The Sisters Grimm
Page 1
Dedication
For my daughter, my mother, my sister
and all the Sisters Grimm
&
For anyone who’s ever awake at 3:33 a.m.
Epigraph
The dreamer awakes,
The shadow goes by,
This tale I will tell you,
This tale is a lie.
But listen to me,
Bright maiden, proud youth,
This tale is a lie;
What it tells is the truth.
—Traditional folktale ending
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Countdown 29th September
30th September
1st October
2nd October
3rd October
Over a decade ago
4th October
Over a decade ago
5th October
6th October
Over a decade ago
7th October
Over a decade ago
8th October
9th October
Over a decade ago
10th October
11th October
Over a decade ago
12th October
13th October
A decade ago
14th October
15th October
16th October
A little less than a decade ago
17th October
18th October
A little less than a decade ago
19th October
20th October
A little less than a decade ago
21st October
22nd October
Less than a decade ago
23rd October
24th October
25th October
Less than a decade ago
26th October
Less than a decade ago
27th October
28th October
29th October
30th October
Eight years ago
31st October
1st November
Legacy Inheritance
Commemoration
Communication
Future
Goldilocks
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Menna van Praag
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
All souls are special. Son or daughter, Grimm or not, Life touches her spirit to every one of her creations. But the conception of a daughter is a particularly mystical event, requiring certain alchemical influences. For to conceive a being who can bear and birth life herself needs a little something . . . extra.
Every daughter is born of an element, infused with its own particular powers. Some are born of earth: fertile as soil, strong as stone, steady as the ancient oak. Others of fire: explosive as gunpowder, seductive as light, fierce as an unbound flame. Others of water: calm as a lake, relentless as a wave, unfathomable as an ocean. The Sisters Grimm are daughters of air—at least they begin that way—born of dreams and prayer, imagination and faith, bright-white wishing and black-edged desire.
There are hundreds, possibly thousands of Sisters Grimm on Earth and in Everwhere. You may well be one of them, though you might never know it. You think you’re ordinary. You’ve never suspected that you’re stronger than you seem, braver than you feel, or greater than you imagine.
But I hope that by the time you finish this tale, you’ll start listening to the whispers that speak of unknown things, the signs that point in unseen directions, and the nudges that suggest unimagined possibilities. I hope too that you’ll discover your own magnificence, your own magic.
Countdown
29th September
Thirty-three days . . .
9:17 a.m.—Goldie
I’ve been a thief for as long as I can remember, a liar too. I might even be a murderer, though you’ll have to make up your own mind about that.
“Goldie—get out here!”
I stuff the notebook into my apron pocket along with the pen, smooth the bedsheets, wipe a last smudge from the gilded mirror, and blow a kiss and a line of poetry to the speckled pink orchid on the shelf beneath before dashing out of room 26 and into the corridor.
Mr. Garrick waits, his close-set eyes squinting, his head shining under the ceiling lights. He smooths his skull with greasy hands. If he could transplant the hairs from his hands to his head, he’d be onto something.
“Get down to the front desk, Goldie. Cassie’s called in sick.”
“What?” I frown. “But . . . No, that’s not—”
“Now.” Garrick tweaks the knot in his tie—too tight around his fat neck, which folds like a billowing sheet over his collar—then tries to snap his swollen fingers, but he’s sweating too much and the sound is pathetic. I try not to show my disgust.
I follow Garrick into the lift, leeching to the wall. It does no good. Those greasy, greedy hands still slide over to paw at me, to trace the lines of territories he has no right to touch. When his fingertip brushes the swell of my breast, I’m empty of breath, a single taut muscle, contracting against the urge to urinate. I never could control it as a child; I usually can now. When the doors ping open, I fall out into the foyer. Garrick takes his time, smoothing polyester waistcoat over swollen belly, adjusting polyester tie, before sauntering to the front desk.
