“Just what I was thinking,” said Deacon.
Oona considered the letters a moment before nodding. “You’re absolutely right, Deacon. This is going to require some serious concentration.” She stood up from the curb and placed the clue into her pocket, before adding: “Just as soon as we confer with Madame Romania from Romania.”
Deacon sighed.
Upon departing company from Adler Iree, Oona felt a twinge of sadness: a faint, almost invisible melancholy accompanied by a jittery feeling in her chest. She’d never felt anything like it before and, likewise, couldn’t believe how bold she had been to place her hand on top of Adler’s. Especially out in public.
Having attended the Midnight Masquerade with him three months ago was one thing, where holding hands with a dance partner was perfectly acceptable behavior. But her actions this afternoon had been quite uncontrolled, and she wondered what Adler must have been thinking.
He didn’t pull his hand away, she thought. But then again, it’s not usually the girl who is supposed to make such moves toward the boy, but the other way around.
And now that she thought of it, perhaps Adler had been offended. Maybe he hadn’t moved his hand only because he hadn’t wanted to embarrass her. What if he had run off and was looking for a place to wash his hand at that very moment?
What a ridiculous idea, she thought to herself, and then: But what if it’s true?
Consumed by her whirlwind of thoughts, Oona walked absently through the park, momentarily oblivious to where she was. Not so long ago, Oona would have scarcely set foot upon the park grounds for fear of conjuring up dreadful memories. But all at once it hit her where she was, and she nearly froze.
Instead, her steps hastened, speeding her past the spot where, three years before, she had crash-landed after the explosion of magic sent her flying: the very place she had been when her mother and sister had died beneath the fallen tree. It felt all at once disrespectful to have crossed its path, and a feeling of guilt washed over her, erasing all thoughts of Adler Iree and handholding. Such things seemed unimportant compared to her current purpose of finding the punchbowl, and receiving the answers she so desperately desired.
Several minutes later, with that feeling of tightness still lingering in her stomach, she circled around the front of the tower, then made her way to the back of the painted gypsy wagon, where she knocked on the caravan door. There was no answer. She knocked several more times, but Madame Romania from Romania did not seem to be within.
“I wonder where she might be,” Oona said.
“I don’t know,” Deacon said, “but perhaps this is a sign that you need to concentrate on that contest clue. If you figure it out ahead of time, then it won’t matter that Isadora is using this so-called Punchbowl Oracle.”
Oona bit at her lip, unwilling to reveal to Deacon that her main interest in finding the bowl was more personal than winning a contest.
She sighed. “You’re right, Deacon. We’ll return to Pendulum House and figure this thing out.”
Though which thing, the clue on the ribbon, or the mystery of the missing punchbowl, she did not say.
“But first,” she said, “Let’s have a look below.”
She squatted down to get a better look at the trapdoor beneath the wagon. And now that she had a chance to study it more closely, she realized that it was not only large enough for even the likes of Madame Iree to crawl through, but that there was a simple latch mechanism beneath, which would have made it quite easy to open from the outside.
Deciding to test her theory, she shuffled beneath the wagon and reached for the latch.
“What do you think you are doing?” said a voice before Oona could push the latch to the open position.
The high, irritating voice grated on Oona’s ears like the squeal of a baby pig. She recognized it even before turning around.
“Inspector White,” she said, scooting out from beneath the caravan and brushing herself off. “How nice to see you.”
“Don’t hand me any of that poppycock!” the inspector said, his pale face a mask of indignation. “I can see with my very own eyes what you were doing!”
Oona’s face flushed. “It’s not what it looked like,” she tried.
“You can’t fool me, Miss Crate,” said the inspector. “You were looking for this!”
He held out a book, as if it were evidence before the court.
“I was?” she asked, feeling quite confused, her brow furrowing.
“Yes, I found this book in the bushes back there,” the inspector said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, and Oona realized that what he had found was the book of faerie tails that Sir Baltimore had taken from his daughter and thrown over the park fence. “You do realize,” the inspector continued, “that littering is a highly punishable crime on our street.”
