I found Marc and Anjali in the Preservation Room, sitting rather close together. They didn’t look all that pleased to be interrupted, but they greeted me politely.
“Did you cut your hair?” asked Anjali.
I shook my head.
“Well, whatever you did, it looks great.”
“Yeah, it does,” said Marc, scrutinizing me like he’d just noticed I was an actual female girl—the kind guys look at. The comb must really be magic, I thought.
“Thanks . . . Listen, I’m sorry to barge in, but I thought you guys should know. Ms. Callender had me down in the GC with Aaron, and she gave us a whole list of objects to pull off the shelves for her. She said she wanted to check them because some stuff’s been stolen. It was really weird—I think a lot of the objects on the list are fakes. Half of them smell wrong, and they don’t work.”
“What do you mean, smell wrong?” asked Marc.
“Smell normal, like they’re not magical. You know what I mean?”
“I do,” said Anjali. “Marc’s better with touch.”
“Oh, you mean like how magic objects feel magic,” said Marc.
I nodded. “Aaron couldn’t tell about the magic from the smell either,” I continued, “but he said the objects looked wrong to him. I guess we all have different ways of sensing magic? Anyway, the ones that smelled wrong to me didn’t work. We tested a few of them.”
“That’s weird,” said Marc.
“Yeah, but here’s the really bad part. One of the things on the list was those boots you’re always borrowing. Now Aaron thinks you stole the missing objects—the ones that don’t work, I mean—and replaced them with fakes.”
“Oh. That’s really bad,” said Marc. He rubbed his face with his hand.
“How does Aaron know Marc’s been taking the boots?” asked Anjali. Did I hear a hint of an accusation in her voice?
“I don’t know how he found out.”
“I obviously didn’t tell him, and neither did Anjali, so who did?” said Marc.
“Why would anyone have to?” I asked. “He saw you. You’ve both been running around with the boots for weeks. He’s not blind, and he’s not stupid. And he does have a reason not to like you.”
“What reason would that be?” asked Anjali.
“He’s jealous of Marc, because he likes you.”
“What an unpleasant thought,” said Anjali. “But what are we going to do?”
Marc curled his lip in that haughty, contemptuous way of his.
“Aaron’s fair,” I said. “I’m sure he won’t tell on you unless he really thinks you’re the thief. You just have to convince him you didn’t take the objects.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” snapped Marc.
I hated this. I’d finally managed to make friends, and now they were mad at me. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I just want to help.”
“The best thing to do,” said Anjali, “is to find out who really took them.”
“That’s what Ms. Callender and Doc are trying to do,” I said.
“We have to help, before Aaron decides to tell them about Marc. Otherwise they’ll just assume he’s the thief and stop looking.”
“Okay, but how?” I asked.
“Do you have that list?” asked Anjali.
I shook my head. “Ms. Callender didn’t leave us a copy, but I bet she has it on her desk.”
“I’ll take care of it,” said Anjali. “Can you guys meet me at the coffee shop on Lexington after school tomorrow?”
When I got to the coffee shop the next day, Marc and Anjali were already there, waiting for me. “Okay, let me show you,” said Anjali, taking her expensive laptop out of her expensive knapsack. She opened a spreadsheet program. “These are all the items on the list, along with the info from the last ten times each one was requested or checked out. I included everything I could think of, in case it helped. Like the other objects the patron took out at the same time, with their recent history. Or the patrons’ affiliations and contact info. Stuff like that.”
“Wow,” said Marc, “you looked up all that info about all those objects in the card file and typed it into your computer? That must have been a ton of work.”
Anjali shook her head. She looked proud of herself. “Copiers and scanners aren’t really good for handwritten card catalogs and call slips—it would have taken all week to do it that way. I used a dereifier from the Chresto. It’s point-and-click. It works instantly.”
“Smart,” said Marc. He sounded impressed.
“What’s a dereifier?” I asked. “What’s the Chresto?”
“The Gibson Chrestomathy, remember? One of the other special collections in the Dungeon,” said Anjali. “A dereifier transforms things from reality-based to virtual. It outputs representations of the input.”
The waitress came by and refilled Anjali and Marc’s coffee cups.
“What does that mean? What kind of input?” I asked.
“Anything,” said Anjali. “An apple. A mouse. An armchair. In this case, a huge pile of call slips, catalog cards, and Ms. Callender’s notes.”
“And what happens to the armchair and the notes?”
“It depends on the settings. I set the dereifier to computer database. But you could use it for all kinds of things. Like, for example, you could make a picture of the apple or a poetic description of the armchair.”
“What happens to the original armchair? Or apple, or whatever?”
“That depends on the settings too. I left the dereifier on duplicate instead of replace, so it just made electronic copies of the paperwork. The originals are still on Stack 6.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?” I objected. “What if somebody used it on people—what if they put it on replace and turned us all into fictional characters?”
