The Magician's Tower (4 page)

“Clearly,” the inspector continued, “it was you, Miss Crate, who stole the plans, so that you would have the advantage in the contest.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” said Deacon as he flew to Oona's shoulder. “She was nowhere near the architect, or his satchel.”

Oona thrust her hands to her hips. “And besides,” she said, all at once concerned with her eligibility for the contest, “I wouldn't have had time to read them.”

“A likely story,” said the inspector.

“Perhaps the plans simply fell out by accident,” said the architect.

Oona looked at the architect's leather satchel, with its thick strap and heavy brass buckle, and thought it highly unlikely that this could have been the case.

Inspector White knelt down to get a closer look at the satchel. He examined it one handed, still holding the recovered plans in his other hand.

“I believe you are right,” he said at last, and then handed the plans back to the architect. “The plans obviously fell out of the satchel on their own.” He straightened. “It seems you are off the hook this time, Miss Crate. But be warned. I'll be keeping a close watch on this contest. And any shady activity will get you disqualified … not to mention thrown into the police dungeon.”

Oona was taken aback. She was used to Inspector White's accusations that she was up to no good, or had committed this crime or that, but the threat of disqualification from the contest seemed to hit home. Rather than argue with the incompetent man, she decided to let the matter of the tower plans go. So what if it was nearly impossible for the plans to have fallen out of the satchel on their own? What did it matter, really? They had been found with no harm done.

“Well, thank goodness you showed up,” Oona said to the inspector. “Who knows what sort of chaos this might have turned into.”

The inspector jabbed his pale thumbs into his waistband, looking very pleased with himself.

Oona made her way slowly back across the park. She felt a touch of disappointment at the false alarm. It would have been nice to have had a real case.

Deacon seemed to read her thoughts. “Perhaps it's best that there was no case. The tower contest will require your full attention.”

“No doubt you're right,” she said. “Yet you know those plans did not fall out on their own.”

Deacon nodded thoughtfully. “True, but they were found.”

“Yes. That was an excellent observation on your part, Deacon.”

“Do not mention it.”

Looking up, Oona found herself once again in front of the gypsy caravan. She noticed how the letters on the side of the wagon appeared freshly painted, and even thought she could smell the paint.

“Look,” said Deacon, “Madame Iree returns.”

Isadora's mother, Madame Iree, could be seen making her way back across the park to the party, now dressed in a magnificent new dress, this one emerald green with
white lace, and a bustle at the back so large it resembled a camel's hump.

“That was a quick change,” Oona said.

Deacon shrugged. “You are still planning on engaging with this fortune-teller?”

Oona considered the door to the caravan, but shook her head. Deacon was correct. It was ridiculous to consult with such a woman, but just as she was about to turn and go, the door at the back of the wagon opened and Madame Romania from Romania put out her hand.

“Ah, yes. I was knowing you would come. Yes. I have the sight, I do, as did my mother, and her mother, and all the mothers going back in much, much history.”

Deacon shivered at the terrible English, but kept his beak closed.

“Do be coming in, please. Yes, yes.” The fortune-teller beckoned with one rag-covered finger.

The smell of sage and incense wafted through the door, and the bells along the outside of the wagon tinkled. Oona felt torn. Her curiosity was brimming, yet she also felt that Deacon was correct to warn against dealing with such a dubious character. In the end, however, the urge to hear what the woman had to say was too strong to resist. She took in a deep breath and followed the old woman inside.

A curtain of beads clattered as Oona stepped into a
smoky room. Thick, velvety fabrics of black, purple, and gold hung from the walls. Silver charms and bundles of sticks tied together with string dangled from the ceiling. A low, round table stood at the center of the space, with fat cushions on either side. Madame Romania from Romania disappeared through a slit in a red velvet curtain, and Oona could hear her moving around behind it.

“Please, do be taking the seat at the table,” the gypsy called. “I am getting bowl. You may ask one question, and it will be giving you true answer.”

Oona was reluctant to take a seat, feeling nervous, and not quite understanding why. She swallowed back her nerves and hesitantly lowered herself onto one of the cushioned seats, suffering through the doubt that she should be here at all.

The old woman continued moving around behind the curtain that divided the front half of the caravan from the back. A moment later she reappeared through the slit with a large, plain-looking wooden box in her hands.

“This is where bowl sleeps,” she said. “It must to be sleeping at least the five minutes before each question.”

“Ah, I see,” Oona said quite untruthfully.

Madame Romania from Romania set the box on the table and began fumbling with the latch.

“Latch is stubborn. It is sticking. I must to be getting it fixed. And … ah, there we go. Now we will see what bowl
has to say about—” But Madame Romania from Romania took in a startled breath, and then let loose a shriek so loud that it caused all the tiny hairs along Oona's arms to stick straight up.

Deacon leapt into the air as Oona jumped to her feet. “Madame Romania, what is it?” she asked.

The gypsy woman opened the box fully, her eyes wide. Her hands shook, and her mouth hung open, expelling her noxious, mint-tinged breath directly into Oona's face. Madame Romania from Romania stood that way for what might have been ten long seconds before finally taking in a sob-filled breath and exclaiming: “The Punchbowl Oracle! It is gone! It has been stolen!”

T
he dining hall was the longest room in Pendulum House. It stretched nearly a hundred feet from the room's entrance to the servant's door on the other side. The wall to the left displayed a mural depicting a dramatic scene of Oswald the Great, his wand in hand, scarlet light streaming from its tip as he aimed it at the enormous Glass Gates.