“Littering?” Oona said. “But it’s not my book.”
The inspector shook his ghostly finger in front of Oona before using it to tap his forehead. “I’m not that stupid, Miss Crate. Why would you be looking for the book beneath that wagon if it wasn’t yours?”
“I wasn’t looking for …” Oona began, but trailed off, not wanting to explain that what she had actually been doing was tampering with the trapdoor to the caravan. Thinking better of the situation, she changed tactics. “I mean, you’re absolutely right, Inspector,” she said. “I’ve been looking all over for my book of faerie tales.”
The inspector glanced down at the book, as if ready to catch Oona in a lie. His face drew out long with disappointment.
“Yes. Faerie tales, indeed,” he said, and handed the book to Oona. “Now, I just have to decide whether to make an example out of you or not.”
“Example?” Oona said. “For what?”
“For littering, my dear!” he exclaimed, and began cracking his knuckles one by one. “We take cleanliness very seriously here on Dark Street, unlike outside the gates in that filthy New York.”
“But I wasn’t littering,” Oona said quickly, and thought of the best on-the-spot lie she could come up with. “Deacon and I were simply playing a game of fetch.”
“Fetch?” Deacon said indignantly.
“Fetch?” said the inspector.
“Yes, fetch,” Oona said. “I was throwing the book, and Deacon was bringing it back to me.”
“Why, I never—” Deacon began, but was abruptly cut short when Oona nudged him with the side of her head.
“Oh … well, in that case,” the inspector said, eying Deacon suspiciously. “There is no law against playing fetch. In fact, I play it with my wife quite often.”
“With your … wife?” Oona said, not sure if she was more surprised to find that the inspector was married, or that he treated his spouse like a pet. “How … um … very nice,” Oona said, and then: “We’ll just be leaving now.”
“Oh, yes,” said Deacon, taking no precaution to hide his sarcasm. “Let’s go play more fetch, Miss Crate. You know how I do love it so! Simply can’t get enough.”
“Have fun,” the inspector called after them as Oona hurriedly made her way toward the park gates, tucking young Penelope’s book of faerie tales beneath one arm. “And remember,” the inspector shouted, “that littering is a crime!”
“You never told me the inspector was married, Deacon,” Oona said under her breath.
“I thought you knew,” Deacon replied.
“To anyone I would know?” Oona asked.
“I don’t believe you have ever been introduced,” Deacon said. “Though she was at the party the other evening. Mrs. Talley White. She was the one wearing the dress similar to Madame Iree’s.”
Oona stopped at the park entrance. “Oh, yes. I do remember. Isadora was so upset about it. Though I can’t really blame her. The dress was a near perfect copy of Madame Iree’s. What they call a complete knockoff. In fact, I remember mistaking her for the real Madame Iree. That was Inspector White’s wife?”
“Indeed,” said Deacon.
Oona
paused before hesitantly saying: “And … the two of them play … fetch?”
Deacon shuttered, and Oona shook her head, attempting to erase the ridiculous image forever from her mind.
Deacon cleared his throat. “Perhaps you can return that book to Penelope Rutherford the next time you see her.”
Oona slipped the book from beneath her arm.
“That’s a fine idea,” she said, thinking of how pleased the girl would be to have her book back. Though Penelope grated on Oona’s nerves, Oona still didn’t believe that Sir Baltimore should have thrown the book so cruelly over the fence. The man had a temper, to be sure, the fuse of which appeared to be quite short.
Presently, as she and Deacon exited through the park gates, Oona’s eyes scanned the book cover. Written in large, spiraling script, the title read: The Book of Long-Lost Faerie Tales: Fifty Highly Obscure Stories for Bedtime. Edited by Michael Nerdling.
Though Oona had never been interested in faerie tales herself, having preferred books about science and facts, she couldn’t help but wonder what made these particular stories so obscure. Curious, she had no sooner opened the book’s cover when Deacon suddenly shouted in her ear so loudly that she nearly dropped the book entirely.
“Look out!”
