The free end of the fabric suddenly slithered out of the store like an eel and attempted to wrap itself around the Wizard’s foot. He leapt back just in time, but before he could jump again, the silk darted up and snatched his wand from his hand. It smacked him in the head with it several times and then tossed it across the street.
“Well, that was certainly rude,” the Wizard said.
The fabric reared back and spread open, taking on the shape of an enormous red cobra preparing to strike. Oona’s heart dropped. She still did not know what to do. But in the next instant Samuligan leapt between the Wizard and the striking fabric.
The silk threw itself at the faerie, its bloodred surface rippling like a storm-battered flag, and suddenly the two of them, the faerie and the fabric, were locked together in a brutal wrestling match on the sidewalk. At first it seemed that Samuligan was getting the best of the murderous material, but then just as quickly the game changed and the silk managed to wrap itself around the faerie’s neck and mouth, preventing him from uttering a spell.
Like the other witnesses, Oona was terrified. Samuligan the Fay was the most powerful magical being she had ever encountered. If this throttler’s silk was able to overpower him, she hadn’t a clue how she and her uncle were supposed to stop it.
“Oona,” the Wizard shouted at her as he rushed across the street to retrieve his wand. “Try Duratus frigidam!”
Oona jumped in surprise. Duratus frigidam was a freezing spell, one that she had not practiced in over three years. It took superb concentration, even with her extraordinary natural powers, and she wondered briefly if she was up to the task. What if something went wrong? Would it be her fault that these people died? And what about Samuligan?
Unfortunately, there was no time to waver. Oona raised her hands dramatically above her head, preparing to cast the spell, but the Wizard called to her from across the street: “You’ll need a directional conductor!”
The words to the spell halted on her lips and her heart skipped a beat as she realized how closely she had just come to causing another tragedy.
Of course, she chided herself. Duratus frigidam requires a directional conductor, which she knew was merely a fancy way of saying: a wand, or a staff, or something to channel the spell in a specific direction.
Without a wand it was possible she might freeze not only the fabric, but also Samuligan and the man and woman tied to the lamppost, not to mention the bystanders and possibly even herself. Such was the nature of conductor spells.
Oona did not own a wand, however, but being a Natural Magician certainly had its advantages. Three months ago she had conducted the Lights of Wonder spell through a broken chair leg. Most any narrow object would do, and presently Oona reached into a dress pocket and removed her father’s magnifying glass. Quieting her mind as best she could, she aimed the wooden handle at the fabric on the sidewalk.
“Duratus frigidam!” she cried, and all at once her head felt as if it had just been plunged into a tub of ice-cold water.
Deacon shot from her shoulder as if he had been stung by a bee. Oona clinched her teeth against the discomfort as a steady stream of dartlike snowflakes shot from the end of the handle and began attaching themselves to the middle of the silk.
Instantly, the flakes began to multiply across the material, extending in both directions. The fabric began to freeze solid.
“Duratus frigidam!” the Wizard shouted, and Oona saw that her uncle stood beside her, wand in hand, and was adding his own spell to hers. It occurred to her then that perhaps her uncle was not such a mediocre magician after all, despite what everyone seemed to think.
The freezing process quickened, and a moment later Samuligan tore free of the silk’s grip, causing the entire strip of fabric to shatter like glass. Oona and the Wizard simultaneously released their spells as the man and woman toppled from the lamppost to the sidewalk, gasping desperately for breath.
“Well, now,” said the Wizard. “That seems to have done the trick.”
Deacon returned to Oona’s shoulder as she slowly let out her breath and her head returned to its normal temperature. Tattered bits of frozen red cloth blew about in the breeze as the Wizard approached the man and woman.
“Are you quite all right?” he asked, extending a hand to help the woman to her feet.
“I … I think so,” she said. She threw a chilling glance toward the man, whom Samuligan was helping to stand up straight.
Unlike the disheveled appearance of the man and woman, Oona noted, Samuligan did not appear any the worse for wear from his tussle with the deadly cloth, not so much as a wrinkled jacket or a fold in his cowboy hat.