I’m already there, waiting. If I didn’t need this bloody job so much, to feed and clothe Teddy, I’d snap those fat fingers at the bone. I’d open my mouth to invite him in, then bite down until his blood dripped from my chin.
“Where’s Cassie?” I ask.
“Sick.” Garrick lowers his voice, grinning a dirty grin. “Women’s problems.”
“Can’t Liv fill in?” I protest. “I’m not trained for the front desk.”
“I know.” Garrick sighs, expelling stale, smoky breath. “But she’s not answering her phone. Anyway, we’re only expecting half a dozen guests today.” He smiles the dirty smile again. “So you just have to stand behind the desk and look pretty. I’m sure even you can manage that.”
I stare at the empty space and say nothing.
“Hey, Goldie.”
I look up to see Jake, the porter, giving me a shy wave. We’re sort of seeing each other. He’s a little boring but sweet and kind and doesn’t ask for much. Which is fortunate, since I’ve little to offer.
Jake sidles up to the desk. “What are you doing down here?”
He’s quite handsome, but it won’t last. I flinch whenever he tries to touch me. It’s not his fault, but I can’t seem to find the words to explain.
“Cassie’s sick,” I say.
“Have you worked the front desk before?”
“Yeah,” I lie. Jake has been working at the hotel for only six weeks, so I can say what I like. I can pretend I’m brave, that I don’t give a shit, that being shoved out on the front desk doesn’t feel like I’ve been strapped into stocks in the town square.
“I’d be nervous,” Jake says. “I wouldn’t know what to say.” He rests his right hand tentatively on the front desk. He wants to reach for me, but he won’t.
“I don’t know.” I pause. “It’s better than cleaning toilets, I suppose.”
“Jake—where the hell are you? Jake!”
Jake drops his hand. We turn towards the shouting.
“I’d better go,” he says, already halfway to the stairs. He doesn’t look back to smile or wave—he can’t. There’s a great deal our boss can’t tolerate, but waiting is what makes the veins in his bald head bulge the soonest.
Behind the desk, I glare at the phone, willing it to stay silent. I pick a few stray long hairs from the sleeve of my hotel-issue polyester shirt. I’m too dishevelled for this job. I curse Cassie. She should be here, the front desk princess. Beautiful Cassie, voluptuous as a vase of peonies. Beside her, I’m a daffodil. We used to clean rooms together, but Cassie was always keen to get promoted. It’s more money, more prestige. You don’t have to wear a dowdy uniform and you earn your wage grinning at guests, instead of sticking your head in toilet bowls smelling (hopefully) of Harpic. Personally, the fewer people I see the better. Garrick is quite enough to swallow down every day.
Speaking of swallowing, it’s a not-so-secret secret that Cassie did exactly that to get herself transferred up from the toilets to the front desk. Garrick’s not managed to get those greedy hands very far with me—I’ve made sure we’re never alone for long enough. So he can only grope, fondle, and insinuate.
One day I’ll take something heavy and bring it down hard on his bald head.
Standing behind the front desk, wearing the hotel crest and a rictus grin, I feel the press of my notebook in my pocket. I can’t scribble out here, which is perhaps the worst thing about being put on the front desk. You see, I’m not simply a thief but a writer too. Possibly even a poet, but only by my own measure. I accommodate a constant chatter in my mind, a commentary on every mundane event of my life. I can’t control it. But I write down anything worthwhile when I can. It soothes my mind a little.
Since I can’t write, I think about Teddy. I wonder what he’s learning, what new facts are now widening his eyes with excitement. Thinking about my little brother always settles me. He’s nearly ten and everything a child should be: innocent, joyful, kind. I’ll make sure he stays that way. Whatever it takes. He’s a good soul; I was a lost cause a long time ago.
