The Fairy Tale Thief
By Kristy Tate and Katie Tate
3/5
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About this ebook
Fairy tales can come true. But it's terrifying when it happens to you.
Grace James thinks having to wear a hand-me-down uniform while trying to fit into her posh new school in glitzy Orange County is bad, but being followed to class by seven little angry men is worse. The dwarfs believe that Grace has stolen the magic mirror, and they want it back.
Opponents become allies and soon Grace can't tell who is friend or foe and what is real or merely a fairy tale, so she cooks up a scheme that will take her back home to Oregon where life made sense—away from her stingy grandparents and her miniature stalkers. But a frantic cast of fairy tale characters have plans of their own that may or may not include a happily ever after.
This book was formerly published as Grace in the Mirror.
Kristy Tate
Dr. Seuss was my first love. When my mom left me in the children’s section of the library I’d find Horton and the Cat. My mom hated the good doctor and refused to checkout his books. He was my secret, guilty pleasure. Eventually, I read about Narnia, Oz and Green Gables.When my mom grew too sick to visit the library, a friend brought her a stash of romances which she kept in a big box beside her bed. Weekly, this good friend replenished the box. My mom didn’t know I read her books; it was like the Seuss affair, only sexier. Reading became my escape from a horrific and scary situation. Immersed in a story, I didn’t have to think about the life and death drama taking place on the other side of my bedroom wall. Books were my hallucinogenic drug of choice. In college, I studied literature and fell in love with Elliot, Willa and too many others to mention. (This had no similarity to my dating life.)I’m no longer a child living with a grieving father and a dying mother, nor am I the co-ed in search of something or someone real, nonfictional. I’m an adult blessed with an abundance of love. I love my Heavenly Father and His son, my husband and family, my dog, my friends, my neighbors, my writing group, the birds outside my window.Because I’m a writer, I also love my characters. I adore their pluck, courage and mettle. I admire the way they face and overcome hardships. But, as in any romance, I sometimes I get angry with them and think that they are too stupid to live. At those times, I have to remind myself that they live only in my imagination, unless I share. Writing for me is all about sharing--giving back to the world that has so generously shared with me-- because I learned a long time ago that the world is full of life and death dramas. Sometimes we need a story to help us escape.And we need as much love as we can find. That’s why I write romance.I have won awards and contests, but since one disgruntled critic once told me, "If you're as good a writer as you think you are, you should show us, not tell us," I no longer trot out my winnings. In the world of storytelling, they don't really matter.
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Book preview
The Fairy Tale Thief - Kristy Tate
Contents
CHAPTER ONE. 4
CHAPTER TWO.. 17
CHAPTER THREE. 31
CHAPTER FOUR. 44
CHAPTER FIVE. 52
CHAPTER SIX. 68
CHAPTER SEVEN.. 89
CHAPTER EIGHT. 107
CHAPTER NINE. 125
CHAPTER TEN.. 137
CHAPTER ELEVEN.. 155
CHAPTER TWELVE. 190
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.. 213
CHAPTER FOURTEEN.. 224
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.. 251
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.. 273
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.. 281
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.. 295
CHAPTER NINETEEN.. 300
CHAPTER TWENTY. 317
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE. 322
CHAPTER ONE
Brock’s mom bustled in the door. She’d been gone for days. She’d traveled as she always did—without luggage, preamble, or fair warning. Brock closed his World History textbook, knowing his mom would always be more interesting than most people—even ancient despots. She carried a giant package in her hand and kicked the door closed behind her. Beaming, she propped the package in the chair beside him and began unwrapping it.
You’re going to love this!
Cordelia’s eyes twinkled as she cut away string and paper.
It was a painting of someone wearing a frou-frou collar, tights, and Brock’s face. The Brock look-alike sat on a horse with a castle in the background in some faraway country. Centuries of dust and grime had gathered in the nooks and crannies of the heavily carved wooden frame.
Doppelganger,
Cordelia said, smiling at her purchase.
A what?
Doppelganger,
Cordelia repeated. It’s someone who looks the exact same as another person yet is not a twin. The direct translation from German is double-goer.
This is not a real person.
Perhaps it was,
Cordelia argued. It could be a ghost.
She laughed. Or maybe you’re the ghost of this person.
Like the incy-wincy spider scaling the waterspout, a chill crawled down Brock’s back. You can’t hang that anywhere my friends can see it.
Cordelia smiled at his identical twin. I’ll keep it in the shop.
You’re going to sell it?
Maybe he could keep his friends out of there until it disappeared. Assuming, of course, it actually sold. Until that happy day, Brock wondered where she would put it since the antiques shop was already overflowing with her finds. It looks old.
Oh, it is.
