"I love dolphins, too!" Daphne exclaimed.
"Not since I hurt my toes!" Mrs. Grimm shouted.
Sabrina put her face in her hands and groaned.
They drove through the little town, which consisted of a two-lane road bordered by a couple of antiques stores, a bicycle shop, a police station, the Ferryport Landing Post Office, a restaurant named Old King Cole's, a toy store, and a beauty parlor. Mr. (!anis made a left turn at the town's one and only stoplight and within seconds they were cruising out of the town proper and into what Mrs. Grimm called Ferryport Landing's "farm country." As far as Sabrina could tell, the only crop this town grew was mud.
Mrs. Grimm's house sat far up on a tree-speckled hill fifteen minutes away from the closest neighbor. It was short and squat, much like its owner, and had two stories, a wraparound porch, and small windows with bright blue shutters. Fat green shrubs lined the cobblestone path that led to the front door. It all would have looked cozy, but just behind the house loomed the forest—its branches hanging over the little roof as if the trees were preparing to swallow the house whole.
"You live in a dollhouse," Daphne declared, and Mrs. Grimm smiled.
But Sabrina wasn't amused. The place was creepy and she felt as if she was being watched. She squinted to see into the dense trees, but if anyone was spying they were well hidden.
"Why do you live all the way out here?" she asked. New York City was a place where everyone lived on top of each other, and that was exactly how Sabrina liked it. Living out in the middle of nowhere was dangerous and suspicious.
"Oh, I like the quiet," said Mrs. Grimm. "It's nice not to hear the honking of horns."
And there's no one to hear the screaming of children up here, Sabrina thought to herself.
Mr. Canis unlocked the car's huge musty trunk, pulled out the two tiny suitcases, and led everyone to the front door. The old woman followed closely behind, fumbling with her handbag until she fished out what looked like the largest key ring in the world. Hundreds of keys were attached to it, each different from the others: skeleton keys made from what looked like crystal, ancient brass keys, bright new silver ones in many sizes, and several that didn't look like keys at all.
"Wow! That's a lot of keys," Daphne said.
"That's a lot of locks," Sabrina added as she eyed the front door. It must have had a dozen bolts of all shapes and sizes.
Mrs. Grimm ignored the comment and flipped through the key ring, inserting one key after another into the locks until she had unlocked them all. Then she rapped her knuckles on the door three times and said, "We're home."
Daphne looked up at her sister for an explanation but Sabrina had none. Instead, she twirled her finger around her ear and mouthed the word crazy. The little girl giggled.
"Let me take your coats, lieblings," Mrs. Grimm said as they entered the house and she closed the door behind them, turning the locks one after another.
" I.tebling?” Daphne asked.
"It means sweetheart in German," the old woman said. She opened the coat closet door and several books tumbled to her feet. Mr. Canis quickly restacked them for her.
"Girls, I must warn you. I'm not much of a housekeeper," Mrs. Grimm said. "We'll have dinner in about an hour," she said to Mr. Canis, who picked up the girls' suitcases and headed for the stairs.
"Ladies, let me give you the grand tour." She led them into the living room. It was enormous, a much larger room than seemed possible in a cottage so small. Each wall was lined with bookshelves, stuffed with more books than Sabrina had ever seen. Stacks of them also sat on the floor, the tables, and every other surface. A teapot perched precariously on a stack that looked as if it would fall over at any moment. Books were under the couch cushions, under the carpet. Several giant stacks stood in front of an old television, blocking any chance that someone could watch cartoons. On the spines Sabrina read the strangest titles: Birds of Oz, The Autobiography of an Evil Queen, and Shoes, Toys, and Cookies: The Elvish Handcraft Tradition.