Oona sat at the farthest end of the long table, staring absently at her breakfast. Her uncle sat at the head of the table, reading the morning edition of
The Dark Street Tribune
. Its bold headline read: “Tower Contest Begins Today.” Beneath the fold of the paper, a smaller headline read: “Enchanted Objects Continue to Plague Street.”

The Wizard shook his head. “According to this article, there have been two cases of pixiewood poisoning this week. Horrible stuff. Turns the skin green for weeks, and in some cases the victims start to sprout branches like a tree. What the paper doesn't know, however, is that there have actually been four total cases that I have dealt with in the past month. And at least I have a cure for the poison, but it seems there have also been reports of throttler's silk turning up in the garment district. It's a faerie silk known to slowly strangle its wearer.” The Wizard shuddered. “The thing is, all of these objects come from only one place: Faerie. Certainly no Wizard ever made such abhorrent things. Nevertheless, they're giving my enchantment shop a bad name. People are becoming more and more afraid of magic. No doubt I will be called out to deal with the silk. It will need to be destroyed.”

The Wizard glanced around the table, but no one seemed to be paying the slightest attention.

Deacon was perched on the arm of a candelabrum, while Samuligan stood at the corner of the table, perfectly still and thin as a whip. Bewitched into a lifetime of service nearly five hundred years ago—and as far as Oona knew, the only living faerie this side of the Glass Gates—Samuligan stood six and a half feet tall, his smart butler's attire hanging from bony shoulders. Pointed ears and a hooked nose gave the faerie an unmistakably nonhuman air, yet it was his
brilliant eyes that proved to be his most striking feature. They were haunting, mischievous eyes that often remained hidden beneath the shadowy brim of his cowboy hat.

“Have the witches received their ration of turlock root this month, Samuligan?” the Wizard asked.

“They have,” replied the faerie servant in his sly, hushed voice. “I delivered it to the police dungeons last week. They remain as young as ever.”

The Wizard nodded. “Their time served for the theft of the magical mind daggers is almost up, is it not?”

“Two more weeks of imprisonment,” Deacon replied. “Then they may return to Witch Hill. It is a short amount of time when you consider that the girls are over five hundred years old. Will you continue to provide them with turlock root once they have been released?”

“I gave my word that I would,” the Wizard said. “It was the witches' testimony that convinced the jury that Red Martin was involved in my attack. For that I agreed to provide them with enough root to keep them alive … though perhaps we will limit their consumption, so that they will age normally, like everyone else.”

“Everyone?” Samuligan asked.

The Wizard looked up at the faerie servant and chuckled. “Well, like every human, anyway. Immortality does not suit us human beings like it does you faeries, Samuligan. What do you think, Oona?”

Oona, who was inattentively picking at the crumbly muffin on her plate, looked up. “I'm sorry, Uncle. What did you say?”

The Wizard frowned. “You have barely touched your breakfast, Oona.” He folded his paper and placed it on the table. “You should eat something. You'll need the energy.”

“I'm … not so hungry,” Oona said.

“Well, maybe you'd like something else,” he turned to the faerie servant. “Perhaps she would prefer a meat pie, Samuligan.”

Samuligan nodded. “Of course, sir,” he said, and a smile appeared on his face like a sickly crescent moon. Before Oona could protest, a guttural sound emanated from the back of Samuligan's throat. The muffin all at once disappeared from her plate, only to be replaced with a large, thick-crusted pie, steam seeping from the slits in its top.

“That was unnecessary,” Oona said, feeling the tingle of goose bumps on her arms from having been so close to the faerie servant's magic. “As I said, I'm simply not hungry.”

The Wizard sniffed at the pie before shrugging and sliding the plate over in front of himself. “You aren't still obsessing about that gypsy woman you told me about last night, are you?” he asked, jabbing in his fork and
taking a bite. Steam erupted from the pie, momentarily obscuring his face.

Samuligan snapped his fingers and the steam took on the semblance of an enormous toadlike mask. Oona raised an eyebrow at him, not finding the joke as funny as the faerie had intended it to be. She knew he was only trying to cheer her up in his strange fashion, but at the moment Oona was too preoccupied with the memory of the curious events of the previous night to be entertained by the magic.

Samuligan on the other hand seemed quite amused with himself. The faerie threw back his head and barked with laughter, causing the Wizard's teacup to explode and startling Deacon into the air.

“Oh, now, Samuligan, look what you've done,” said the Wizard, who had been drenched with tea and dribbled some of his pie down his beard.

True to form, Samuligan reached into his pocket and pulled out an entire mop, which he proceeded to use to clean up the spillage.

“Is that what you are brooding about?” the Wizard asked Oona as Samuligan dabbed at his beard with the mop head. The Wizard swatted it away. “That business with the missing crystal ball?”

“It wasn't a crystal ball,” Oona said irritably. “It was called the Punchbowl Oracle.”

“She's been up nearly all night, obsessing over its disappearance,” Deacon said, landing back on the candelabrum.

Oona shot him a reproachful glance. It was true, she had been up most of the night attempting to piece together some picture of what had happened, but the last thing she wanted was to explain to her uncle precisely
why
she was so concerned about the punchbowl's disappearance—namely, Madame Romania from Romania's claim that she, Oona, was not responsible for some burden. A secret that only the Punchbowl Oracle had the power to reveal.

If there was a chance—even the faintest glimmer of a possibility—that Oona had not been responsible for her mother's and sister's deaths, then she absolutely had to find out, and that meant that she needed to discover what had happened to the bowl.

Her uncle, like Deacon, would no doubt tell Oona that such fortune-tellers were nothing but frauds who told a person exactly what he or she wanted to hear in order to make easy money.