The Magician's Dream (Oona Crate Mystery: book 3)

by Shawn Thomas Odyssey

  Oona hesitated. Magic was not something that she took lightly. Despite her extraordinary powers, she rarely used a spell if there was an alternative, and using magic to impress someone was the last thing she wished to do. After all, that was precisely what she had been doing three years ago—trying to impress her mother—when she had cast Lux lucis admiratio.

  One moment she had been a happy ten-year-old wielding her makeshift magic wand (a fallen twig she’d found in the park) and watching the Lights of Wonder light up the sky, and the next instant the spell was flying violently out of control. The lights crashed into the great fig tree with such force that it simultaneously burst into flames and crashed to the ground, crushing her mother and baby sister beneath its massive trunk and changing Oona’s life forever.

  All of that from one spell, a complex and powerful spell, yes, but it was a stark reminder that magic such as she possessed was not to be taken lightly. Causing a distraction in the museum entryway was one thing—at least then she was trying to accomplish something important, like eavesdropping on an investigation. But doing magic for no good reason . . . or to show off . . . she was soundly against it.

  Seeming to read Oona’s reticence, Mary Shusher said sweetly: “Oh, please. Just something small, like levitating this book.” She eagerly placed a reference book on the counter, a clothbound volume entitled Butterflies of the World. “Just flip its pages open or something, without touching it.”

  Oona looked from the book to Adler. He grinned.

  “Only if you want to,” he said, though she could tell by the way his eyes widened that he was eager to see her perform. She recalled that he had only seen her do magic twice before, and that both times he had been quite impressed.

  She considered the book for a moment.

  It would not be hard to do, flip it open, even levitate it from across the room. It was a simple enough conductor spell that required nothing more than a wand—or, in Oona’s case, her magnifying glass—to focus and aim the energy.

  She removed the magnifying glass from her pocket—her father’s gold-rimmed magnifying glass, her dearest possession in the world—and aimed it at the book.

  “Alum,” she said.

  The book rose several inches off the countertop and flipped open. It spun around on a cushion of air, as if turned by unseen fingers. It was an easy spell, one her uncle encouraged her to use, and one that he himself used to levitate teacups and glasses during his many parties at Pendulum House.

  The thought of her uncle reminded her of the battle test she was supposed to be preparing for. Something much more demanding was waiting for her at three o’clock, she was pretty sure of that, and the thought caused her concentration to waiver. The book tumbled in the air, as if the invisible fingers had gone suddenly clumsy. She tightened her grip on the magnifying glass, meaning to refocus her energy, but the book thumped back to the countertop with a crack that echoed around the library.

  Adler grinned ear to ear. “That was most excellent, so it was!”

  Even Deacon—who had seen her do much more complicated spells, but was always keen on her use of magic—flapped his wings excitedly. “Bravo!”

  But when Oona looked to Mary Shusher, the assistant librarian’s mouth turned to a frown. She seemed to be pleased and unpleased at the same moment.

  “Well, it started out all right,” Mary said encouragingly. “The spinning about was a nice touch, but then it got all wibbly-wobbly. It seemed to me as if your heart was just not in it.”

  Oona blinked several times in surprise. “My . . . my heart?”

  “That’s when the entire spell simply failed,” Mary continued sweetly. “You might consider letting the book ease back down slowly next time, for a more refined finish. All in all, I give it three and a half stars.”

  Oona’s mouth fell open as she stared at the assistant librarian.

  “That’s out of five,” Mary said earnestly.

  “Three and a half?” Oona said indignantly, and then, realizing what the young woman was doing, she added: “Are you critiquing my spell work? Rating it with stars?”

  Mary smiled brightly. “I came up with that system myself.”

  Adler gestured toward Mary. “Oh, I probably should have told you. Mary is training to be a critic.”

  “I prefer the term ‘reviewer,’” Mary said, and then, seeing the pinched expression on Oona’s face, she added: “I hope I haven’t offended you. Please don’t take it personally. I was only trying to be helpful.”