After rent and bills, most of my wages go towards Teddy’s school fees: £8,590 a year. And since I earn £7.57 per hour for sixty-three hours a week, that’s where the thieving comes in. I know he could go to a state school, but he’s so happy at Saint Faith’s. And, after everything, I want him happy for as long as possible. So, on occasion, I relieve our richer guests of their frivolous possessions. It’s surprising what people don’t miss when they have too much.
“Excuse me?”
I glance up to see a gentleman gazing down his roman nose at me.
“S-sorry, s-sir, I didn’t—how may I help you?”
He ignores my smile, my attempts to rewind inattentiveness.
“Charles Penry-Jones,” he says. “We’re staying ten nights. My wife requested a room overlooking the courtyard.”
I nod. I have no small talk to offer. I only pray the wife’s request has been heeded. I’ve no finesse with irate guests. They twist me up with their condescension and contempt.
I tap the name into the computer and it comes up trumps, the wife’s request and all. When I look up again, he has appeared at Penry-Jones’s side.
He is tall and slender but strong, like a silver birch tree, and almost as preternaturally pale—hair blond as sunlight cresting its topmost branches. The irises of his eyes are half a dozen shades of green: the lightest of newly seeded grass, of fresh shoots in spring; dark forest green; grey laurel green; bright pine green; shining myrtle green; creamy avocado green . . . He gives me a small, self-conscious smile. I stare back at him and then, all at once, feel something I’ve never felt before—suddenly and entirely alight.
“Where have you been, Leo?”
I smile to myself; I know his name. They must be father and son, though they are not so similar. The father fits perfectly in this polished room, like a cultivated hothouse cactus, while the son seems slightly out of place.
“Where is your mother?”
“Getting something from the car. She’s coming.”
His voice is soft and posh. His hands, hanging by his sides, are sturdy. His fingers, long stems, so I imagine his touch tender and his hold strong. I feel ribbons of desire begin to unfurl inside me. I snip at their silky threads.
“She’s sulking,” Penry-Jones says. “She always clamours to come on these business trips, then complains when I conduct any business. At least you’ll be here for a few days to take the heat off.”
“Your room keys,” I say, sliding them across the polished wood.
“I’d like a wake-up call at six thirty.” The father palms the keys. “What time does the restaurant open for dinner?”
“S-seven o’clock,” I say. “Would you like r-reservations?”
“That won’t be necessary.” He looks to Leo. “Let’s go. Your mother can meet us in the bar.”
With that, the father strides off across the foyer. The son follows.
“Turn back,” I whisper. Turn back, I will. Turn back and look at me.
When he reaches the lift, he does. As soon as our eyes meet, I look down at the desk. When I glance up again, he’s gone.
10:11 p.m.—Leo
What happens when a star falls to Earth? Leo can only imagine, since he never had the luxury. He was plucked, summoned, commanded from the heavens. Might he have retained his purity, his innocence, if he’d simply fallen? Perhaps it was the act of being untimely ripped that corrupted him. Rage and despair took root in his cold stone heart and grew. Until he was capable of such things as stars would never do. Excepting the hundreds similarly plucked to do his bidding.
Leo recognizes other stars sometimes, though they are boys and men now, no longer spheres of burning gas. “Star” is no longer fitting, once they’ve fallen. They no longer shine, no longer cast light, only darkness and death. “Soldier” is more fitting. Because he didn’t bring them down to twinkle. He brought them to kill, eradicate, exterminate. An army with a single mission: to extinguish that which has become illuminated.
As former illuminations themselves, these soldiers are uniquely gifted for the task. On Earth, they can spot a Grimm girl a mile off. In Everwhere, they can mark, track, and (sometimes) kill her, without using any of their human senses. These star-soldiers, or lumen latros as he prefers, pretentiously, to call them, need only wait until their own inner light flickers in recognition of its counterpart.