Oona came to an abrupt halt, only to discover that she had just managed to avoid a collision with the fattest man she had ever seen. The man was leaning casually on the front wheel of her carriage, presently engaged in a lively conversation with Samuligan. The faerie servant sat in the high driver’s seat, his cowboy hat shading his face and looking all the part of a mystical gunslinger.
The fat man, Oona knew, was none other than Mr. Barnaby B. Berkshire Bop, the senior undersecretary for the Magicians Legal Alliance. She recalled how Mr. Bop had been in fifth place only yesterday during the first part of the tower contest before backing out of the physical challenge at the last moment. Oona suppressed a smile at the thought of Mr. Bop attempting to jump from bits of hanging furniture while evading flying fruit and manic apes.
“How do you do, Mr. Bop?” Oona asked.
Mr. Bop spun suddenly around, forcing Oona to jump back in order to keep from being bopped by Mr. Bop’s bulging belly.
“Oh, dear me!” said Mr. Bop, his top hat threatening to topple from his bald head.
A large mouth framed by shaggy side-whiskers smiled generously at Oona, his abundant jowls jiggling beneath a fleshy chin. Covered in an intricate map of tattooed symbols, it was Mr. Bop’s face that Oona found to be his most striking characteristic. With the left half inked in shiny gold and the right half drawn in silver, the ancient swirls and runes made it nearly impossible to see the color of skin beneath. “You did give me a fright,” the enormously fat man said. His voice was low and rough, yet jovial all at the same time.
Samuligan snapped his fingers. The sound was like thunder and caused Mr. Bop to jump a second time. Luckily for Oona, he jumped back instead of forward.
“Mr. Bop was just telling me a fantastic story,” Samuligan said in his hushed, sly tone, and Oona saw that, in the instant he had snapped his fingers, the faerie servant was suddenly no longer wearing his cowboy hat, but instead was sporting a powdered wig upon his head, the likes of which were worn by English judges. Oona found it most comical.
“He was explaining to me,” Samuligan continued, “how he is a member of the infamous Tic-Tock Society, and how one becomes a member.”
“Really?” Oona asked, her interest suddenly piqued.
The Tick-Tock Society was one of the most secret societies in the entire world—so secret that, according to rumors, most of its members knew absolutely nothing of what the society was about or did. To Oona’s highly rational mind, it was a ridiculous rumor, to say the least, and yet coming across an admitted member—especially one willing to speak of its secrets—was so uncommon that Oona was suddenly all ears.
“It is a simple process to become a member,” Mr. Bop said, tipping back his hat and scratching at his bald head. “One merely finds a society member and asks them if they would like a cup of tomato juice. If the society member agrees that they would indeed enjoy a cup of tomato juice, the inductee must then hand the member an envelope full of birdseed. The society member then removes the birdseed from the envelope and asks for a spoonful of black pepper. The inductee must offer a grapefruit instead. If all of this is done correctly, the society member will then ask the inductee if they have seen the morning’s headlines, to which the inductee must reply that they forgot to bring the sugar, but would the member accept this rattlesnake instead? To which the society member replies that Yorkshire ham is best in winter. If the inductee agrees that Yorkshire ham is indeed best in winter, then …”
Oona cleared her throat as loudly as possible, causing Mr. Bop to trail off midsentence.
“How, um, exactly long does this go on, Mr. Bop?” Oona asked, her interest in the Tick-Tock Society suddenly growing very thin.
“How long?” asked Mr. Bop. “Why, it can go on for days, sometimes weeks. Indeed, one inductee, whose name I cannot share with you, has been attempting to join for four years. It all depends on the member you offer the tomato juice to.”
“And how is the inductee supposed to know all of these obscure responses to all of these ridiculous questions?” Oona asked.
Mr. Bop’s eyebrows rose, as if taking offense. “First off, I would not call the initiation rites of the society ridiculous. And secondly, to answer your question, all of the correct responses can be found in the Member’s Handbook.”
“And how does one get a Member’s Handbook?” Oona asked.
Mr. Bop laughed, as if she were simply being silly. “Why, one must be a member to get a handbook. Thus the name: Member’s Handbook.”
