“Nothing at all.” She puffed a strand of hair from her face and then shrugged apologetically at Deacon. “I’m sorry for snapping, Deacon.”
The raven stood on the dried ground near one of the caravan wheels. He turned away from her in a clear attempt to show his injured feelings. But after a moment he spoke: “Fine, fine. Water under the bridge. Now can we please get on with the … the …” He trailed off.
Oona’s eyebrows furrowed. “Deacon? What is it?”
Deacon was silent, moving his head about, as if examining something beneath the caravan.
“Deacon?” Oona said.
“It’s some sort of trapdoor,” he said finally.
Oona squatted down and peered beneath the wagon. Sure enough, she could see precisely what Deacon was referring to. In the bottom of the caravan was a hinged hatch: a second way for someone to have gotten inside. Why a wagon would need such a hatch, she did not know. Beneath the hatch, she could see where the dried mud had been smeared, as if someone had been crawling around down there.
“So that’s how they got in,” Oona said. “Well spotted, Deacon.”
“And look here,” Deacon replied, hopping directly beneath the hatch. He poked his beak into the dried mud, jabbing at a shiny object. He managed to pry it out of the ground and then dropped it into Oona’s palm.
“It seems that the thief left a bit of evidence,” Oona said, surprised. “A silver ring. Look how slim and delicate the design is. See how the jeweler created a heart shape at the top? By the shape and size, Deacon, I would say this is a woman’s ring. And quite expensive.”
She closed the ring in her fist, stood up straight, and then shoved the evidence into one of her handy skirt pockets.
“Excellent work, Deacon,” she said, feeling justified that she had taken the time to snoop. Her mind suddenly raced with possible suspects—it could have been any one of the women from the party last night, or even someone who had not attended but had sneaked into the park unnoticed. She put her arm out, and Deacon flew to her sleeve.
“Now, my friend,” she said, “let’s go win this challenge.”
You see, Deacon,” Oona said, “there was no need to hurry. There is no one else here.”
The two of them moved quickly up the front steps to the Museum of Magical History, an enormous white building that looked more like a stone fortress than a museum. As she made her way to the top step, Oona recalled how, only three months ago, a gaggle of girls had managed to break into this seemingly impenetrable fortress and steal two highly magical daggers—one of which had been used to turn the Wizard into a toad.
The girls, it turned out, had been none other than the nine remaining members of the Sisterhood of the Witch, an ancient coven of witches. Oona had been further astonished to discover that each of the girls was nearly five hundred years old. Now that Red Martin had gone into hiding, however, the witches no longer had access to his supply of turlock root, the main ingredient in their magical beauty cream, which kept them forever young.
Just how Red Martin was smuggling the root in from Faerie was something that Oona desperately wished to find out. The Glass Gates had barred the passage between the two worlds since the end of the Great Faerie War. More than how he was getting past the gates, however, she wondered where Red Martin himself was now, and what crimes he was concocting. It was Red Martin’s own confession to Oona that he had been the mastermind behind her father’s death that made her all the more furious to know that the wicked man was still at large.
Oona tugged open the museum door and stepped through. The entryway consisted of a vast circular room with high-beamed ceilings. A ring of massive monolithic stones stood at the center of the room, a perfectly preserved sister set to those known as Stonehenge in England.
Oona approached the uniformed guard at the entrance, a thickset man with meaty arms and no neck. She was pleased to see no one else there. Beside the guard, sitting on a carved wooden pedestal, was a pen and thickly bound registry.
Oona brought the pen to the paper, intending on signing her name to the top of the page, when her breath suddenly froze. There was already a name at the top of the registry: a big, familiar, loopy scrawl that took up nearly four lines.
“Isadora Iree,” she read aloud, disbelieving. How was it possible? Isadora had solved the clue and beat her to the museum? It seemed inconceivable. And yet there was the fact of Isadora’s signature staring Oona in the face. Perhaps she’d underestimated Isadora’s intellect. Perhaps, Oona thought, I’ve overestimated my own.