The woman continued to stare coldly at the man. “I would be much better if my husband here could manage to stay away from the Nightshade Casino.”
“I told you, dear,” the man replied, rubbing at his neck, “I stopped going several weeks ago.”
The woman folded her arms and tutted. “Yes, but not before you went into so much debt you couldn’t repay it all.”
“Oh, dear,” said the Wizard. He looked understandingly at the man. “You are indebted to Red Martin?”
The man nodded and bowed his head. Oona could tell he felt ashamed of himself, and it seemed equally clear that the Wizard was sympathetic to his situation. The Wizard had unknowingly found himself in debt to Red Martin’s Nightshade Corporation, having been duped by his scoundrel of a lawyer, Mr. Ravensmith, and was still trying to get out of the financial mess.
The wife did not appear so sympathetic. She narrowed her eyes at her husband, and said: “Of course it’s Red Martin behind this. Who else could it be?”
The Wizard glanced at the storefront. “Is this your fabric shop?”
“It is,” said the woman. She pointed to the sign, which read: DODGER FABRICS. “I am Mrs. Elizabeth Dodger, and this is my husband, Orris.” Mrs. Dodger’s temper all at once melted, and she threw her arms around the Wizard. “We are so grateful you came along. Oh, thank you, thank you!”
The woman released the Wizard and then threw herself at Oona, wrapping her in her arms. Oona could not help but feel slightly uncomfortable as the woman began to sob into her shoulder. Unable to think of anything else to do, Oona patted her gingerly on the back.
At last Mrs. Dodger pulled away, and as she turned back to the Wizard, Samuligan opened his arms wide, displaying his frighteningly wide grin with too many teeth, as if anticipating his own hug. Mrs. Dodger hesitated briefly—Oona thought she saw the woman shiver slightly—and then acted as if the faerie servant was not there.
For an instant Oona felt bad for Samuligan, but then he gave her a wink, and she realized that he had only been playing with the woman. It would, of course, have been unfitting for the lady to be seen hugging a servant, which Oona felt was simply ridiculous, considering that Samuligan had been trying to save the woman’s life. But still, that was the way things were, and people rarely went against such social rules.
Mr. Dodger cleared his throat. “We received the silk with a new shipment today. Someone must have placed it in with the other fabrics, because we certainly did not order any red silk.”
The Wizard nodded, his aged eyes looking concerned. “If you have read the paper, then you will know that you are not the only ones who have received the silk. We’ll need to do a search of the premises to make sure there isn’t any more.”
Both Mr. and Mrs. Dodger’s eyebrows shot up, and the two of them looked jerkily around in alarm. Despite her angry words toward her husband, Mrs. Dodger clutched nervously at Mr. Dodger’s arm.
“But if you will excuse me a moment,” the Wizard added, “I would like a minute with my apprentice.” He led Oona toward the carriage, leaving the anxious-looking Dodgers clutching at each other in front of the store. The Wizard beamed. “That was incredible control you showed back there, Oona dear.”
Oona allowed herself a smile. “I did manage it all right, didn’t I?”
“You did indeed. And for that, I coul
dn’t be prouder,” he said.
“I almost forgot the conductor, though,” she admitted, still feeling guilty for having almost cast Duratus frigidam freehanded.
Certain spells required a conductor while others did not. It was important, she knew, to know which was which. Ignigtis, the illusory fireball, was an example of a nonconductor spell, as well as Reconcilio, which she had once used to repair her father’s broken magnifying glass. Even the extraordinary Switch enchantment she had used on Red Martin beneath Witch Hill was magic she could perform without wand work—but spells such as Lux lucis admiratio and Duratus frigidam demanded the accuracy of a conductor. She knew all too well that she needed to be careful. Unlike faeries, who were so in tune with their magic that they could control its direction with nothing more than their thoughts, the human body was nowhere near as accurate.
