, the Odditorium’s kitchen was nearly identical to the Lamb’s. However, I must say that Mrs. Pinch’s bread tasted much better than Mrs. Crumbsby’s. She
served it warm with butter and jam, and allowed me to sit at the table rather than send me out to the stable, as Mr. Smears was wont to do.

“Easy, lad,” Mrs. Pinch said as I stuffed my face. “You’ll make yourself sick at the rate you’re going.”

“My apologies, ma’am,” I said, but I kept on munching. I felt as if I hadn’t eaten in weeks, and could not remember having ever tasted anything so delightful.

“I take it your Mr. Smears thought it ill-advised to feed you,” said Mrs. Pinch, sitting down across from me. “Wanted to keep you small for your job, did he not?”

“I suppose he did, ma’am.”

Mrs. Pinch’s expression softened. “Well, you needn’t worry about that here. Blind me if I’m going to let a lad like you go starving. Happy tummy, happy chummy,
wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh yes, ma’am,” I said, smiling. Then, unexpectedly, a closet door cracked open and out slipped a broom sweeping away of its own accord.

“Just a moment, please,” said Mrs. Pinch, and she hurried over to the closet and stuffed the broom back inside. “It’s not polite to gawk, Master Grubb,” she said,
noticing my amazement, and I quickly went on with my munching.

After breakfast, Mrs. Pinch snatched her broom from the closet and ordered me into the lift with a scraper and chimney brush. And as we traveled upward, I waited for her broom to fly out of her
hand and start sweeping again. But when it didn’t, I began to wonder if my eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on me earlier.

Mrs. Pinch brought the lift to a stop and we stepped out into the parlor. The furniture had been covered with sheets, and another had been laid out on the floor before the fireplace.

“You’re to sweep this chimney and this chimney alone,” Mrs. Pinch said. “No wandering off into the flues as is your habit. And when you’re finished, you’re to
summon me on the talkback.”

“The talkback, ma’am?”

Mrs. Pinch pointed her broomstick at a small panel on the wall beside the lift. “Just flick that red switch there and speak into the wire screen above it. I’ll be able to hear you
from the kitchen. You understand me, lad?”

“Er, yes, Mrs. Pinch,” I said tentatively. “But—begging your pardon, ma’am—might I have a soot bag and, er…a
broom
to sweep the hearth?”

Mrs. Pinch looked down at her broom as if my request puzzled her, and then stepped into the lift.

“You needn’t worry about that, Master Grubb,” she said. “And you’ll be sure to keep out of the master’s library. I needn’t remind you why.”

Mrs. Pinch smiled knowingly and disappeared with her broom up the lift.

My eyes immediately flitted to the library doors and then up to the portrait above the hearth. The Lady in Black, I christened her. What was she looking at past her silver mirror? And what could
possibly make such a beautiful woman look so sad?

I looked more closely at the stones in her necklace, the blue of which seemed to glow a bit brighter than the rest of the painting. And as I stood there on the hearth, my eyes eventually
wandered back to the library doors.

“The blue stones in the Lady’s necklace look like the eyes of the samurai,” I said to myself. Suddenly, I felt something rumbling in my chummy coat. I reached inside my pocket,
and when I pulled out my hand again, there was McClintock the pocket watch.

“Mack!” I exclaimed as I opened him.

“What time is it?”

“You never mind that. What are you doing in my pocket?”

“Doing me duty, I figure. After all, what’s a pocket watch without a pocket?”

“But how’d you get in there?”

“I dunno, laddie. I pretended to be out cold in the shop so’s to distract ya, and then somehow I dropped off the table and into yer pocket while ya were gabbing with the old
witch.”

“That isn’t very nice of you to call Mrs. Pinch a witch.”

“Well, she
is
a witch.”

“And,” I said, raising my finger, “it isn’t very nice of you to sneak into people’s pockets and then go lying about it either.”

“On my honor, laddie! I’m telling ya, something just picked me up off the table and dropped me in yer—” Mack stopped. “Hang on,” he said, turning round in my
hand. “Are we where I think we are?”

“You never mind about that. You’re going to get me into trouble unless I get you back to the shop.”

“I told ya yer trouble already, lad. So I hope you’ll forgive me for what I’m about to do.”

And before I could ask what he meant, with a crackle and a flash Mack leaped from my hand.

“McClintock!”
he cried as he sailed across the room. Mack hit the floor with a grunt, tumbled a bit, and slid the rest of the way on his case. He waited until the very last
moment to close himself, and then slipped neatly under the doors and disappeared into Mr. Grim’s library.

“Mack!” I called after him, dashing across the room.

“I’ve made it!” I heard him cry from within. “I’ve—Hey! What are you do—?”

Then all was silent.

I listened at the door. Nothing.

“You come out of there, Mack,” I whispered, tapping gently. “You hear me?”

No reply. I pressed my ear to the door but could hear nothing but the ticking of Mr. Grim’s clocks on the other side.

I was in for it now, I thought. If Mack fizzled out again, surely Mr. Grim would find him and know I had something to do with it. Perhaps, if I quickly stepped inside, snatched Mack, and then
quickly stepped out again, what harm could come of it? Gwendolyn the Yellow Fairy had already protected me once, and surely, if the samurai tried to attack me, she’d do so again.
Wouldn’t she?

