The Grimm Chronicles, Vol. 2 by Ken Brosky, Isabella Fontaine, Dagny Holt, Chris Smith, Lioudmila Perry Page B

word “tummy.” And anger, too. What was happening here? What was this Corrupted doing with the children?
    “Do you think I care?” the woman barked, pulling on his tattered shirt. He fought back now, grabbing her hands and trying to pluck her short fat fingers from his shirt. She tightened her grip, lifting him off the ground. “Where did you get such strength?” she wondered, her voice gravelly. “Have you been eating your porridge?”
    “Yes,” the boy choked out. The woman let him go, dropping him to the floor. Behind him, the curtains moved as the wind outside slipped in through the drafty windows. Just a horrible reminder of how close he was to freedom.
    “Then you must eat more ,” the woman commanded. “Come along. Come along now.”
    She shooed the boy to the doorway leading back to the hall. I found myself following the golden trail left by the stepmother, down in the opposite direction I always went in my dream. In this direction, there were only two lamps hanging from the walls and one of them was out, making it difficult to see to the far end. I floated behind the Corrupted woman, watching her dress flow behind her.
    From the heavy closed door to our right came the muffled scream of children.
    Alex flinched, but the woman simply cocked her head, grunting to herself.
    “Into the kitchen now,” she said. “Hurry, you little brat.”
    “But I don’t want porridge,” said the boy. We made our way into the kitchen at the end of the hall. It was huge, like the kitchen for our school cafeteria, with big stainless steel refrigerators along one wall and rows and rows of bowls and plates and cooking equipment along the other wall. There were three massive stainless steel vats that looked like big pots sitting in a row behind a long wooden cutting table that looked as if it had been lazily wiped down, with long red streaks on its surface.
    Blood?
    “Everyone wants porridge,” said the woman, shoving him around the table to the vats. Two of them were still cooking, and as I moved closer I could see inside: thick, gray stew with little bits of boiling oats bouncing off of the rising bubbles. I could smell it: stale, wheaty, a hint of corn, and something else that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
    The woman grabbed a bowl and handed it to the boy. She pushed him to the third vat, where a batch of the porridge looked to be cooling. There were no boiling bubbles, but it was still warm enough that steam was rising from the surface.
    “Go on,” she said. “One good bowl and then we’ll head downstairs. A few hours of work and you’ll be ready for bed. We mustn’t stop now. We’re so close.” She cocked her head, mouth agape. “I can hear his song … kywitt … kywitt … what a beautiful bird am I …”
    “But I never feel good after I eat the porridge.”
    The woman leaned over, smiling. The loose skin on her cheeks wrinkled. “That’s because you’re not supposed to. The porridge keeps you working hard until bedtime. And that. Is all. I care about.”
    The boy dipped the porcelain bowl in the stuff, looked down at it, then turned and flung it in the woman’s face! I silently cheered, feeling myself follow him toward the doorway as he ran into the hall.
    But then the woman was following him, slipping past me in the blink of an eye. She walked slowly and yet her body seemed to carry her forward at an impossible speed. She caught up to the boy halfway down the dark hallway, grabbing him by the bib of his overalls and dragging him screaming back into the kitchen.
    “You will eat!” the woman yelled. Warm porridge dripped down her face. Oat flakes had slipped into her wrinkles, lodging there and drying on her leathery skin.
    “No!” the boy cried out, scrambling to wrench his hand free. But it was no use. The woman pulled the boy around the table to the third vat and lifted him off his feet. He kicked wildly, connecting one bare toe with the woman’s right armpit. She grunted, then released