The Wizard raised one bushy white eyebrow. “Yes, you almost forgot, but in the end, you did it right. That is the main thing, and you should be proud of yourself.”
“Yes, indeed,” Deacon added from her shoulder. “It was most impressive.”
Oona’s smile widened.
The Wizard clapped his hands together. “Now, I think it is time you got back to your contest. Samuligan can take you to the park. Meanwhile, I’ll have a look through the rest of the Dodgers’ inventory to make sure there isn’t any more of the silk lurking around.”
“Are you sure you’ll be all right on your own?” Oona asked.
He nodded assuredly. “Now that I know the proper spell to use the first time, I’m sure I’ll manage just fine. If there is time, I will take a hansom cab to the park, though I have a feeling this may take quite a while. I must be thorough.”
“Of course, Uncle. Just … please be careful,” she said, and though she did not consider herself to be the affectionate type, she gave in to the impulse and gave him a fervent hug. Deacon cawed uncomfortably from her shoulder as the Wizard patted her on the back.
As Oona turned to go, the Wizard stopped her.
“And one more thing, Oona dear,” he said with a glow about his eyes.
“What’s that, Uncle?” she asked.
He gave her a wink. “Good luck.”
Dark Street slid past the carriage windows, its crooked structures like shadowy, misshapen figures crammed shoulder to shoulder in too tight of a space. The upper stories of the buildings leaned dizzily over the sidewalks and against one another, their oddly shaped windows staring down on the bustle about town.
Horse-drawn carriages clacked over damp morning cobblestones, and pedestrians buzzed busily about the sidewalks: the ladies in their high-bustled dresses, the men in jackets and bowler hats. It was the everyday activity of a modern city.
There was nothing to suggest that the citizens lived any differently from residents of London, England—the street was sometimes called Little London Town, after all—and yet, people aside, one could not travel far on Dark Street before coming across some peculiarity or another. Sometimes subtle (a window with no reflection, or a water fountain that ran in reverse) and sometimes not so subtle (an enchanted cello that played on its own, or the passing shadow of a nonexistent dragon), the oddities were a constant reminder of the street’s deep roots in magic.
A puzzling thought occurred to Oona as the carriage clattered north toward the park, and she couldn’t help but wonder why she had not considered it before now. The incident with the throttler’s silk was all at once obliterated from her mind as she sat forward in her seat, finger pressing ponderously against her lips.
“There’s something that I don’t understand, Deacon,” she said. “Why would Madame Iree favor her daughter to win over her son?”
Deacon stood on the seat opposite her and cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, why would she steal the punchbowl and use it to give Isadora the answers to the clues, and not share them with her son, Adler, as well?”
“That is a very good question,” Deacon replied. “And an even better question would be: Why on earth would you concern yourself with that now, when we are presently on our way to the second set of challenges, and you still haven’t figured out that clue?”
A line creased Oona’s forehead. She looked at the ribbon, running her thumb over the silky surface, and feeling as if her head might burst.
Go see the RAIN AIR EVENT
Ask for the PRICE ON UP
Take it to the STREAM of SNOT HAUNTED Faces
At the Dark EARTH TREE TEST
It was strange. Never before had she felt so confused about a clue. No doubt it had something to do with the fact that each time she focused on the words, more questions slipped into her mind regarding the punchbowl theft. Where was it now? Perhaps in the back of Madame Iree’s dress shop. Or was there something more sinister at play? After all, if the bowl could actually answer any question, then just about anyone would have a motive for wanting to take it. Even Red Martin himself, should he come to know about it, would stop at nothing to get his hands on such a powerful tool.
And what about—
But Oona’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt along with the carriage. She went forward and then back, slamming down hard on her seat.
“Ouch, that hurt!” she cried.
Samuligan had brought the carriage to a surprising stop in the middle of the street, and Oona could hear shouts of irritation from the carriage drivers behind them. Sticking her head out the open window, Oona glanced back, seeing a line of carriages suddenly backed up behind them, each of the drivers either shouting their displeasure, or shaking their fists in the air.
