Presently, Oona paused to examine one of the famed Dark Street candlestick trees. An oddity like no other, the trees lined the shopping district of the boulevard like living lampposts, their flames flickering faintly against the bright light of day. Between two of the branches, a plump little spider worked tirelessly in the late-morning breeze. Oona reached into one of her dress pockets. Though she may not have possessed the most fashionable sort of dresses, Oona found the multitude of pockets sewn into the folds of her skirts to be quite handy. They allowed her to carry around all sorts of useful objects: a needle stuck in a bit of cork, a small ball of string, red phosphorus matches, a bit of metal wire she’d used to pick the lock on Igregious Goodfellow’s hideout, paper and pencil, and many other functional things that never failed to come in handy.
She removed a small magnifying glass and used it to study the web. The spider worked away, seemingly unaware of Oona’s huge eye leaning in close to observe. The strangeness of a tree that sprouted candles instead of fruit did little to capture Oona’s interest, yet the complex pattern and dazzling intricacy of the spider’s web drew her curiosity in like iron shavings to a magnet; each strand of the web was a trap, yet also a clue; each clue connected to another, all of them spiraling into the center, where the core of the mystery resided.
It’s beautiful, Oona thought. Meticulous and reliable.
At last she pulled away from the web and looked at the magnifying glass itself. She held it up, watching the sun glint off the gold rim. The well-worn handle was lacquered oak, and the two-and-a-half-inch-wide glass was flawless. This had been her father’s very own magnifying glass, and sometimes when she looked through it she could imagine that she was seeing through his eyes. It was possibly the dearest possession she owned.
She pocketed the glass and started up the street once more, tossing her hand in a dismissive gesture. “So, Deacon, it would seem that the day I have been waiting for has finally arrived. Tonight is the Choosing.” At just the mention of it, Oona could feel her heartbeat quicken and her palms go wet, though whether from nerves or excitement she could not have said. Rubbing her sticky hands together, she said: “Tonight my uncle chooses my replacement.”
Deacon bristled on her shoulder. “Hmm” was his only reply.
Oona gave him a sideways glance. “I take it you are not pleased. Tell me, Deacon. Why should I be the least bit upset about giving up my position as Uncle Alexander’s apprentice?”
Deacon made a cawing sound as if this was all he intended to add to the conversation, but finally he spoke.
“Perhaps you should be upset because you’ve trained for the position since you were eight years old, the youngest apprentice ever.” His tone of voice was that of someone who undoubtedly has had the same conversation countless times before. “Perhaps because—despite your outright refusal to perform any magic whatsoever—you are the most competent and informed talent to have held the position in over a hundred years. Or perhaps because your uncle is so desperate to find someone to replace you that six months ago he placed an advertisement in the New York Times. It’s simply unheard of.”
“But don’t you see, Deacon?” Oona said. “This is the perfect opportunity for me to start my dream.”
“I take it you are speaking of The Dark Street Detective Agency?”
“It does have a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
Deacon cocked his head to one side. “It is rather plain, if you ask me, but it is your dream, not mine. And I must confess, I don’t understand how finding lost puppies could possibly be any more exciting than performing complicated magic.”
“But that’s just the thing!” Oona said so loudly that several pedestrians glanced in her direction before continuing on their way. “At least in finding lost puppies there is a point to be accomplished,” she said. “A sequence of events happens, and I am able to follow those events through a series of clues. That, Deacon, is true purpose! What use is there in floating teacups and silly love potions?”
“There is more to magic than that, and you know it,” Deacon said. “What about the great Magicians of Old?”
Oona shook her head. “Ancient history.”
“But I myself am a product of magic,” Deacon insisted. “Your uncle created me as a present for your eleventh birthday, and there is nothing silly about me.”
Oona raised a playful eyebrow at him. “I sometimes wonder why my uncle created a raven encyclopedia for me, rather than an owl. Owls are such noble creatures … if only in appearance. Or perhaps a magpie, which could better understand the emotions of a girl. Or even … a rook.”