I listened for a moment longer, took a deep breath, and resolved at once to give it a go. I cracked open the library doors and immediately spied Mack lying on the floor only a few feet away. His
case was open again, but his eyes were black as coal.

“Serves you right,” I whispered, and I slipped inside and scooped him up. “No tapping you awake this time.”

I closed Mack tight, returned him to my pocket, and instinctively glanced up at the ceiling behind me. The dollhouse that had hung in the corner was gone, and there was no sign of Miss Gwendolyn
anywhere.

Surely the samurai will attack me now, I thought, making to leave. But when I saw their eyes were no longer blue, my curiosity got the better of me.

I stepped farther into the room, and amidst the library’s fascinating contents, for the first time I noticed the books themselves. I began to wander about. Some of the books bore words I
did not understand, while on others I was able to read the entire title.
The Science of
appeared on many of the books, as did
Secret
,
Wonder
, and
Legend
.

“‘Legend of the Thunderbird and Other Tales from the Americas,’” I whispered, reading aloud the title of a large book that had been left on an armchair.

In addition to
Americas
, there were three other
A
words that kept popping up. I could read
Adventure
, but gave up on
Alchemy
and
Archaeology
until another
time. And then, of course, there was one word that kept popping up more than any other.

Magic.

I wandered past the fireplace and gazed up at the roaring lion’s head. Its eyes seemed to pulse and flicker as if a red fire was burning somewhere behind them. I thought this strange, but
soon other objects caught my attention too.

In addition to the spinning top and the countless books piled high upon Mr. Grim’s desk, I noticed a silver mirror resting facedown atop a narrow wooden box. I recognized it at once as the
same mirror from the portrait of the Lady in Black.

Impulsively I picked it up. However, when I turned the mirror around, I discovered that the glass was entirely black.

“What an odd mirror,” I whispered. “I should think the Lady in Black would have a hard time seeing herself.”

I could have sworn I heard someone giggle behind me, but when I spun round, no one was there. Must be hearing things, I thought, my heart hammering.

I set the mirror down on its box and was about to leave, when out of the corner of my eye I spied one of Mr. Grim’s notebooks lying open on his desk.

Suffice it to say, my curiosity again got the better of me.

“Cor blimey,” I gasped, flipping through the pages. In addition to Mr. Grim’s countless entries—some made up entirely of strange symbols that I did not
understand—there were drawings of the most horrible creatures imaginable. Goblins. Trolls. A dragon or two. And yet, out of all the terrifying faces staring back at me, there was one drawing
that sent a chill up my spine unlike any other.

“‘The Black Fairy,’” I whispered, reading the caption. However, Mr. Grim’s depiction of the creature bore little resemblance to any fairy I’d ever seen.
Unlike Gwendolyn, the Black Fairy had the body of a man and a pair of massive bat wings. Its head resembled a large cannonball with a pair of empty white eyes and a wide crescent of long, pointed
teeth. These, too, were black, and stood out like rows of daggers against the white inside of the creature’s mouth. Beneath the drawing, Mr. Grim had written:

2 August. I regret to say that my search for the Black Fairy has ended in failure. According to my calculations, however, the location of his lair is correct. This leaves only two
possibilities: either the Black Fairy is dead, or—as I feared—he has allied himself with the prince.

“The prince?” I wondered aloud. “Could Mr. Grim mean His Royal Highness, Prince Edward?” I flipped through the pages again, but could find no mention of him—or any
other of Queen Victoria’s children, for that matter. No drawings of this prince either. Only the name Prince Nightshade scribbled over and over again, and oftentimes followed by a series of
question marks, as in,
WHO IS PRINCE NIGHTSHADE??????

“Who is Prince Nightshade?” I muttered to myself—and then I heard the murmur of voices in the parlor.

My heart froze. Someone was outside.

Good heavens, how long had I been prying about? The murmuring grew louder—someone was coming, drawing closer to the door.

Panicking, I returned the notebook to its proper place and dashed over to the hearth—not enough time to make my escape up the flue—so I hid myself behind some stacks of books nearby
just as the pocket doors slid open.

“After you,” said Mr. Grim.

Peering through a narrow space between the stacks, I saw enter a squat, sharply dressed gentleman with a wide velvet collar and a starched cravat. His bulging face flushed pink behind his waxed
white mustache. He carried his hat and a silver-pommeled walking stick in one hand; in the other, a blue silk handkerchief that he dragged repeatedly across his glistening bald head.

“But I demand an explanation!” the gentleman said frantically.

“May I offer you some sherry?” asked Mr. Grim. “Perhaps a spot of tea?”

“Miscellaneous liquids? Is that your only defense, Alistair Grim?”

“Come, come,” said Mr. Grim, closing the doors. “All this huffing and puffing is unbecoming of you, Lord Dreary. Please sit down and let us discuss this in a more civilized
manner.”

The man with the white mustache heaved a heavy sigh, dragged his handkerchief across his head, and plopped into an armchair at the center of the room. Mr. Grim handed him a glass of water, and
as the gentleman gulped it down, Mr. Grim placed the silver mirror back inside its box and cleared off a pile of books from his desk.