Turning forward, Oona saw why Samuligan had reined in the horse. She laughed. Less than a foot in front of the horse, she could see a line of multicolored beetles crossing the street. The average human driver would have missed seeing them altogether, Oona knew, or even if they had seen them, they would most likely have ridden right over the beautiful insects. But Samuligan was certainly not human, and it was a testament to his unpredictable faerie nature that he would hold up traffic on a busy morning to allow the insects to cross the street unharmed.
Three voices struck up a cord, humming in perfect harmony, before launching into a grim ballad of love lost.
Glancing out the other side of the carriage, Oona saw that the voices were coming from the three-headed singing lamppost, which, up until three weeks ago, had been a permanent fixture in the Dark Street restaurant district. Apparently, the restaurant owners had finally had enough of what they called “the obnoxious lamp” and commissioned the Wizard to move it to another location.
The Wizard had agreed, and now the magical lamppost resided beside the joke-telling clock in front of the Dark Street Theater, where it sang songs of tragic love upon each hour.
“Woe, woe, woe is me.
Adrift and alone on a tear-filled sea.
Sad, bewildered, misunderstood,
My one true love is gone for good.
How my heart does shrink and ache
And never again will I eat cake
Since she left with the baker’s son
And now I’m stuck without no fun.”
Deacon shuttered at the incorrectness of the final sentence, puffing up his chest for what was sure to be an impassioned lesson on the improper use of the English language, but Oona held her hand up, her gaze fixed out the window.
Deacon squawked, as if the effort to hold back his lesson had been a great one, and then asked: “What is it?”
“Look,” Oona said, and pointed at the sign outside the theater. “Do you see it, Deacon?”
Deacon hopped to the other end of the passenger compartment and nodded. “Yes, your uncle spoke of it on the way to the garment district.”
Oona vaguely remembered her uncle pointing it out. She had been so caught up in her own thoughts that she had not been very interested, but now that she looked at it properly she realized that the sign was of the utmost importance.
She read aloud:
; “BE AMAZED! BRING YOUR FRIENDS!
ALBERT PANCAKE
IS
THE MASTER OF TEN THOUSAND FACES
ONE WEEK ONLY
TICKETS GOING FAST!
GET YOURS AT THE BOX OFFICE TODAY!!!”
Two artistic sketches, one on either side of the text, depicted the images of two famous people from the World of Man: Abraham Lincoln and Cleopatra. Oona knew their faces from her history lessons with Deacon, but it was not the images that caught her attention.
“Yes, I see it,” Deacon said, sounding unimpressed. “It appears to be some sort of quick-change/one-man impersonator show. Not my sort of thing, really. I prefer the classics: Shakespeare and the like.”
Oona smiled, and her heart began to work faster. The carriage moved forward as she held the clue up to the light and read out loud: “Take it to the STREAM of SNOT HAUNTED Faces.”
When Deacon did not immediately respond, she pointed to the theater sign, and then turned the ribbon toward Deacon. “Don’t you see? The letters are all mixed up. Look at the words printed in all capital letters in the clue. Why didn’t I see it before? They are anagrams.” Again she pointed to the receding theater sign. “See the word MASTER?”
Deacon took in a sharp breath: “It has the same letters as the word stream.”
“Indeed, Deacon. STREAM is an anagram for MASTER. And mix up the letters in SNOT HAUNTED and you get …”
Deacon nodded before leaping enthusiastically to her shoulder. “TEN THOUSAND!”
Oona pulled the ribbon taut. “So that line of the clue should read: ‘Take it to the Master of Ten Thousand Faces.’ ”
“Take what?” Deacon asked.
“Excellent question,” Oona said. “But first, look at the last line. It makes sense now.”
“At the Dark EARTH TREE TEST?” Deacon said questioningly. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“But again,” Oona said excitedly, “the letters printed in capitals are anagrams. Once you know what to look for, it’s hard not to see it.”
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