Alistair Grim's Odditorium

Copyright © 2015 by Gregory Funaro
Illustrations copyright © 2015 by Vivienne To
Cover art © 2015 by Su Blackwell
Cover art photograph © 2015 by Colin Crisford
Hand lettering by David Coulson
Designed by Whitney Manger

All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney • Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

ISBN 978-1-4847-1116-3

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Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One: Grubb with a Double
B

Chapter Two: The Lamb

Chapter Three: The Boy in the Trunk

Chapter Four: Good Evening, Mr. Grim

Chapter Five: A New Friend

Chapter Six: Pocket Watches Can Be Trouble

Chapter Seven: The Man in the Goggles

Chapter Eight: Shadows Fall

Chapter Nine: Unexpected Guests

Chapter Ten: The Battle in the Clouds

Chapter Eleven: A Lesson in Power

Chapter Twelve: Nigel’s Secret

Chapter Thirteen: Sirens’ Eggs and Banshees, Please

Chapter Fourteen: The Wasp Rider

Chapter Fifteen: Prisoners

Chapter Sixteen: There Be Dragons

Chapter Seventeen: In the Court of Nightshade

Chapter Eighteen: The Tournament

Chapter Nineteen: The Mirror

Chapter Twenty: One Last Bit

Character List

Glossary of Odditoria

Acknowledgments

About the Author

From an article in
The Times
, London. May 23, 18—

In light of a guilty plea and overwhelming evidence against the accused, the trial of the ruffian William Stout for the murder of Mr. Abel Wortley and his housekeeper, Mrs.
Mildred Morse, of Bloomsbury, ended yesterday in the only possible way. The unhappy man was rightly convicted and sentenced to death for as cruel and cold-blooded a deed as was ever
committed.


Readers of the
Times
will recall that Wortley, an elderly philanthropist and purveyor of antiquities, and Mrs. Morse were brutally struck down last month in a trend
of burglaries that have become all too common amongst London high society. Thanks, however, to the steadfast police work of Scotland Yard, William Stout, an acquaintance and sometimes coachman of
Wortley’s, was quickly apprehended and charged with the crime. His plea of guilt, conviction, and subsequent execution shall prove, in the opinion of the
Times,
a shining example of
Her Majesty’s judicial system.


It is also the opinion of the
Times
that, with more and more villains roaming the streets of London, a little pain and cares on the part of the elderly might in some
cases preserve them from such dangers.


T
he odd was the ordinary at Alistair Grim’s. The people who lived there were odd. The things they did there were odd. Even the there itself
there was odd.

There
, of course, was the Odditorium, which was located back then in London.

You needn’t bother trying to find the Odditorium on any map. It was only there a short time and has been gone many years now. But back then, even a stranger like you would have had no
trouble finding it. Just ask a bloke in the street, and no doubt he’d point you in the right direction. For back then, there wasn’t a soul in London who hadn’t heard of Alistair
Grim’s Odditorium.

On the other hand, if you were too timid to ask for directions, you could just walk around until you came upon a black, roundish building that resembled a fat spider with its legs tucked up
against its sides. Or if that didn’t work, you could try looking for the Odditorium’s four tall chimneys poking up above the rooftops—just keep an eye on them, mind your step, and
you’d get there sooner or later.

Upon your arrival at the Odditorium, the first thing you’d notice was its balcony, on top of which stood an enormous organ—its pipes twisting and stretching all the way up the front
of the building like dozens of hollow-steel tree roots.
That’s an odd place for a pipe organ,
you might remark. But then again, such oddities were ordinary at Alistair Grim’s.
And what the Odditorium looked like on the outside was nothing compared to what it looked like on the
inside
.

You’ll have to take my word on that for now.

And who am I that you should do so? Why, I’m Grubb, of course. That’s right, no first or last name, just Grubb. Spelled like the worm but with a double
b
, in case you plan on
writing it down someday. I was Mr. Grim’s apprentice—the boy who caused all the trouble.

You see, I was only twelve or thereabouts when I arrived at the Odditorium. I say “thereabouts” because I didn’t know exactly how old I was back then. Mrs. Pinch said I looked
“twelve or thereabouts,” and, her being Mrs. Pinch, I wasn’t about to quarrel with her.

Mrs. Pinch was Mr. Grim’s housekeeper, and I’m afraid she didn’t like me very much at first. Oftentimes I’d meet her in the halls and say, “Good day, Mrs.
Pinch,” but the old woman would only stare down at me over her spectacles and say, “Humph,” as she passed.

That said, I suppose I can’t blame her for not liking me back then. After all, it was Mrs. Pinch who found me in the trunk.

Good heavens! There I go getting ahead of myself. I suppose if I’m going to tell you about all that trunk business, I should back up even further and begin my story with Mr. Smears. Come
to think of it, had it not been for Mr. Smears taking me in all those years ago, I wouldn’t have a story to tell you.

All right then: Mr. Smears.

I don’t remember my parents, or how I came to live with Mr. Smears, only that at some point the hulking, grumbling man with the scar on his cheek entered my memories as if he’d
always been there.

Mr. Smears was a chimney sweep by trade, and oftentimes when he’d return to our small, North Country cottage, his face was so black with soot that only his eyeballs showed below his hat.
The scar on his cheek ran from the corner of his mouth to the lobe of his left ear, but the soot never stuck to it. And when I was little, I used to think his face looked like a big black egg with
a crack in it.

His wife, on the other hand, was quite pleasant, and my memories of her consist mainly of smiles and kisses and stories told especially for me. All of Mrs. Smears’s stories were about
Gwendolyn, the Yellow Fairy, whom she said lived in the Black Forest on the outskirts of town. The Yellow Fairy loved and protected children, but hated grown-ups, and her stories always involved
some bloke or another who was trying to steal her magic flying dust. But the Yellow Fairy always tricked those blokes, and in the end would gobble them up—“Chomp, chomp!” as Mrs.
Smears would say.

Mrs. Smears was a frail woman with skin the color of goat’s milk, but her cheeks would flush and her eyes would twinkle when she spoke of the Yellow Fairy. Then she would kiss me good
night and whisper, “Thank you, Miss Gwendolyn.”

You see, it was Mrs. Smears who found me on the doorstep, and after she made such a fuss about the Yellow Fairy, her husband reluctantly agreed to take me in.

“He looks like a grub,” said Mr. Smears—or so his wife told me. “All swaddled up tight in his blanket like that. A little grubworm is what he is.”

“Well then, that’s what we’ll call him,” Mrs. Smears replied. “Grub, but with a double
b
.”

“A double
b
?” asked Mr. Smears. “Why a double
b
?”

“The extra
b
stands for
blessing
, for surely this boy is a blessing bestowed upon us by the Yellow Fairy.”

“Watch your tongue, woman,” Mr. Smears whispered, frightened. “It’s bad luck to speak of her, especially when the moon is full.”

“It’s even worse luck to refuse a gift from her,” replied Mrs. Smears. “So shut your trap and make room for him by the fire.”

“Bah,” said Mr. Smears, but he did as his wife told him.

Mr. and Mrs. Smears had no children of their own—an unfortunate circumstance that Mr. Smears often complained about at supper when I was old enough to understand such things.

“That grub ain’t free, Grubb,” Mr. Smears would say, scratching his scar. “You best remember the only reason I agreed to take you in is because the wife said you’d
make a good apprentice someday. And since we got no other grubs squirming about, I suggest you be quick about getting older, or you’ll find yourself picking oakum in the workhouse.”