“A rook?” Deacon bristled, ruffling his feathers indignantly. “A rook couldn’t hold half a haiku in its pea-size brain,” he continued, “let alone the entire Encyclopedia Arcanna, The Complete Oxford English Dictionary, and The Dark Street Who’s Who: 36 B.C. to Present. There is no other bird in all the world more intelligent than a raven. You are simply taking your present frustrations out on me.”
Oona nodded. It was true. Deacon was a wealth of information. The Encyclopedia Arcanna was perhaps the most comprehensive set of texts to be found on nearly all things magical, and the dictionary came in quite handy, especially when she was writing angry letters to the Dark Street Council about the stupidity of the police department. But it was the Who’s Who that Oona found to be the most fascinating book in Deacon’s memory, because the Who’s Who was a set of reference books that briefly described the lives of nearly every inhabitant of Dark Street, alive or dead. It was truly handy to have around. And in spite of her baited words, Oona was quite certain that Deacon had become far more to her than just some novelty pet—a bird that could talk. He was unique, there was no denying that, as there were no other talking birds like him to be found anywhere in all of the world, so far as Oona knew, but he was more than just that. By all accounts, he was a true friend, and after nearly two years of his company, she could not imagine life without him.
The two of them walked on in silence for several minutes before coming to a stop in front of an empty lot. The buildings on this part of the street were so crooked and crowded together—with shops below and apartment houses above—that this sudden empty space between the buildings seemed almost startling to behold. In the center of the vacant lot stood a barren mound of dirt. Flanked by a theater on one side and an apothecary on the other, the unsightly hill rose up several feet from the sidewalk, where a leafless, gnarled-looking tree grew at its top like a twisted claw. A twelve-foot wall of crumbly stones cut across the back of the lot, and Oona felt a shiver run down her arms.
“Take this, for instance,” she said. “Witch Hill. It is a complete mystery waiting to be solved. How many witches live inside? What do they do in there? Do they work magic, or are they simply called witches because people fear them? No one knows. Why is it that when one of the witches comes out, it is always one of the girls, and never a full-grown witch? And of course, the most pressing question: Why do they not plant a more appealing tree atop of their home, such as an apple tree or a nice willow?”
“According to the Encyclopedia Arcanna,” Deacon said, “the original witches of Witch Hill were once highly active magicians on Dark Street. They were called the Sisterhood of the Witch, but that was hundreds of years ago, and when the Glass Gates were shut, they all moved underground. The following generations all stayed there. The entrance to the hill appears to be enchanted, so that when one of them does come out, no one can see where she came from.”
“Yes, yes, I know all of this,” Oona said, and then began to sing the lyrics to a traditional Dark Street children’s rhyme.
The witches moved beneath the hill
And to this day they live there still
What they do, you’ll never know
You’ll never see them once they’ve grown
For only girls are seen up top
Upon the street and in the shops
A mystery that is worth unearthing
How the witches
keep a-birthing
All alone, a woman’s clan
Without the benefit of man
Oona paused a moment before adding: “I tell you, Deacon, sometimes I believe that this street is so full of mysteries that I should like to—”
But a sudden fit of shouting cut her short. Oona whirled around, searching for whoever was making such an awful racket. Peering across the street, her eyes widened as they took in the scene. She shook her head at first, not understanding, and then, like the unveiling of some strange new work of art, the mystery spread out before her, opening its darkened doors and inviting her in.
The first thing she noticed was an enormous top hat taking up most of the sidewalk across the street. It stood nearly seven feet tall and sat at the base of the vast granite steps in front of the Museum of Magical History. The hat appeared to be carved out of stone, and Oona guessed it to be part of some effort to draw people inside the museum. Immense as it was, the museum was a seldom-visited place, and it could be safely said that if modern-day magic could not capture the public’s interest, then certainly the history of magic was even less likely to do so.