“How do you know they haven’t?” asked Marc.
“Wow, that sounds like a seriously powerful object! How did you get your hands on it? Did they just, like, let you borrow it?”
“No, it was more like . . . an unofficial loan. I have the key to the Gibson Chrestomathy, like Aaron has the key to the Wells Bequest. I’m good with computers—it’s kind of my special domain. I just went in and took the dereifier. I put it right back afterward.”
“How big is a dereifier? What does it look like?”
“Like a cross between a quill pen and a remote control.”
“And it’s just sitting there in the Chresto? Why couldn’t someone borrow it and make perfect identical copies of the Mona Lisa, or duplicate diamonds, or make a vast robot army and conquer the planet?”
“I don’t think a dereifier can make exact copies of anything,” said Marc. “It makes virtual representations—pictures and sculptures and descriptions, stuff like that.”
“But what’s the difference between the Mona Lisa and a picture of the Mona Lisa, if it was good enough? They’re both pictures.”
He thought about that. “Okay, maybe you could duplicate the Mona Lisa. But that would only work for stuff that was already a representation of something—art and that kind of thing. It wouldn’t work for things that are, you know, real.”
“I’m not sure you’re right—I think you can make copies,” said Anjali. “There’s an identity setting. I think that makes the object represent itself. If you set the dereifier to duplicate and identity, you might be able to make identical duplicates. But you would have to be a pretty serious computer geek to do that, or anything else really dangerous. You can’t use the advanced settings without tons of passwords and access codes. I played around with it a little, and the worst I could get it to do was change my French textbook cover into a cartoon of the Eiffel Tower. My little sister draws better than that, and she couldn’t draw her way out of a paper bag.”
I sympathized. I couldn’t draw my way out of a paper bag either.
“Plus the dereifier is supposed to be incredibly buggy,” Anjali continued. “I seriously doubt you could get it to make a perfect Mona Lisa. It’s just not good enough.”
“Still—wow,” I said.
“Hey, guys? I have to be at basketball practice in forty-five minutes,” said Marc. “Can we talk about that list?”
“Oh, sorry! Right. Here, these are all the objects Ms. Callender wanted, with all the info I could think of that might help. Elizabeth, do you remember which ones are duds?”
“I think so,” I said. I went through the spreadsheet, clicking on boxes next to the items that had smelled wrong.
“Great. Is there anything that jumps out at you as different about those items?” Anjali asked.
Marc and I studied the screen. Some of the objects had been borrowed as recently as last week; some hadn’t been requested for over a year. With one or two exceptions, the latest patrons for each object were all different. A few names repeated here and there, but those patrons also seemed to have taken out many of the objects that smelled magical.
Marc shook his head. “I don’t see a pattern.”
“Me neither. What about you, Anjali?” I said.
“Not yet. But I have a strong feeling . . . Give me a few days.”
We paid our check and went our various ways, Marc back to school for basketball practice and Anjali toward home. I walked to the subway half worried about the magic items but more than half relieved that the two of them were treating me like a friend again.
Friday was the big game, the one I had promised to go to with Anjali. I’d loved all the compliments on my “haircut.” Even my stepmother had noticed; she accused me of using her good shampoo. But the effect had died down disappointingly soon. What if I borrowed the mermaid’s comb from the GC to use it again before the game? I wanted to use my new borrowing privileges, and Doc had warned me to start with something small. There was no harm in looking my best for the occasion, I told myself—perhaps some of the kids at school would notice I existed.
I found Ms. Callender at her desk. “Excuse me, Ms. Callender, do you have a minute?” I asked. “Doc told me I could borrow things from the Grimm Collection now, so I wondered—can I take this out?” I handed her the call slip I’d filled out.
“Your first Grimm loan! How exciting! . . . What’s this? A mermaid’s comb? Hot date tonight?” asked Ms. Callender with her dimpled smile.
I felt myself blush. “Not a date, exactly. There’s a big basketball game at my school Friday.”
“Oh, wait a minute.” Ms. Callender looked at the call number more closely. “This is one of the objects I have out for study.”
“I know. That’s why I’m asking you. I . . . noticed it when Aaron and I were pulling the objects for you. Have you figured out what’s going on with them yet?”
“No, we’re just getting started,” said Ms. Callender. “You and Aaron were really helpful, the way you sorted out the questionable ones. You have a great nose!”
“Thank you. So can I borrow the comb, or should I find something else?”
“No, it’s okay, I guess—I don’t really need it right away. There are plenty of others to keep me busy. You’re sure it actually works, though, right? This isn’t one of the questionable objects?”
“No, it’s fine. I . . .” Should I tell her I tried it? “It smelled right.”
