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.
“Now, then, Lord Dreary,” he said, sitting in his chair. “How has London been treating you while I was away?”
“You know very well this isn’t a social call, Alistair Grim. But your leaving London so abruptly, with no explanation before the grand opening—well it smacks of unreliability, man!”
“I assure you, Lord Dreary, my trip to the North Country had everything to do with our business venture here.”
“Well, I demand to know how.”
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“Just as I thought,” Lord Dreary exclaimed. “Can’t tell me that, he says!”
“That is a fundamental clause in our agreement. You’re to leave all technical aspects of the Odditorium to me, no questions asked.”
“Collecting more of that Odditoria rubbish, I wager!”
“Rubbish?” said Mr. Grim, offended. “How dare you, sir!”
Lord Dreary sputtered for a moment, and then sank back into his chair.
“Oh, Alistair,” he sighed, fingering his collar. “You don’t know what I’ve been through. Our backers are demanding an explanation for the delay. And when I saw your lack of progress downstairs—well, I’m afraid I let my frustration get the better of me. I hope you’ll forgive me, old friend.”
“Apology accepted,” said Mr. Grim, smiling. “But rest assured I’m doing everything in my power to move things along in a timely manner.”
“Then let me speak plain,” said the old man, leaning forward on his stick. “Your father and I were good friends as well as business partners. And no one was happier than I to see Grim’s Antiquities fall to you upon his death. But that was almost fifteen years ago. And to be fair, for a couple of years you did well by him, dealing respectably and expanding your business. But after Elizabeth—”
Mr. Grim stiffened, and Lord Dreary’s gaze dropped to the floor.
“Forgive me,” he continued. “But after that I saw you change, man. You became a recluse. And your trips abroad, spending your father’s fortune on Odditoria—the most remarkable, exotic objects I’ve ever seen—but never selling a stick of it? Well, I don’t mind telling you that even our old friend Abel Wortley thought it madness, man.”
“But Abel Wortley has been dead for some time now, hasn’t he? And if you don’t get to the point, I fear I shall join him soon out of sheer boredom.”
Lord Dreary stammered and shook, but my mind was spinning. Who were these people they were talking about? This Elizabeth and this Abel Wortley?
“Now, Alistair,” Lord Dreary said, wagging his finger. “Let us not forget that you came to me out of financial necessity. Five years ago you boasted of creating the most spectacular attraction on the planet. A house of mechanical wonders, you called it, at the heart of which would be your animus, this mysterious blue energy that surrounds us.” Lord Dreary pointed at one of the sconces with his walking stick. “And because of what you showed me that day—a small model of the Odditorium, powered by the animus—I agreed to enter into a business venture with you.”
“And you know how grateful I am for your assistance, Lord Dreary.”
“However, since that time, you’ve refused anyone but me even the slightest glimpse of what you proposed. You’ve allowed none of our business associates inside, and you have sworn me to secrecy.”
“The need for secrecy is of the utmost importance. Of all people, you should know that by now, Lord Dreary.”
“I do, and therefore I needn’t remind you that our business associates have continued to back our venture upon my reputation alone.”
“I’ve already taken down the screens and the curtains outside. They can’t buy that kind of publicity!”
“Oh yes, the outside of the Odditorium certainly lives up to its name, but it is the inside about which our associates are concerned. We’re a year behind schedule. A year.”
“Tell them all I need is another month.”
“Great poppycock!” Lord Dreary gasped. “But the grand opening has already been rescheduled six times.”
“Wonderful, then you should be an old hand at it by now.”
“But, Alistair, if you would only reveal to me the source of your animus and how it works, perhaps I could convince—”
“Out of the question. It is too dangerous for you to even speak of the animus outside the Odditorium.”
“A demonstration, then. Something powered by the animus that I could show our backers—like that small model of the Odditorium you showed me five years ago.”
“Again, out of the question. If my blue energy should fall into the wrong hands—no, it’s too risky.
Until everything is ready, until all the security measures are in place, the utmost secrecy is essential. You know that.”
Lord Dreary sighed and sank back into his chair. “Then I’m afraid you leave me no choice,” he said after a moment.
“No choice?”
“Notwithstanding the calamity that has become our business venture, the rumors about what goes on in here are not kind, old friend. Alistair Grim: inventor, fortune hunter…and some say, mad sorcerer.”
“Nonsense,” said Mr. Grim, chuckling. But as he raked his hand through his long black hair, I could tell Lord Dreary’s comment had winged him.