The steps to the museum were usually as empty as a poor man’s belly, and yet today, a tall, gaunt-looking man with a waxed mustache stood on the topmost step. Stranger still, the man appeared to be having some sort of argument with someone, except that there was no one nearby for him to be arguing with. The fingers of his left hand clenched tightly around a folded red umbrella, while his free hand waved wildly in the air. Oona could hear the peculiar man shouting something, but she couldn’t make out the words.
The man slowly began to descend the steps, pointing at some invisible person with the tip of the red umbrella. He was halfway down the stone staircase when Oona asked: “Who is that madman, Deacon?”
Deacon peered across the street. “According to the Dark Street Who’s Who, his name is Hector Grimsbee. He was an actor, a member of the Dark Street Theater until just last year when a scandal got him kicked out. It had something to do with a sandbag and a director’s head. The Who’s Who also mentions that he has been blind since birth.”
“Blind since birth?” Oona asked. Her heart lurched as she watched the man make his way back up several of the stone stairs, his arms continuing to flail in all directions. “That’s quite dangerous. And who is he arguing with?”
“I haven’t a clue, though perhaps—” But a sharp cry cut Deacon short. A woman’s shriek.
Oona’s head jerked around. She saw no one in obvious distress: only a scattering of pedestrians, many of whom, like her, were looking around to discover who had screamed. Perhaps it had not been a woman’s scream after all, she considered, and then wondered if the sound had perchance come from Hector Grimsbee, and she simply hadn’t realized it. But when she turned back to the museum, the blind man was suddenly gone. She scanned the sidewalk in both directions, but Grimsbee was nowhere to be seen.
“Did you see that?” Oona asked.
“What?” asked Deacon.
“The blind man on the steps. He just disappeared.”
“Nonsense,” Deacon said. “There are no records of a person being able to simply disappear. At least not in recent times. Such arcane magic as invisibility and human teleportation vanished with the last of the Magicians of Old nearly five hundred years ago.”
“Then where is he?” Oona asked. “I only looked away for a few seconds.”
“He must have gone in the museum,” Deacon reasoned.
Oona hesitated to agree. It seemed unlikely that the blind man could have moved so fast, but after a moment’s consideration, she nodded. “That seems to be the only logical explanation.”
A second shout, this one a clear cry for help, pulled her attention to the dress shop next door. The shop was squashed between a handbag store to the left and the museum on the right. A sign above the window read: MADAME IREE’S BOUTIQUE FOR FINE LADIES.
A girl of Oona’s own age, or perhaps a little older, stood in the center of the arched doorway. Her golden hair fell down the sides of her cheeks in curling locks. She wore a tightly corseted dress with red and gold stripes, and she was dazzling to behold. Though Oona had never met the girl before, she recognized her to be Isadora Iree, the daughter of Madame Iree, the most famous dressmaker on all of Dark Street.
“Help!” Isadora shouted. “Police! Madame Iree’s has been robbed! The dresses are all gone! Help!”
Oona’s heart skipped a beat, and her eyes widened with excitement. “A case, Deacon!”
And then just as quickly, her mouth turned to a frown. Head Inspector White was striding purposefully up the sidewalk, his black coattails billowing out behind him, his pale white face like a reflector in the sunlight.
“Young lady!” the inspector shouted. “I am the police. Now stop shouting ‘help,’ or I’ll have to cite you for unnecessary repetition.”
Oona’s hands flew to her hips. “There is no such law,” she said, though not loud enough to be heard from across the street.
Deacon, who knew Oona all to well, said: “Perhaps we should let the police handle this … alone. Remember what you promised your uncle.”
Oona’s forehead wrinkled above her nose. “What I told Uncle Alexander, Deacon, is that I would keep away from deadly criminals. How many deadly criminals do you think steal dresses?”
“Any criminal can be deadly,” Deacon said.