It was a long time before Leo discovered that the term “soldier” was also misleading, implying the fight for a just cause against an unjust enemy. But the Grimm girls aren’t his father’s enemy but his greatest hope. And, in truth, his soldiers are cannon fodder, pitched against his daughters to test their strength, to give them a taste for blood and murder, to turn them towards the dark. Wilhelm Grimm doesn’t want a war; he wants a battle. He wants his soldiers to lose and his daughters to win. He wants a massacre.
This sometimes enrages Leo so much that he feels the urge to desert this army and abandon its general. That he doesn’t is because he can’t—his father punishes all deserters with death—and because he needs to kill in order to live; their imbibed illumination keeps him alight. Last, and not least, because he’s still revenging the death of one he loved.
Leo sometimes sees other soldiers when he’s out hunting. Although it’s rare, since they tend not to encroach on one another’s territory. They hunt every month on the night of the moon’s first quarter, stepping through gates at 3:33 a.m., from Earth and into Everwhere.
Everwhere is where they come, where they gather, where he finds them. The sisters visit whenever they wish, no matter the hour, no matter the day. While he can visit only on the set day, at the set hour. And they don’t have to walk through gateways—though sometimes they like to; the ritual is a pleasing one—they need only fall asleep, close their eyes and slip into that place between light and dark, between the waking world and the world of dreams. Some, especially the young ones, don’t even remember they’ve been, waking none the wiser. But most come intentionally, to meet their sisters, to practise their powers, readying themselves for the night when they will have to fight for their lives.
Leo can tell at a glance that Goldie doesn’t remember Everwhere. She
has forgotten herself, has no idea who she is, neither how skilled nor how strong. Which, if her ignorance holds, will tip the scales in his favour. Leo smiles. He can almost feel the light of her dissipating spirit surge in his veins—like a shock of electricity bringing him back to life.
11:11 p.m.—Goldie
The astonishing sight of that man—Leo—makes me wonder how I’d describe myself. We have the same hair, I think, though mine curls to my shoulders. It used to curl down my back, but I cut it after Ma died. My skin isn’t so pale, and my eyes are blue not green. I’d like to say they’re half a dozen shades of blue: the colour of delphiniums, larkspur, bluebells, cornflowers, hydrangeas, clematis . . . But I’d be lying, and I try not to lie to myself. The blue of my eyes is a light, watery forget-me-not blue. Common, unremarkable.
It was only coincidence that he looked back at me. Though it certainly felt as if I compelled him. I know I’m being silly, yet I can’t help wondering. Thoughts, questions, and notions circle my mind, multiplying until my head aches.
For distraction, I mist the purple orchid on the mantelpiece, stroking its leaves, whispering Wordsworth into its petals, its stems now so heavy with buds that I search for pencils and twine to tie them up. Before I arrived the mortality rate for flowers was shocking. A dozen would die a month. But I’ve reversed that. I’ve always had green fingers. Afterwards, I stare at the computer. I polish the overpolished counter. I arrange and rearrange the drawers. I even wish for late guests to appear. But I can’t stop thinking of that moment, the moment he turned upon reaching the lift. I’m so used to feeling always on edge—a crouched hare ever ready to dart to its burrow—I didn’t know I could feel any different. But for that moment, I felt strong. As if I could command armies. As if I could topple nations. As if I had magic at my fingertips . . .
11:11 p.m.—Leo
To Leo’s knowledge, he has never dreamed before. He doesn’t need the restoration of REM sleep—indeed, doesn’t need sleep, but sometimes takes pleasure in it—leaving his nights uninterrupted by the intrusion of needless, nonsensical images. So when he drifts off then wakes tonight and the image of Goldie lingers, he’s startled. Perhaps it’s a subliminal warning against complacency, his subconscious cautioning him not to underestimate her as an opponent. He came to the hotel to watch her, but perhaps he should keep a closer eye, assess her strengths, determine her potential. Or perhaps he’s developing an unnatural obsession. Admittedly, seeing her face again is far from disagreeable. Still, the question of why he is suddenly dreaming and whether Goldie might be the cause keeps Leo alert till dawn.