“Perhaps it is nonsense,” said the old man. “But you can hardly blame people for talking. You’ve become nothing short of a recluse. And on the rare occasions when you do appear in public, well, I needn’t tell you that skulking about the streets in your gloomy black cloak doesn’t help much either.”
Mr. Grim was about to protest, but Lord Dreary raised a hand to stop him.
“Nevertheless,” he continued, “any talk of madness, in sorcery or otherwise, is enough to spook even the heartiest of investors. And therefore I regret to inform you that even my impeccable reputation isn’t enough to save you now.”
“Save me?”
“Yes, Alistair Grim. I’ve been instructed by our business associates to tell you that, pending the outcome of this meeting, all your accounts at the Central Bank are to be frozen immediately.”
“What?” cried Mr. Grim, rising. “They can’t do that!”
“Oh, I’m afraid they can,” said Lord Dreary, and he produced a document from his coat pocket. “Per the agreement you signed five years ago, and I quote: ‘If party one’—that’s you, Alistair—‘fails to open the Odditorium by the agreed upon date’—that was a year ago yesterday, Alistair—‘at the discretion of party two’—that’s our backers—‘all liquid assets and material holdings belonging to party one’—that’s you again, Alistair—‘shall be seized and sold at public auction.’ There’s more in here pertaining to me, but I assure you that my future isn’t nearly as bleak as yours.”
“But we’re so close!”
“Then prove it!” Lord Dreary thundered, rising. “If you won’t allow them inside, give me something I can show them—something to prove that their money has not been wasted on a madman’s folly.”
Mr. Grim wheeled away and, leaning on the wall behind his desk, hung his head low—his hair in his face, his arms rigid against the pipes. “So it’s proof they want,” he muttered, caressing the polished steel. “Proof that I’m not a madman?”
“Proof that Alistair Grim is still a man of his word,” Lord Dreary said, his voice tight with emotion.
“Very well, then,” said Mr. Grim, stiffening. He raked his hair back and turned to face Lord Dreary. “Tell our backers to gather outside at promptly three o’clock this afternoon.”
“Outside the Odditorium, you mean?”
“Precisely,” said Mr. Grim, sitting at his desk. He opened a drawer and removed a sheet of paper, dipped his pen in his inkwell, and began to write.
“What on earth do you have in mind?” Lord Dreary asked.
Mr. Grim held up a finger, seemed to think for a moment, and then finished writing.
“Here,” he said, passing Lord Dreary the paper. “Have the printer rush off two hundred of these—large type, something dramatic—and return them to me by noon. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Hm,” said Lord Dreary, reading. “This had better not be another one of your confounded delays.”
“On the contrary,” said Mr. Grim. “I should think our backers will be quite satisfied with what I have in store for them.” Lord Dreary looked unconvinced. “In fact, after today, I guarantee you they’ll insist on giving us all the time we need.”
“Hm,” Lord Dreary said again, staring at the paper.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” said Mr. Grim, rising, “I’ve got a busy day ahead of me. Allow me to see you out, Lord Dreary.”
The gentlemen left the library, but only when I heard the lift cranking away in the parlor did I dare come out of my hiding place. I quickly slipped from the room, dashed for the hearth in the parlor, and set about my work in the flue as if I’d been there all along.
I did not pay my respects to the Lady in Black as had become my custom.
I was so worried about Mr. Grim that I forgot she was there.
When McClintock began trembling again in my pocket, I did my best to ignore him. I truly did. “I’m not speaking to you, Mack,” I said, and carried on with my scraping. The flue was cold and cramped, and a pair of soot-caked pipes ran along one of the walls and disappeared high above me into an adjoining shaft. I barely had any space to move, but the old pocket watch kept at it, jiggling up and down and side to side so violently that I finally gave in out of fear he might leap from my coat and tumble down the chimney.
“What time is it?” Mack asked as I opened him.
“Time to get you back to the shop,” I said. “That’s twice you tricked me.”
“Ach!” Mack cried, spinning round in my hand. “This isn’t Mr. Grim’s library!”
“Lucky for you, it isn’t.”
“What’s this yer gabbing about?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know. You fizzled out when you slipped under the library doors. I had to fetch you and ended up hiding in there while Mr. Grim spoke with Lord Dreary.”
“Dreary? Never heard of that clan before. Is he a foreigner like you?”