  And from her tone, Oona could tell that the young lady was indeed trying to be helpful. Yet despite Mary’s intentions, not to mention the fact that she had been correct that Oona had been distracted, Oona still could not help but want to tell Mary to mind her own business. She doubted that Mary had ever even attempted a spell, let alone floated a book off a table.

  Sensing Oona’s building tension, Deacon said: “The art of the critique has been around for as long as there has been art to criticize, even in the earliest civilizations. A well-respected critic not only acts as a discerning voice for the general public, helping them make informed decisions on how to spend their time and money, but also as constructive feedback to the artists so they can grow in their craft.”

  Oona continued to frown. “But in the end, it’s still just one person’s opinion.”

  “True,” Deacon said. “But a respected and well informed opinion. The critic is an authority on the subject they are discussing. At least that is the general idea.”

  Oona scratched at her head, wondering if Mary considered herself to be an authority on the subject of magic.

  Mary sighed, her bright eyes all at once downcast, and Oona wondered if she had hurt the young woman’s feelings.

  “I’m afraid that my mother shares your view,” Mary said softly. “She wishes for me to become a full-fledged librarian like her. And please don’t misunderstand me, I do love the library. My mother has a very important job. It’s just that . . . well, I want to review more than just books. There are all sorts of things to critique. Food. Clothing. Theater. I’d like to have my very own column in the Dark Street Tribune. I would be the first woman to do so, you know. That would be something, wouldn’t it? And everyone will read it, and . . .” Again she sighed. “And . . . well, it’s a dream of mine.”

  She looked suddenly sad, and Oona felt a twang of guilt as she realized that Mary Shusher and she had something in common: they both felt pressure to follow in family occupations, and yet they both had other aspirations.

  Oona was on the verge of telling Mary about her own dream of becoming a full-time detective, despite the pressure to become the next Wizard, when the thought reminded her of her mission. She was on a case, and it occurred to her that Mary Shusher could quite possibly be a suspect in the museum theft. Indeed, everyone who worked at the library or regularly used the museum entrance should be considered a person of interest.

  “Tell me, Mary, where were you last night at nine o’clock?”

  Mary was clearly surprised by the abrupt change of subject. Her well-manicured fingers began to play nervously with her hair. “I . . . I was at home, with my grandmother.”

  Oona eyed the assistant librarian carefully. She could not say why, but she had a feeling Mary was not being completely truthful. Before, when Mary had been critiquing Oona’s spell work, there had been an earnestness about her words, a self-assuredness, and yet now she seemed to hesitate.

  Oona decided to press further. “Do you live with your grandmother?”

  Mary’s eyes shifted about. “She lives with us, yes.”

  “Us?”

  “With my parents and me. What is this about?”

  Oona continued to watch her closely. “Are you aware that the museum was broken into last night? That a valuable object was stolen?”

  Mary nodded. “I know that the night watchman was attacked. We were told as much this morning when we came to work. I did not know anything was stolen.”

  “We?” Oona a
sked.

  “My mother and me. Why are you so interested in—” But Mary was cut short when a hidden door behind the desk opened and a bespectacled woman with dazzlingly large green eyes stepped through the doorway. Her red hair was cut unfashionably short, stopping just below her ears, and the hair was oddly stiff. It did not seem to move at all as she walked, and it reminded Oona of a metal helmet.

  Aside from her hair, however, the woman’s own movements were smooth and quick, almost catlike, as she approached the counter. Similar to the lab coats that were the new fashion for doctors, she wore a long black jacket that covered her from neck to ankle and had pockets in the front. Her powdered face stood out in stark contrast, and was an older version of Mary’s, her eyes highly alert.

  She smiled.

  “Who is making all of that noise with their mouths?” she asked in a soft whisper. Surprisingly, she did not sound upset . . . and yet Oona could not help but feel nervous. There was an edge to the woman’s presence, a sharpness. Here was a woman whose authority required no raising of voice or disapproving stares.

  “Oh, sorry, Mother,” Mary replied respectfully.