Her breakfast gave an uneasy turn in her stomach.
“I’m here for the Magician’s Tour,” she said expectantly to the guard.
The guard cocked his thumb toward an easel behind him. The easel supported a sign that read:
MAGICIAN’S TOUR
TIMES
12:30 p.m.
1:00 p.m.
2:00 p.m.
4:00 p.m.
Oona looked at the clock hanging above the guard’s head.
“It’s twelve thirty-five now,” said Deacon. “It appears we’ll have to wait for the one o’clock tour.”
Oona sighed, and then smiled up at the guard, batting her eyelashes innocently.
“Is it possible that we might … join the twelve thirty tour? We’re only a few minutes late.”
The guard shook his head sternly. “No, miss. I have strict instructions. You’ll have to wait for the one o’clock tour.”
Oona’s lips pinched together, and she could feel the frustration beginning to build. Being forced to wait didn’t seem very reasonable to her at all. She was only five minutes late, after all. How much of the tour could she have possibly missed? And the fact that Isadora was already in there, ahead of her … it was unacceptable.
“You have only yourself to blame,” Deacon said. “If we had come straight here, instead of dillydallying about the gypsy caravan, we would have made the first tour.”
Oona bit at her lip to keep from snapping a retort. Of course Deacon was right, but that didn’t mean he needed to rub it in her face. And then another voice sounded in her head. It was the soothing voice of her mother. Worrying doesn’t make anything better, Oona. Sometimes there is nothing you can do but wait.
It wasn’t so much a real voice in her head as it was a memory: something her mother had said to her on more than one occasion whenever Oona’s patience was being put to the test, as it was now.
Oona smoothed out the top of her dress. “This is no problem at all, Deacon,” she said calmly. “Isadora is the only one here ahead of us. I’m sure there will be ample time to catch up. And there is no one else here.”
She tucked a stray hair back into place, attempting to appear calm and in control, but on the inside she began to feel quite distressed. While it was true that there was no one else yet there, a whole half-hour lead would give Isadora an invaluable advantage, and it was while Oona was wandering anxiously through the tall stone circle that Roderick Rutherford strode through the front entrance, red flyer in hand.
Several minutes later Adler Iree followed him in, as well as—surprise of all surprises—Mr. Bop, the enormously fat man from the Magicians Legal Alliance, who huffed and puffed with the exertion of having just climbed the flight of stairs.
Oona’s impatience began to burn. The clock hands ticked away, intolerably slowly, as if someone had put a spell on it. Her thoughts wandered to the ring she had found beneath the caravan. The ladies’ ring. She fiddled with it in her pocket, considering whose it might be.
“I was sure I’d see you here, so I was,” said Adler Iree in his lilting Irish brogue. He leaned impishly against one of the massive stones. “Well ahead of the pack, you are, Miss Crate.”
Oona managed to keep from blushing, but only just. Whether a suspect in a case, or a competitor in a contest, Oona couldn’t seem to help the jittery feeling she felt around the boy. He was strong jawed, with large, watchful blue eyes and rosy cheeks lined with intricately patterned symbols
.
“Maybe ahead of the pack,” Oona said, “but not so much ahead of your sister.”
Adler scratched thoughtfully at his head. “Oh, aye. I saw her name at the top of the registry. Makes me wonder, so it does.”
“Wonder what?” Oona asked, though she suspected she knew what he was hinting at.
“How she got the clue so fast,” Adler said. “The answer, I mean. Isadora’s cunning, so she is, but she’s no Isaac Newton.”
Oona laughed out loud. Sir Isaac Newton was one of her heroes, a man of science, facts, and logical deduction who had lived in the World of Man. Oona’s father had owned a book written about the scientist and his work, and Oona had read every word of it, the discoveries of Sir Isaac far more interesting to her than the bland histories of magic that her uncle required her to read as his apprentice.
“How did you enjoy your summer holiday?” Oona asked.
Adler shrugged. “Oh, New York’s all right, but I prefer Dark Street, so I do. The people here are so much more … interesting.” His smile flashed, and Oona blushed.