“You never mind about that. But rest assured you’re never going anywhere near those library doors again.”
Mack heaved a heavy sigh. “Ah, well. That was me last hope. Now it’s the scrap heap for sure.”
“Best thing for you, I should think. What with all the trouble you’ve caused me.”
McClintock’s hands sagged, his eyes dimmed, and his face turned downward into my palm.
“My apologies, Mack. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Nah, yer right, laddie,” he said. “Ol’ McClintock’s never been good for nothing but trouble. I only hope that someday you’ll find it in yer heart to forgive me.”
“Well, of course I forgive you. But friends don’t go sneaking into one another’s pockets.”
“I told ya, laddie, I fell in there by accident!”
“And we’re both lucky Mr. Grim’s samurai didn’t attack, although I must admit I’m a bit puzzled as to why.”
“Perhaps they fizzle out like meself from time to time.”
“Perhaps,” I said, thinking. “But if I were Mr. Grim, I wouldn’t want you in my library either. What with all your shaking and leaping about, you’re liable to break something. I suspect that’s why you’re not allowed in there, isn’t it?”
“Ya found me out,” Mack said, his case slowly closing. “Well, it’s been nice knowing ya, Grubb. I only ask that ya remember me as I was. Steadfast and true, the once-bright-’n’-fightin’ Dougal, chief of the Chronometrical Clan McClintock.”
Mack sighed again and sniffled.
“Oh, now stop that,” I said, prying him open. “No need to get all gobby eyed and gloomy. We’ll figure out something to keep you off Mr. Grim’s scrap heap.”
“Ya mean it, laddie?” Mack exclaimed, his eyes brightening, his hands twirling back to VIII and IV.
“Gentlemen’s shake on it,” I said, wobbling his case. Then, in the light from Mack’s eyes, I noticed my fingers were still clean. “Hang on,” I said, holding Mack up to the sleeves of my chummy coat. “I’ve been scraping for some time now, and there’s not a speck of soot on me anywhere.”
Indeed, as I shined Mack’s light on the chimney wall, I discovered the soot there to be red and glistening. “That’s odd. I’ve never seen soot like this before.”
“Neither have I,” said Mack. “Then again, I’ve never seen soot at all before, so I suppose I’ll have to take yer word on that one, Grubb.”
Suddenly a voice called o
ut from below. “Hallo, hallo?”
“Ach!” Mack whispered, trembling. “It’s Nigel. If he finds out I’ve left the shop he’ll tell Mr. Grim, and then it’s the scrap heap for sure!”
“Stop your jabbering then,” I whispered back.
“Hallo?” Nigel called again. “You up there, lad?”
“Yes, sir,” I shouted. “Not quite finished yet, sir.”
“Change of plans,” Nigel said. “You need to come down at once. Master’s orders.”
From my position in the narrow flue, I couldn’t see below me, but I knew from the sound of Nigel’s voice that he’d stuck his head into the hearth.
“Quick, Grubb!” Mack whispered. “Help me climb up the chimney!”
“Nonsense,” I said. “Just close yourself and get inside my pocket.”
“Ya don’t understand, laddie! Nigel is Odditoria too!”
“What’s all the row, lad?” Nigel called.
“Coming, sir,” I said, shifting my weight. This caused some soot to fall, and I heard Nigel grumble below me in the hearth. Then I whispered to Mack, “Did you say Nigel is Odditoria too?”
“Odditoria what’s got animus like me! He knows I’ve left the shop—I’ve got to make a break for it!”
Mack squirmed in my hand and I almost dropped him, when without thinking I tapped him on his XII. He crackled and sputtered, and then his eyes went black.
That’s good to know, I said to myself, and slipped him back into my pocket.
I quickly shimmied down the flue and landed in the pile of strange red soot that had accumulated in the hearth. The soot didn’t burst into a dust cloud like normal soot; it had the feel of river sand. However, when I looked up and saw Nigel, all thoughts of soot and sand disappeared from my head at once.
“Well, well,” he said. “You’re the Grubb from the trunk, eh?”
The man staring down at me was even taller than Mr. Smears and twice as wide. His bald, elongated head jutted forward from a pair of massive shoulders, and his arms hung limply at his sides as if they were too long for his body. He was dressed entirely in black, with a pair of dark goggles wedged between his heavy brow and cheek. They covered his eyes and the top of his nose completely and were fastened snug around his head by a thick leather strap.
Alistair Grim's Odditorium Page 6