Oona paused. There was certainly truth to Deacon’s words. Hadn’t her own father been killed while attempting to apprehend a pair of thieves? And he had been the Head Inspector of the Dark Street Police Department—Inspector White’s very own predecessor. Torn between keeping her promise to her uncle and making sure Inspector White didn’t bungle the case, an idea popped into her head like a mischievous sprite.
She grinned as she stepped from the curb to cross the street. “I believe I will keep my promise, Deacon. It’s just that … Well, there is the little matter of the masquerade.”
Deacon shook his head, clearly confused at the sudden change of subject. “The Dark Street Annual Midnight Masquerade?” he replied. “You are referring to the dance held at Oswald Park?”
She swerved to step around several potholes in the street. “You have deduced correctly, Deacon.”
“I don’t understand,” Deacon said. “The ball is tomorrow night, and you’ve never expressed any interest in attending … not this year or any other.”
Oona shook her head. “You see, Deacon, you know nothing of the problems of a girl. Nothing at all. I’ve already quite made up my mind. I will be attending the masquerade.”
“And when did you come to that decision?” Deacon asked, though he sounded as if he already knew the answer.
“Why … just now,” she replied innocently, and then added: “But there is one tiny problem.”
“And that is?” Deacon asked dryly.
Oona sighed. “It seems I have absolutely nothing to wear!”
With that, Oona strode through the arched doorway into Madame Iree’s Boutique for Fine Ladies.
Four well-dressed ladies huddled close together in the front room of Madame Iree’s Boutique for Fine Ladies. They stood near the sign in the window that read: OPEN BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.
A single dress stood in the window. It was a small dress, clearly made for the likes of someone smaller than Oona, but all the same, the moment she entered the shop, the dress drew in her gaze. The fabric seemed to shine with a light all its own, and if Oona had been asked to describe the color, she would not have been able to choose. One moment it appeared a shimmery blue, the next a dazzling shade of green, and for an instant Oona found herself wishing that the dress weren’t so small, otherwise she should very much like to have it.
Deacon adjusted his position on her shoulder, and she pulled her gaze away from the dress, back to the shop.
Madame Iree was a tall, matronly woman with a prodigious bosom. She wore the most opulent, jewel-studded dress Oona had ever seen, and she stood apart
from the other ladies, looking as if she might faint at any moment. On her head she wore a hat that sprouted so many exotic feathers, it looked like it might take flight at any moment. Her picturesque face was lined with concern, and Isadora stood at her mother’s side, patting her hand, trying to console her.
Oona took in the shop. For years it had been a fancy of hers to venture into Madame Iree’s and try on some of the most beautiful dresses on all of Dark Street. But Madame Iree was extremely selective of her clientele. The shop was not at all what Oona had expected. The front room was set up for tea service, with two cloth-covered tables surrounded by chairs near the front window. A glass case containing various accessories stood near one red-and-gold-striped wall, and an open doorway at the far end of the room led into another room at the back. The air smelled of lavender potpourri.
“What has happened?” Oona asked.
Inspector White’s impossibly white face poked out of the doorway at the back of the store and was quickly followed by his lanky body. “I’ll be asking the questions!” he said as he stepped through the threshold, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. He swept his suspicious gaze around the room. “What sort of illegal activity has been going on in here?”
“We were having tea,” said Isadora. “I already explained that to you, Inspector, before you went back there to see the showroom.”
“Tea?” said the inspector. “And do you expect me to believe that?”
“Well … yes,” said Isadora, pointing toward the empty cups on the tables.
“Hmm,” the inspector intoned. “I thought this was a dress shop, not a tea shop.”
Madame Iree looked all at once highly irritated on top of being distraught. “We sometimes have tea here. But that is not the point. Inspector, someone has stolen my dresses!”
The inspector noticed Oona standing near the front entrance. His eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here, Miss Crate? I’ve told you before to stay out of police affairs.”
The Wizard of Dark Street Page 2