“That’s all right, then. Let’s see . . . Grimm objects usually circulate for three days, but I’ll let you keep this until Saturday so you can look your best for the big game.” She scribbled a revised due date on the slip and handed it back to me. “Dr. Rust has the deposit kuduo. You’ll have to go downstairs to leave your deposit. Come back when you’re done, and I’ll give you the comb, okay, hon?”
“Great. Thanks so much, Ms. Callender.”
She winked at me. “I was your age once.”
She must have been fun to hang out with back then, I thought. I hurried downstairs to Doc’s office and knocked on the door, feeling nervous but excited about my first magic loan.
“Come in? Ah, Elizabeth. What can I do for you?”
“Ms. Callender says I need to give you a deposit before I can borrow a comb from the Grimm Collection.”
“A comb? As your first loan—are you sure? Some of those are rather dangerous . . . Sit down, sit down. Let’s have a look.”
I handed Doc the call slip.
“Oh, a mermaid’s comb. Heady stuff, but safe enough as long as you don’t use it around water. Or a busy highway. You’re not planning to lure any young men to their doom, are you?”
How embarrassing! I shook my head, blushing. “I just want to look nice for the big basketball game.”
“I see. You know there’s a three-hour limit on this?”
“Three hours? But Ms. Callender said I could bring it back on Saturday!”
“No, I mean a limit on the effects. They taper off, and everything goes back to normal after three hours. Most of the Grimm Collection objects have a time limit—some of them last three days, or a fortnight, or a year and a day. This one’s just three hours. If you’re looking for a permanent love potion, this isn’t it.”
A freckle was floating up Doc’s nose like the shadow of an airplane skimming across the grass. It fascinated me. I made an effort and tore my eyes away. “Really? Is there a permanent love potion in the Grimm Collection?”
“Interesting question. There’s a great deal of scholarly debate in the community over whether any artificially induced love can ever be permanent. Or any natural love, for that matter. Any so-called natural love, assuming any love is natural.”
I noticed that wasn’t really an answer. I also noticed Doc didn’t seem to be signing the slip. “So, the deposit,” I said nervously.
“Mmm.” Doc didn’t seem to be in any hurry. “Let me explain how this works. Here in the repository we keep the objects safe under lock and key. Out in the world, the borrower is responsible for them. When you sign the slip, you’re pledging not to use the object for ill. You’re also pledging to return it whole and potent by the appointed hour. Otherwise your deposit is forfeit. You understand?”
“Of course.”
“I just want to make sure you understand how serious this is. It’s not always easy to keep the objects safe. Not everyone who’s part of our knowledge community is well intentioned, unfortunately. There’s a thief out there, not to mention that bird. It’s possible someone could try to take the comb. It might make you a target, and you’re responsible for keeping it safe.”
That sounded serious. Was it worth it, I wondered, just for pretty hair? But Doc had said to start with something small. If I didn’t have the guts to borrow a mere mermaid comb, how would I ever work my way up to something really big, like flying shoes or an invisibility cloak?
“Are you saying I shouldn’t do this?”
“Not at all. We trust you. You passed the test, and I believe you’re ready. And you’ve chosen something appropriately small to start with. I just need to make sure you’re going into this with your eyes open.”
“I see. Yes, I’m ready.”
“All right. Now, where did I put that kuduo?” Doc opened and shut desk drawers, stood up, scanned the bookshelves, walked over to a closet and peered in. “Do you see it behind your chair?”
“I don’t know. What does it look like?”
“It’s rather ornate. It has a puff adder and a hornbill on the lid.”
I didn’t know what a puff adder or a hornbill looked like, but there was nothing behind the chair. “I don’t think so,” I said.
“Oh, there it is!” Doc pointed to the top of a bookcase. “Drag over that chair, would you?” I held the chair while Doc handed down a heavy bronzy-black object, roughly cylindrical, about the size of a cantaloupe.
A puff adder is a snake and a hornbill is a bird, evidently.
I put the object on the desk. “Thanks,” said Doc, scrambling down from the chair and lifting the lid.
I peered inside. There seemed to be things in it, but I couldn’t make out what. Looking at them made me dizzy. “What is this thing?” I asked.
“It’s a kuduo, a ceremonial vessel from the Akan people. They’re traditionally used to hold a chief’s gold and spiritual treasure.”
“Is it from the Grimm Collection?” I asked.
“No—it’s on loan to the repository from one of our close families.”
“Like the way Anjali’s family has magic?” I asked. Thinking of my own family, I felt faintly jealous. “Do all the other pages have magic families—the Grimm pages, I mean?”
“Not all of them, but some do, yes.”
“Who does the kuduo belong to, then?” I asked.
Looking a little uncomfortable, Doc answered, “Marc Merritt’s uncle. He loaned it to the repository to use for keeping the deposits. Now, what deposit would you like to leave?”
