Read Online Book of Stolen Tales by D. J. McIntosh - Free Book Online

a version of “Beauty and the Beast.” This in itself I found interesting. Like most people, I’d thought the famous fairy tales originated with the Grimm brothers.
    I was on firmer ground when it came to Charles Perrault and remembered reading somewhere that his inspiration for Sleeping Beauty’s castle was the Château d’Ussé overlooking the Indre Valley. His most famous stories included “Red Riding Hood,” “Cinderella,” “Puss in Boots,” and “Bluebeard.”
    But when I think of fairy tales, it’s still the Grimms who come first to my mind. I knew their stories although not much about their lives. The article described the brothers as serious scholars who promoted German culture and shared a mission to popularize folk literature, initially for adults. They collected oral stories from friends and colleagues and began to publish anthologies. Wilhelm did most of the writing and editing and transformed many of the tales by giving them a Germanic feel, adding Christian motifs and elements of pagan mythology. Apparently, the dark and explicit sexuality in some tales caused a furor among many German readers, so later, the Grimms tamed the stories and added moral lessons to them. I found the contrast between the two countries fascinating. Two hundred years earlier, far from offending any of his countrymen, Basile’s own book of sensual tales was a runaway bestseller.
    A Web search turned up portraits of both the author, Giambattista Basile, and the illustrator, José de Ribera.
    Giambattista Basile and José de Ribera
    I gasped at Basile’s portrait. My theory about Alessio being a descendant of Basile’s was spot on. They were mirror images of each other. Clearly, Alessio had stolen an object he considered his birthright.
    By now it was late afternoon and the pub lights switched on. I shut offmy phone, finished my drink, and headed for the nearest tube stop.
    After a long ride on a train crammed to the gills, I arrived at Southwark station and headed to the address where Newhouse told me I’d find Charles Renwick’s business partner.
    Southwark was so old it was referenced in the Domesday Book of 1086. Buildings burned to the ground in the Southwark fire of 1212 and hundreds of people died on the newly constructed London Bridge, caught between raging fires at both ends.
    Home to the bawdy and licentious, the area once hosted both the red-light district and the infamous Marshalsea Prison, as well as the Rose and Globe theaters. The new Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre and the Tate Modern set off a wave of gentrification. Pockets of rundown buildings remained, not yet assembled by some ambitious realtor. Renwick’s business was located near Chancel Street in one of these, a dim corner composed of residences and aged commercial outlets.
    C. Renwick Fine Books did not appear to be a thriving publishing house. It was an old two-story structure of bricks so sooty it looked as if the facade hadn’t been touched since the Great Fire. The front window was streaked with dust; a dirty white blind obscured the view inside. The nameplate beside the door had the dull greenish tinge of brass that hadn’t seen a cleaning cloth for years.
    Something else sparked my interest. A small carved stone figure dangled from an aluminum bracket over the door, a Babylonian amulet intended to ward offdemons. Strange to see such an exotic charm hanging here. I tapped the enameled horse-head knocker and waited.
    I heard a shuffling sound inside. A hand shifted the blind. A gnome-like, white-haired fellow peered out at me and promptly dropped the blind. After much clicking of locks and sliding of bolts the door opened. The man stood to one side so I could enter. “Do come in, Mr. Madison,” he said. “I was told to expect you.”
    In stark contrast to the exterior, the front room was attractive and orderly. A polished oak floor and elegant William