She carried the picture into the workroom and set it down on her table. She pulled out a rag and a bottle of lemon oil and began to polish the frame.
With his textbook tucked under his arm, Brock headed upstairs, but as he did, he caught sight of the painting and though he saw the same castle in the background, this time, instead of his double-whatever, he saw a blonde woman who looked a lot like his mom sitting on a white stallion. Transfixed, he paused in the doorway.
Cordelia looked up and turned the painting to face him. His double-what’s-it returned in a shifting haze of color.
Brock lost all interest in Attila the Hun and his World History homework. In his room, he dropped his texts on his bed, booted up his laptop and googled, doppelganger.
In fiction and folklore, a doppelgänger is a look-alike or double of a living person, sometimes portrayed as a paranormal phenomenon, and in some traditions as a harbinger of bad luck. Other traditions and stories recognize your 'double-goer' as an evil twin.
GRACE STOOD ON THE street corner of Santa Magdalena Parkway and Teresa Creek Road searching for her little brother. Her gaze landed on the circus tent propped up at the end of Antonio Parkway. It sat at the edge of the canyon, surrounded by a field of poppies. Toby wouldn’t have gone on to the grounds without her, would he?
The circus didn’t make Santa Magdalena weird. It was weird all by itself. It didn’t need a multi-colored tent, a cast of clowns, acrobats, and carnies, and the overpowering stench of animals mingled with popcorn to make it strange. Although that all certainly helped.
Of course, the Santa Magdalenains would claim Grace was the outlier, the misfit, the girl in boots and Levis in a city of flip-flops and short skirts. The girl from Salmon Dale, Oregon. A green place. A town hugging the Columbia River with views of Mount Adams to the north and Mount Hood to the south. Santa Magdalena had golf course views, manmade lake views, and lots of girls-in-barely-clad-bootie views.
But just then, Grace spotted Toby flailing down Santa Magdalena Parkway’s sidewalk, holding a waffle cone devoid of ice cream in his hand like a lantern. Panic filled his eyes. His breath puffed raggedly as he skirted an old lady and her Schnauzer and a mother pushing a baby stroller.
Grace caught up to him in seconds and wondered about his inhaler because, from the look on his face, she knew he was going to need it. Soon.
Chasing me,
he gulped, casting a rabbit-eyed look over his shoulder. Dropped my ice cream!
Grace drew him into an open doorway. The sights and smells of the store barely registered as she knelt in front of Toby, grabbed his arms, and willed him to breathe. She looked over the top of his head and saw two guys about her age, probably juniors or seniors, running by. The honey-blond one looked like an Abercrombie & Fitch model, while the other one, dark-haired, tanned, and carrying a lacrosse stick, could have stepped out of a J.Crew catalog.
Anger and questions flashed through her—why would they chase a little kid? Did he have something they wanted? Or were they bullies, picking on the weak and asthmatic for the pleasure of making someone wheeze? But Toby’s ragged gasping made her push anger aside and focus on his next breath.
Grace pulled him further into the store, behind a display of teapots and platters, and out of the doorway. Take deep, slow breaths,
she said, locking her gaze with his.
He swallowed hard, met her eyes, and panted.
Your inhaler—where is it?
she asked, patting his pockets.
He shook his head, his eyes growing wider, his puffing growing more and more labored.
Your phone?
Grace grabbed his backpack, pulled it off him, unzipped it, and rifled through it.
Of course, until this moment, it had seemed wildly unfair and twisted that Toby got to have a cell phone and not her because he was eleven and she was sixteen. No one cares if an eleven-year-old has a phone, but a teen without a phone is like a fish without water—socially dead.
But being socially dead is better than being literally dead. Fumbling through his bag, feeling her way through the collection of Star Wars action figures, dog-eared comic books, an empty juice box, and a half-eaten bag of Doritos, Grace found the phone and tapped the second number in his contact list.
Sinking to the floor, she pulled Toby onto her lap and cradled him in her arms while she waited for Heather to answer the phone. The tension in Toby began to relax as his breathing slowed.
Come on, come on, pick up, pick up.
Hello?
Grandpa Hank answered.
Grandpa! It’s me, Grace.
Who’s this? What d’you want?
Grandpa?
Talking to a hard-of-hearing ninety-year-old was never easy and almost always frustrating.
Hello?
Grandma Dorothy picked up another line.
Talking to one ninety-year-old was bad, and talking to two at once was almost impossible.
Grace raised her voice. I need Heather. Can you put her on?
Your mom is at school,
Dorothy croaked.
I know. I want to talk to Heather.
Are you calling on that mobile thing?
Grandpa Hank asked. How much is it costing you? Doesn’t it charge by the minute?
Grandpa, please, just get Heather for me.