“I’ve read all about New York, of course,” Oona said, shielding her hands behind her back to hide her sudden jitters. “But I’ve never been there.”
Adler’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Never been to the World of Man?”
Oona shook her head, feeling quite foolish. The Iron Gates were so close, yet as curious as she was, she had never ventured across. “My uncle is the Wizard, and I am his apprentice. He feels that our place is here, on Dark Street. After all, it is the Wizard’s responsibility to protect the World of Man from faerie attack, should the Glass Gates ever be reopened.”
Adler looked thoughtful. “But don’t you think you should know what you’re protecting?”
Oona nodded appreciatively. “That does sound quite logical.”
Adler laughed, and for an instant Oona didn’t know if she should feel embarrassed or pleased.
“I like how you talk, Miss Crate,” he said.
Oona swallowed a lump in her throat. This cute boy liked how she talked, and she was forced to suppress a smile. It was the most wonderful thing he could have said. She was tempted to tell him that she liked how he talked, too—as well as his hands, and his face, and his mysterious tattoos—but she couldn’t quite get herself to say it.
She bit nervously at her bottom lip, and then said: “That was some clue the architect put together.”
“Sure was,” Adler said. “I almost missed the whole thing because of reading the numbers the wrong way. Which is why I’m so surprised Isadora could have figured it out so fast. I always wanted to play riddle games when we were younger, but she hated them. Just didn’t have the mind for them.”
“Speak of the devil,” Oona said, and pointed across the entrance hall.
“And so the devil appears,” replied Isadora, flashing her eyes tauntingly as she emerged through an arched doorway, and then walked right past Oona and Adler, holding a golden token high in the air. Oona folded her arms, and Adler shook his head as if in disbelief.
Isadora stopped at the front door, where Roderick Rutherford stood beaming his handsome white teeth at her.
“Look, Roderick,” Isadora said. She held the token up like a trophy. “I’m the first one through.”
“Bravo,” Roderick said. “You’d better hurry, my lady. Our tour is about to begin, and you’ve still got the physical challenge ahead of you. We might catch up.”
“Look, everyone,” Isadora said, grinning broadly, “I’m in the lead. See?”
She pointed to the token. Light glinted off its gold surface like a tiny sun.
“Enjoy the tour,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s dreadfully long, and even more dreadfully boring. Ta-ta.”
She pushed through the door and was gone, headed for the second challenge of the day. Oona’s frustration began to burn. With a half-hour lead, it was more than likely that Isadora Iree would be the first contestant to finish the day’s challenges. Oona instantly regretted taking time to snoop about the caravan.
“Well,” said Adler, “let’s hope the physical challenge will be more difficult than the mental one. She’s not very athletic, my sister. We just might have time to catch up. Ah, look, here’s our tour guide now.”
Twenty minutes later, Oona was ready to scream with impatience as the tour guide droned on like a monotonous wind through a hollow cave.
“Here we have an artist’s rendition of how Dark Street might have appeared six or seven hundred years ago, in the time of the Magicians of Old, before the closing of the Glass Gates.” The tour guide, a hunched-over elderly man who smelled of moldy cloth, gestured toward a large painting on the wall. It depicted an age long past, when humans and faeries walked the street together.
Oona squeezed her hands impatiently, fingernails digging into her palms. The tour had been inching its way through the museum, and Oona was growing more nervous with each agonizing minute. She had never known twenty minutes to have ever passed so slowly. No doubt Isadora Iree had already made it past the second challenge, and was basking in her victory at that very moment.
The intolerably slow-moving tour guide leaned precariously on his cane, and intoned: “I’m sure you are all aware that Dark Street is the last of the Faerie roads, leading from the World of Man to the Land of Faerie.”
Oona rolled her eyes and twirled her hand in a yes-yes-we-know-all-of-this-please-hurry-it-up sort of gesture.