“I don’t know,” I said doubtfully. “How much is it supposed to be? I have about two hundred dollars saved up.” It didn’t sound as if it could possibly be enough. A mere two hundred dollars—for real magic?
“Money?” Doc sounded shocked. “No, no, Grimm deposits are never money. You’ll have to leave something else.”
“Oh. Like what?”
“You have plenty of choices. We’re quite flexible. The most traditional forfeit, of course, is your firstborn child. Or your skill with your right hand, but that could be inconvenient. Your beauty, your courage, your eyesight, your sense of gravity, your free will, your luck. Those are some of the more common deposits. But most of them are a little heavy for a mere mermaid’s comb, and giving up your beauty would defeat the purpose, I imagine. Your sense of smell, maybe?”
I shook my head, horrified by all these options, especially smell. How would I do my work in the Grimm Collection if I couldn’t smell magic?
“No? Many people don’t mind giving that up for a few days, but of course it’s a matter of individual preference. Your sense of humor, then?”
“Are you joking?”
“Your ear for music? Skill at games? Ability to take tests? Childhood memories? Sense of direction?”
“Sense of direction,” I said quickly. It seemed like the least important of all the possibilities Doc had mentioned. My sense of direction wasn’t all that great to begin with, and it was only for a few days.
“You’re right-handed, right? Give me your right hand.”
I hesitated. “You want my right hand? Didn’t you just say my sense of direction?”
Doc smiled reassuringly. “Not as the deposit. Just as a conduit.”
“Oh. Okay.” I laid my hand in Doc’s cool, dry one.
“Orientation,
Spatial relation,
Out of this body and to your new station!” Doc intoned impressively.
Nothing happened.
I cleared my throat.
“My, my,” said Doc mildly. “I wonder why that didn’t . . . Ah, what’s this?”
“This” was the matted remains of the yarn Jaya had tied around my wrist.
“Just a knot Anjali’s little sister tied.”
“Clever girl. What’s her name?”
“Jaya.”
“Jaya Rao. One of Abigail Bender’s students, isn’t she? Hm . . . Would you mind taking that off?”
“Not at all,” I said.
I pulled on the yarn, but it wouldn’t break. I sawed at it with my teeth; no good. I picked at the knot, but I couldn’t tease it loose.
“Do you have scissors?”
Doc reached into a drawer and handed me a pair. It looked sharp, but like the cheap, blunt baby scissors they give kids in grade school, it just gagged uselessly on the yarn.
“You might try saying a word or two of encouragement,” suggested Doc. “Tell it you forgo the protection and so on. In rhyme, if you can.”
I thought for a minute.
“I forgo
Protection, knot.
Please let go,
And . . . thanks a lot,” I said, feeling very silly. But it worked: the knot collapsed as soon as I touched it.
I brushed the yarn off my wrist. So it really had some magic power, then! I’d assumed Jaya was just playing around. Did that mean it was actually protecting me? Maybe I should have thought harder before giving it up. Well, too late now.
“Very good,” said Doc, taking my hand and intoning once again.
This time the incantation worked. Something poured out of me, flowing weightily, like when you give blood. It had a complicated, patterned structure that seemed to take up more space than just the part I saw, as if it had extra dimensions. It flowed out and out—could that have been inside me?
Doc carefully balanced it on the edge of the desk. I worried that all the internal motion would make it fall, but it didn’t. It smelled appallingly intimate, like my own breath.
“Sign here,” said Doc.
I signed.
“Now the vow. Repeat after me:
Forfeit fair and given free,
I resign a part of me.
In exchange I’ll keep with care
What is given free and fair:
Potent, uncorrupt, and whole.
Else the bargain shall be null—
My pledge forfeit, or my soul.”
I looked at the intricate, throbbing blob balanced on the edge of the desk and hesitated. What a grim vow! But if this was what it took to borrow items from the Grimm Collection, so be it. “Can you say that again, slowly?”
“Sure. We can take it line by line,” said Doc.
Piece by piece I repeated the rhyme, as firmly as I could.
“Great! That’s it,” said Doc, scooping up my sense of direction, tucking it in the kuduo, and signing the call slip.
I felt strangely shaken. I guess it must have showed. “What you’re feeling is normal, Elizabeth,” Doc said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “It’s hard to give something up, something that’s a part of you. I know a mermaid’s comb is a small thing, but this is a big step. I remember my first Grimm loan—I started small, like you, with a magic darning needle. I left my singing voice. I remember how I felt when I watched it go.”
“Did you get it back?”
“Of course, the very next day. And even if I hadn’t—because there have been things I’ve been asked to give up for good . . . Well, over the years here I’ve learned that sometimes a great loss is also a great gain.” Under the slowly swirling freckles, Doc’s face looked infinitely sad. Somehow I didn’t find that reassuring.