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.