A hand holding water bottles appeared in front of her face. Glancing up, Grace met the green-eyed gaze of a movie-star beautiful woman. She had flawless tanned skin, thick honey-blonde hair, and smiling lips. She gave one bottle of water to Toby and extended the other to Grace.
Toby unscrewed the lid with shaking hands.
Grace mouthed thank you to the woman.
She smiled in return, flashing a set of gleaming white, perfectly straight teeth. Can I help you? Want me to call someone?
she whispered.
Grace shook her head.
The woman gave Toby a worried yet straining to be a reassuring smile, before returning to her place behind the sales counter.
Heather’s gone to the store,
Grandma Dorothy told Grace.
I don’t know why she goes to Gelson’s,
Grandpa grumbled. She should go to Ralph’s. Gelson’s is just trying to upsell—
Do you think she’s at Gelson’s now?
Grace glanced out the window at the cars zooming along the parkway. Santa Magdalena only had a few major shopping centers. Maybe she could spot the fifteen-year-old Jeep Cherokee with a rusted bumper in one of the parking lots. It had to be the only rusty fifteen-year-old car in all of Santa Magdalena.
Now how would I know where she gets to?
Grandpa Hank asked.
Remember, you sent her to Rite Aid to pick up your prescription,
Grandma Dorothy cut in.
Oh. That’s right,
Grandpa Hank said. Well, she’s taking her time about it.
Rite Aid was on the far side of the lake, and Grace couldn’t drag Toby across town. Sticking to the original plan of meeting Heather at the library seemed like the best idea. Never mind,
she said. I’ll catch up with her.
Ketchup? We don’t need ketchup!
Grandma Dorothy exclaimed.
Not ketchup,
Grace said.
Absolutely not,
Grandma Dorothy said. We have plenty of condiments. We get all those little packets every time we go to McDonald’s.
They throw those things around like confetti!
Grandpa Hank said. Why I heard that American Airlines saved themselves a million dollars by cutting back one tomato on their dinner salads. McDonald’s could learn a thing or two from American Airlines.
Grace didn’t want to talk about McDonald’s or American Airlines. She wanted nothing more than for Toby to breathe. I have to go,
she told her grandparents.
Make sure you tell Heather not to get us any more ketchup!
Grandma Dorothy said.
Not unless it’s on sale, of course,
Grandpa Hank added.
Grace ended the call, slipped the phone back into Toby’s backpack, and ran her fingers over the top of his buzz cut, loving the feel of his prickly head. You okay now?
He sniffed.
Why were those guys chasing you?
He shrugged.
Grace gave him a quick hug and pushed to her feet. Come on, let’s go to the library.
Do you think,
wheeze, they have,
wheeze, comic books there?
Of course they do. All libraries have comic books. It’s in the national rulebook for libraries. And did you see the size of it? It’s like three times the size of the Salmon Dale library!
Toby’s eyes lit up and his breathing sounded almost normal.
Would you like a ride?
the woman behind the counter asked.
Grace flashed her a grateful smile. We’ll be okay. Huh, Tobs? Thanks, though. And thanks for the water.
The woman pulled away from the counter. I don’t mind driving you.
Are you here alone?
Grace asked.
Yes, but the owner won’t mind if I close the shop for a moment.
Her eyes sparkled. I know her well. She can be a witch, at times...
Well, then you don’t want to risk making her mad.
Toby agreed. Witches can be scary.
The woman’s face sobered. You have no idea. Still, for you two, I’d risk it.
She swept her green eyes over them, her gaze lingering on Grace’s boots and tattered jeans. What’s your name?
Grace James. This is my little brother, Toby.
I’m Cordelia Brockbank.
She stuck out a hand with five perfectly manicured nails for them to shake. It’s nice to meet you. You’re not from around here, are you?
Her cool skin felt shivery in Grace’s grasp.
We’re from Salmon Dale,
Toby told her.
Salmon Dale?
Her lips quirked.
It’s a real place,
Grace told her. In Oregon, near the Washington border,
she added as if that explained everything from the stupidity of the name to her grunge clothes.
And what brought you here, the circus?
No.
Grace flushed with humiliation tinged with anger.
My grandma’s sick and needs our help.
Toby handed out their mom’s excuse.
There’s more to it than that,
Grace muttered.
So you’re new here. Not just passing through?
Toby and Grace both nodded.
How old are you?
Eleven,
Toby said.
And you?
Sixteen.
And starting a new school? That’s rough.
A wave of homesickness washed through Grace.
Are you going to Mission High?
Grace shook her head. Santa Magdalena.
Cordelia’s eyes widened in surprise.
My mom’s teaching there,
Grace said. She has an old friend who got her the job.