  “Volume,” the older Mrs. Shusher said, her voice even quieter than before. “Voices down. This is a library, not an opera house.” Her eyes went from Adler to Mary. As her gaze fell on her daughter, she sighed. “And back to work, both of you. Those books aren’t going to shelve themselves.”

  Hardly sparing a glance at Oona, Mrs. Shusher turned back to the hidden door. For a moment Oona could only watch her, captivated not only by her unique sense of style but also her manner. But then she remembered her mission. Oona moved forward, hoping to ask the librarian about her whereabouts the previous night. Mary seized Oona’s hand and shook her head. A moment later the librarian had closed the hidden door and was gone.

  Oona pulled her hand from Mary’s and flexed her fingers. “What was that about?”

  “You must keep your voice down,” Mary said seriously. “My mother is in a foul temper these days, ever since I told her of my dream to become a reviewer . . . and if you push her with your questions, I’m afraid she’ll kick you out of the library.” She hesitated for a moment before adding: “And besides, my birthday is at the end of the week, and I’m afraid if I irritate her even more then I won’t get the present I asked for.”

  Oona scowled but managed to keep her voice at a whisper. “All I was going to ask was—”

  “Was where she was at around nine o’clock last night, yes?” Mary said. “Well, I can tell you that. Last night was Monday night, and my mother and father have a literary club they attend every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from eight until ten o’clock at the Stratford Learning Center.”

  Oona raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of nights for a literary club.”

  Mary shrugged. “They love books.”

  Deacon shifted excitedly from one foot to the other. “Sounds wonderful.”

  Mary picked the butterfly book up off the counter and placed it on the shelf behind her.

  “And what is the present you asked for?” Oona asked.

  Mary considered the question for several seconds. “I’d rather not say just now,” she said before leaning over the counter, her voice dropping into an even quieter whisper. “I don’t want to jinx it.” She nodded conspiratorially toward the hidden door and then stood up straight. “Anyway, my mother is right, Adler. We need to return to work.”

  And with that Mary Shusher rounded the counter and strode across the library toward the stairs to the second level.

  Oona stared after her, shaking her head at the ridiculous excuse Mary had given for keeping her wish a secret.

  Doesn’t want to jinx it? she thought. What an absurd idea. Talking about something doesn’t jinx anything.

  “What say we find some books on knots, eh?” Adler said in a hushed tone. “The library is divided into categories by subject, so I’d suggest we look under books on sailing. There’s bound to be some books on knots there.”

  Oona heaved a sigh before agreeing to search for books about sailing. As they looked, Oona couldn’t help but wonder what the present was that Mary was expecting from her parents, and why she wouldn’t just tell Oona what it was.

  “Here’re the three books on sailing knots I could find,” Adler said, handing three thin books to Oona. They placed them on one of the reference tables and went through page by page. Each contained illustrations showing how to tie various sailors’ knots crucial to life on a sailboat. Oona thought fondly of how her mother, who had been a lover of all things having to do with boats, would have enjoyed reading through these pages with her.

  But as much as Oona marveled over the various knots, none of them came close to the level of sophistication used by the thieves. The knots in these books were useful, but none as stunningly beautiful as that of the Rose Knot.

  Undaunted, Adler suggested they next search under the subject of construction.

  “Builders need to use knots all the time on construction sites,” he said.

  Again Oona thought this was an excellent suggestion. As they perused the shelves, Oona stole several glances at Adler.

  This section of the library was on the third floor and quite abandoned. The thought of the kiss he had given her all those months ago drifted across her memory like a leaf floating on a spring breeze. She glanced nervously around. Now would be an opportune moment to make such a magical moment happen again . . . if he chose to.

  He seemed to sense her gaze. He turned to her, and their eyes met. He did not move. An outrageous thought sprang into Oona’s mind—one that made all the tiny nerves tingle along her arms.

  I could be the one to kiss him.

