Read Online Alistair Grim's Odditorium by Gregory Funaro - Free Book Online
Authors: Gregory Funaro
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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.
“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
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.
“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
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