The Grimm Legacy by Polly Shulman Page B

the spirit says he’s going to cut his head off, so the student tricks the spirit back into the bottle by taunting him and saying he doesn’t believe he’ll fit?”
    Doc nodded. “That’s the one. Do you remember what the spirit gives the student in exchange for letting him out again?”
    I shook my head.
    “Come. I’ll show you.”
    We walked down the aisles again, past rows of glass bottles, bowls of all shapes and sizes, dozens of spinning wheels, and on and on until we came to a chest full of cloths carefully folded and labeled. Doc took one out and shook it open. It was ragged and dirty.
    “Wait, Lee! Test it first!” said Ms. Callender sharply.
    “Don’t worry, I’m going to! That’s why I chose this bandage. I want to show her how very dangerous the objects in this room can be. Elizabeth, did you see the bottles we passed?”
    I nodded.
    “If you opened the wrong one without thinking, a spirit might come out and cut off your head.”
    “Why couldn’t I trick him back into the bottle like in the story?”
    “That only works once,” said Doc. “Our bottled spirits know better—they would never fall for that again. So don’t assume anything in here is harmless or manageable. Everything is dangerous in a different way, but everything is dangerous.”
    Ms. Callender was nodding her round face in agreement. “Even the stuff that sounds safe is dangerous,” she said. “Like the pot in ‘Sweet Porridge.’ When you say, ‘Cook, little pot, cook,’ it makes sweet millet porridge. Sounds harmless, right?”
    “Yes, I remember the story,” I said. Nobody told the pot to stop cooking until it had filled half the houses in town with porridge. The householders had to eat their way out. The story didn’t say whether anybody drowned.
    “Okay, Lee. Show her the rag,” said Ms. Callender.
    Doc took out a pocketknife, unfolded it, and—to my horror—made a deep cut across the base of one finger.
    “Martha, will you do the honors?” Doc held out the rag. “I don’t want to drip blood over everything.”
    “Sure.” Ms. Callender took the rag. “Elizabeth, do you have some small object you could spare? A penny or a pen or something?”
    I felt in my hoodie pocket and found an acorn I’d picked up in the park a few weeks ago. “How’s this?”
    “Perfect.” She rubbed it with the rag. Nothing happened. She turned the rag over and rubbed it again, with the other side. She held it up, smiled, and handed it to me.
    It was heavy and cold, white-gray and shiny. It had turned to silver.
    “Wow!” I said, staring. “It’s so—so cute! It’s like a perfect little silver acorn.”
    “It is a perfect little silver acorn,” said Doc.
    “Now give me your hand, Lee. Elizabeth? You watching?”
    I had still been staring at the acorn, admiring the tiny silver scales on the cap, but I turned to watch the librarians. Ms. Callender had taken Doc’s hand and was rubbing it with the cloth.
    The cut closed up as if it had never been there.
    “Wow! Can I see your finger?” Doc held it out. I inspected it closely. I couldn’t see any sign of the cut.
    “I remember the rest of the story now,” I said. “One side of the bandage turns things into silver, and the other side heals wounds.”
    “That’s right,” said Doc. “And if Martha had used the wrong side, I would now have a silver hand. Pretty, but useless.”
    “But that thing could save lives! Why is it here? Why don’t you give it to a hospital or something?”
    “Yes, it could save lives,” said Doc. “But it would certainly also cost lives. Not just by turning people into silver, but by starting more wars than it could ever heal the wounds from.”
    “I would say that’s the most important lesson of the day,” said Ms. Callender, folding up the cloth and putting it back in the chest. “Not only are the objects here extremely dangerous, but so is the knowledge of them.”
    “That’s right,” said Doc. “Remember, Elizabeth: tell no