“If that is the case,” Oona said, struggling to keep her agitation from reaching her voice, “then how is anyone who is not already a member supposed to become a member?”
“I don’t follow you,” said Mr. Bop.
“No, I didn’t think you would,” Oona said.
“But you ask marvelous questions,” said Mr. Bop.
Oona had to concentrate very hard to keep from rolling her eyes. “Yes, thank you,” she said, and then on a whim she asked: “Mr. Bop. Did you enjoy the party the other night?”
Mr. Bop once again scratched at his head, which, instead of sporting the top hat, was now topped with the judge’s wig that Samuligan had been wearing previously. Oona threw Samuligan a reproachful glance, but the faerie servant’s grin only widened beneath Mr. Bop’s top hat. Mr. Bop did not appear to have noticed the switch.
“The party at the park?” he asked. “Indeed I did. In fact, I had a most wonderful session with that fortune-teller lady, Madame Romania from Romania.”
Oona’s eyes widened with excitement. Here was another person who had had contact with the gypsy woman. “Did you go into the caravan, Mr. Bop? Did she show you the Punchbowl Oracle?”
“The punchbowl what?” Mr. Bop asked.
“Oracle,” Oona said. “A crystal bowl about thirteen inches in diameter.”
Mr. Bop shook his head. “I did enter the caravan, yes. Quite cramped, to say the very least, yet I saw nothing of a punchbowl. She simply read my palm and told me to beware the corned beef, which I have so far managed to avoid … though this morning it was a near miss.”
Mr. Bop let go with a tremendous laugh, and this time his belly actually did bop Oona, bouncing her against the side of the wagon wheel.
Oona rubbed agitatedly at the back of her head and frowned. She had struck the carriage quite hard, but the joke had missed her completely. Indeed, as Mr. Bop bid them all good day, and then began to lumber his way down the street, Oona stared suspiciously after him, watching his figure split through the foot traffic like an enormous ship cutting through the sea. As she watched him go, she could not help but wonder if there had been a joke at all.
“The Tick-Tock Society,” Oona mused aloud. “Simply preposterous!”
&nb
sp; Propped up on her pillow, Oona stared at the letters imprinted on the back of the white ribbon.
T L G L G S V X O L X P N Z P V I
The letters blurred, came back into focus, and blurred again. In the distance, a clock tower chimed twelve. At the north end of the street, the Iron Gates would be opening for one minute upon New York City.
The bedcovers lay in a heap at the foot of the bed, on top of which sat Penelope Rutherford’s book of obscure faerie tales. Oona toed the book cover absently. Her eyes drooped and then fluttered open, peering fixedly at the ribbon in her hand.
“Perhaps Mr. Bop stole the punchbowl,” she said sleepily. “He was inside the caravan, after all. And just because he says he didn’t see it doesn’t mean he is telling the truth. I shall have to ask Madame Romania from Romania if she remembers his visit.”
“What you have to do,” Deacon intoned from his perch on her bedpost, “is figure out that clue.”
Oona sighed. “Do you remember that splotch of mud on Roderick Rutherford’s jacket the night of the party?”
Deacon shook his head discouragingly. “I do, and I am fairly certain it will not help you to solve that anagram.”
Oona’s gaze darted to Deacon, and a very tired smile creased her lips. She waved the ribbon in the air like a flag.
“This, Deacon, is not an anagram. Of that, I am quite sure.”
“How can you be so certain?” he asked.
Oona flipped the ribbon over so that the front side faced Deacon. “Can you read that?”
Deacon cleared his throat. “It says: ‘Closely consider the reverse, and be careful not to get mixed up.’ ”
“Precisely,” Oona said. “It’s a clue. A clue to the clue. A clue-clue.”
“How clever,” Deacon said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
“I thought so,” Oona replied. “Then again, I’m very tired. Anyway, it says not to get mixed up. Well, if I’m not supposed to mix up the clue, then it’s most certainly not an anagram, which is nothing but words with their letters all mixed up.”
“Ah, I see,” Deacon said. “So the clue is telling you not to try to mix the letters up. But if it is not an anagram, then what?”
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