  But the thought made her too nervous, and she shoved it aside the best she could. Silence. Deacon cleared his throat rather loudly from his perch on a nearby shelf, and Oona jumped. She had forgotten Deacon was there, and both she and Adler hurriedly returned their attention to the shelves.

  “I was thinking,” she said offhandedly, though in truth her stomach felt as if she had swallowed a swarm of frantic butterflies, “that perhaps you would like to accompany me to the campaign rally for Molly Morgana Moon on Thursday.”

  “Thursday?” Adler said thoughtfully. He continued to run his fingers along the book spines. “I have a test at the Magicians Alliance that day”

  “Oh, I see,” Oona said, unable to conceal her disappointment.

  Adler cocked an eyebrow. “But the test is in the morning. I should be done by noontime. Isn’t the rally planned for one o’clock?”

  Oona’s spirits lifted. “At Oswald Park. You already know about it?”

  He nodded. “My mother and sister are already planning on going. They’re big Molly Morgana Moon supporters . . . so perhaps I’ll tag along?” He returned his attention to the bookshelves before adding: “I could meet you there.”

  Oona swallowed a rather large lump in her throat. “Very good.”

  It turned out there were even fewer books on construction knots than on sailing knots. Indeed, they found only one, and it contained mostly illustrations of the same sort of knots they had found in the sailing books.

  “Hmm,” Oona said as she slid the book back into place on the shelf. “This seems to be getting us nowhere.”

  “Speaking of getting us nowhere,” Deacon said, “the time for your test is getting close, and we have done no preparation or research.” He flew to the nearby balcony and peered down toward the large clock on the main floor. “You have only an hour to get ready.”

  “An hour?” Oona said sharply. “Deacon, how come you didn’t remind me earlier?”

  “Oh, it’s my fault now, is it?” Deacon asked.

  “What sort of test?” Adler asked.

  But Oona was already moving toward the stairs. “I’ll tell you later. I have to run. Thank you, Adler.”

  “Any time, Oona,” Adler replied with a quick tip of the hat.

  It wasn’t until she was outside and steppi
ng up into the carriage that she realized he had used her first name.

  Chapter Four

  The First Test

  “The test you are about to experience is not one of my design,” the Wizard said. He pushed back his seat and made as if to stand, but his long beard, which trailed down his chest as twisted and gray as a summer tornado, snagged on one of the hooked claws that poked out from the desk, and he was suddenly jerked forward.

  “Oh, are you okay, Uncle?” Oona asked. She stepped hurriedly around the desk to help him.

  He waived her back. “It’s all right. This has happened before. Now, where’s my wand?”

  Oona had to stifle a laugh. It was a comical sight, seeing her uncle, the prestigious Wizard of Dark Street, bent forward over the ominous dragon-bone desk with his beard caught on the claw like a fish on a hook.

  “Ah, here it is,” he said, removing his wand from his pocket and aiming it at the bottom of his beard. “Trim,” he said.

  The distinctive sound of metal scissors cutting through hair reached Oona’s ears in the same instant that the Wizard stood upright, his beard decidedly less pointy than it had been.

  “I’ve been meaning to have a trim anyway,” he said, fingering the flat spot at the bottom of his beard, and when he looked at Oona and saw her attempting to hide her smile, his face reddened considerably.

  “You were saying, Uncle?” Oona said, only just managing to keep from giggling.

  “Saying?” said the Wizard.

  “About the test,” said Deacon, who was not as successful at holding back his laughter as Oona.

  The Wizard picked the severed end of his beard from the claw on the desk and tossed it to the floor. “Yes, the test. As I was saying. It is a test that all apprentices must undergo when they are ready. One that I faced when I was an apprentice myself, long before I became a comical old man.” He gave Deacon a shrewd look, and Deacon’s laughter came to an abrupt halt.

  “Of course, sir,” Deacon said, with a clearing of his throat.

  Uncle Alexander returned his gaze to Oona as he moved out from behind the desk. “The test is quite difficult, but I think you will manage, Oona dear. Especially if you were able to prepare yourself.”