The tour guide took no notice. “The Great Faerie Wars, 1300 to 1313, is said to have begun when the five greatest Magicians of Old stole an ancient book known as Malgoule-Morgoth-DeMilmim from the Faerie Royal Treasury. With the knowledge they gained from the book, the magicians’ powers grew quite rapidly. Nonetheless, when the Queen of Faerie learned of the humans’ treachery, the great magical war began. The magicians were able to fend off the queen’s armies for thirteen years, until the closing of twelve of the Faerie roads, and the construction of the Iron and Glass Gates upon the final, thirteenth road—which henceforth became known as Dark Street. The magicians then pooled their magic into a single source—Pendulum House—and then chose a single individual to act as the keeper of the house’s powers. That person became known as the first Wizard, whose job it is to use the house’s magic to defend the World of Man in the event of a faerie attack. Who the first Wizard was is a matter of much debate.”
The tour guide paused to catch his breath, and Oona felt she was about to go out of her mind with boredom. This was information every five-year-old born on Dark Street could recite. She heaved an exasperated sigh.
“Patience,” Deacon whispered in her ear.
“It was Oswald the Great,” the tour guide continued after patting his forehead with a handkerchief, “the most powerful of the Magicians of Old, who is credited with closing the Glass Gates and severing the two worlds completely.”
The guide pointed at a painting to his right, and Oona thought she could hear the creak of the old man’s bones.
“And here is a portrait of Oswald’s famous magic wand, painted by the equally famous painter Bernard T. Slyhand. It was Slyhand himself who stole Oswald’s wand and then afterward sent this painting to Oswald, along with a ransom note demanding a great deal of gold.” The old man lowered his hand to a glass-encased piece of red parchment below the painting. “Oswald never received the painting, or the note. In fact, Oswald was never seen again. No one knows what became of the mighty magician, just as no one knows what became of the stolen wand—though legend has it that the wand itself is the only key to the Glass Gates.”
Oona felt like she might scream. Who cared about Bernard T. Slyhand and this stupid painting of Oswald’s wand? Especially when Isadora Iree was out there right now, victory in her grasp. Glancing around at her fellow competitors, she saw that Roderick Rutherford appeared just as bored as she was, though Mr. Bop, who was standing closest to the old tour guide, appeared rapt with attention.
Adler’s and Oona’s eye
s met. He gave a little yawn, followed by a barely discernable smile.
“And that,” said the tour guide, “is the end of our tour. For those in the contest, I’ve been instructed to give you each one of these. You are to take it to the tower.”
He reached into his pocket and slowly removed a handful of golden tokens, holding them out in a shaky open hand.
“We hope you enjoyed this trip through history,” he said, his voice aquiver with age, “and if you have any questions, I would be more than happy to answer—”
But Oona didn’t hear the rest of what the old tour guide had to say. She snatched a token from his hand and bolted for the front entrance so quickly that Deacon leapt from her shoulder and followed by flight.
“No running in the …,” the security guard called after her as she banged through the front door. She could hear Roderick and Adler hot on her heels as she plunged down the front steps, and then darted up the sidewalk in the direction of Oswald Park.
“Here I come, Isadora,” she said under her breath.
Her shoes pounded the pavement, weaving through clusters of confused-looking pedestrians, many of whom clasped red flyers in their hands. Lungs beginning to burn, she sprinted up the sidewalk with all the speed she could muster. To her left, the iron fence separating the park from the street flew by, seemingly endless. Oona had never realized just how large the park was. Twice she nearly tripped on her skirt. At the park entrance she could feel herself beginning to slow, and by the time she reached the first row of oak trees, Roderick had overtaken her lead.
“Bloody dress!” she said through her ragged breath, though she knew that it was not simply the dress that was slowing her, but that Roderick was stronger and faster.
Stronger physically, she thought to herself as they cut across the grass toward the tower. But stronger mentally? I think not.
She could hear Adler Iree clomping across fallen leaves behind her, but as they neared the tower, Oona was fairly certain she was going to beat him. Roderick was the first to clamor up the steps to the stage, where the architect stood patiently waiting. There was no sign of Isadora.
The Magician's Tower Page 5