Grace didn’t add that her mom’s salary would barely cover Grace’s tuition.
You know, it’s silly that I work here by myself.
Cordelia cocked her head, sending a lock of golden hair across her forehead. This will sound spur of the moment and crazy, but would you like a job? I could use some help, and you just moved here so no one has snatched you up yet...
She paused and fingered the gold pendant hanging around her neck. But maybe you don’t need a job.
Grace glanced around. A pink and purple paisley rug lay on the floor. A table beside wrought-iron shelves overflowed with an eclectic collection of china pieces, antique books, etchings, and prints. An eighteenth-century flow blue teapot shared a shelf with a silver flying saucer and a wooden burl box. It all looked expensive, frilly, and totally useless.
No! I do. I would love to work here.
What sort of store was this? An antique shop? A gift store? It seemed to sell everything from books to hats to purses to clothes. The only things that each of the items had in common were beauty and frivolity. Everything in the store was almost as lovely as Cordelia. Grace didn’t think she would fit in. Besides, her only other work experience had been at the Wilsons’ dairy where she’d mucked out cow stalls. She knew nothing about antiques.
What about the witch?
Toby asked. Wouldn’t Grace have to work with her?
Cordelia’s lips twitched. Oh, she’s really not that bad.
But won’t she mind? Shouldn’t you talk to her before you hire me?
Grace asked.
Cordelia leaned forward as if confiding a great secret and whispered, I’m the witch.
CHAPTER TWO
S he offered you a job ?
Heather whispered, suspicion lighting her bright green eyes. She didn’t have Cordelia’s porcelain beauty, but with her thick dark hair and pinky-white skin, she was still gorgeous without even trying. Why?
Grace thrummed her fingers on the table, thinking. She could probably tell I need money.
Heather pursed her lips. Unhappy had become Heather’s default attitude ever since they’d moved, and yet she was their mom’s most valiant backer-upper. Grace knew Heather was sad about leaving Salmon Dale, but she also knew that, unlike Grace and Tobs, Heather had a choice. She could return to Salmon Dale whenever she wanted. She was eighteen, a freshman in college, and had spent four years working for Lucy Norman—a wealthy widow who had offered Heather a place to live and use of a car if she’d remain in Salmon Dale and continue as Lucy’s assistant.
A waft of warm air blew into the library as the wide double doors opened. The guys who had been chasing Toby walked in. They didn’t belong in a library. They belonged on a tennis court, or on surfboards, or—thinking of how they’d bullied Toby—in juvie hall.
Are you listening to me?
Heather whispered.
Grace tore her gaze away from the guys with their defined muscles, sun-kissed hair and skin, and focused on Heather. I know...Mom needs our help, but...
There’re no buts about it, we have to tough it out until Dad gets back.
Heather kept her eyes on the top of Toby’s head. He sat on a cushion on the floor surrounded by comic books in Toby-heaven.
Who are you staring at?
Heather asked, twisting to look over her shoulder.
No one.
The guys had disappeared into the fiction section, and while Grace really wanted to follow them, throw them up against a bookshelf, and yell at them for picking on little kids, she didn’t want Heather to know what had happened or how closely she and Toby had skirted disaster. It would only upset her, and Heather had enough to worry about.
Did you get the classes you wanted?
Grace asked, changing the subject.
Heather tightened her lips. I also signed Toby up for an online program. I’m going to homeschool him.
What? Heather, no.
She lifted a shoulder. It’ll be easier.
Than what?
Staying at home alone with the grand-unit.
Frustration zipped through Grace and clenched the muscles around her neck. You should go back to the art institute.
I can’t afford it.
Grandpa Hank can.
Heather gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
Grace leaned closer and lowered her voice, even though she knew her grandparents were miles away. Do you think Mom entered into some sort of bargain with them?
she asked, thinking of her advanced English class in general and Faust and his pact with the devil in particular. Who would she rather strike a bargain with—Satan or her grandfather? It would be a hard decision.
Maybe, but probably not.
Heather picked at the edge of her T-shirt. She promised we’d leave as soon as Dad’s rotation is over.
Do you think that’s going to happen?
Grace’s thoughts skipped ahead to her own graduation. Maybe if she worked really hard, she could get a scholarship and go to any school she wanted.
Heather didn’t answer but used her foot to nudge Toby. Pick your favorite three, and let’s go,
she told him. Did you want to get anything?
she asked Grace.
The frustration clenching her neck swept through Grace, tightening her spine and tingling in her fingertips. Heather didn’t deserve this. She should be hanging out at the art institute and sketching grape clusters, not babysitting her little brother and catering to her tight-fisted grandparents.
You okay?
Heather asked, bumping Grace with her shoulder.
Heather