The Magician's Dream (Oona Crate Mystery: book 3) (4 page)

Oona’s mouth fell open as she stared at the assistant librarian.

“That’s out of five,” Mary said earnestly.

“Three and a half?” Oona said indignantly, and then, realizing what the young woman was doing, she added: “Are you critiquing my spell work? Rating it with stars?”

Mary smiled brightly. “I came up with that system myself.”

Adler gestured toward Mary. “Oh, I probably should have told you. Mary is training to be a critic.”

“I prefer the term ‘reviewer,’” Mary said, and then, seeing the pinched expression on Oona’s face, she added: “I hope I haven’t offended you. Please don’t take it personally. I was only trying to be helpful.”

And from her tone, Oona could tell that the young lady was indeed trying to be helpful. Yet despite Mary’s intentions, not to mention the fact that she had been correct that Oona had been distracted, Oona still could not help but want to tell Mary to mind her own business. She doubted that Mary had ever even attempted a spell, let alone floated a book off a table.

Sensing Oona’s building tension, Deacon said: “The art of the critique has been around for as long as there has been art to criticize, even in the earliest civilizations. A well-respected critic not only acts as a discerning voice for the general public, helping them make informed decisions on how to spend their time and money, but also as constructive feedback to the artists so they can grow in their craft.”

Oona continued to frown. “But in the end, it’s still just one person’s opinion.”

“True,” Deacon said. “But a respected and well informed opinion. The critic is an authority on the subject they are discussing. At least that is the general idea.”

Oona scratched at her head, wondering if Mary considered herself to be an authority on the subject of magic.

Mary sighed, her bright eyes all at once downcast, and Oona wondered if she had hurt the young woman’s feelings.

“I’m afraid that my mother shares your view,” Mary said softly. “She wishes for me to become a full-fledged librarian like her. And please don’t misunderstand me, I do love the library. My mother has a very important job. It’s just that . . . well, I want to review more than just books. There are all sorts of things to critique. Food. Clothing. Theater. I’d like to have my very own column in the
Dark Street Tribune
. I would be the first woman to do so, you know. That would be something, wouldn’t it? And everyone will read it, and . . .” Again she sighed. “And . . . well, it’s a dream of mine.”

She looked suddenly sad, and Oona felt a twang of guilt as she realized that Mary Shusher and she had something in common: they both felt pressure to follow in family occupations, and yet they both had other aspirations.

Oona was on the verge of telling Mary about her own dream of becoming a full-time detective, despite the pressure to become the next Wizard, when the thought reminded her of her mission. She was on a case, and it occurred to her that Mary Shusher could quite possibly be a suspect in the museum theft. Indeed, everyone who worked at the library or regularly used the museum entrance should be considered a person of interest.

“Tell me, Mary, where were you last night at nine o’clock?”

Mary was clearly surprised by the abrupt change of subject. Her well-manicured fingers began to play nervously with her hair. “I . . . I was at home, with my grandmother.”

Oona eyed the assistant librarian carefully. She could not say why, but she had a feeling Mary was not being completely truthful. Before, when Mary had been critiquing Oona’s spell work, there had been an earnestness about her words, a self-assuredness, and yet now she seemed to hesitate.

Oona decided to press further. “Do you live with your grandmother?”

Mary’s eyes shifted about. “She lives with us, yes.”

“Us?”

“With my parents and me. What is this about?”

Oona continued to watch her closely. “Are you aware that the museum was broken into last night? That a valuable object was stolen?”

Mary nodded. “I know that the night watchman was attacked. We were told as much this morning when we came to work. I did not know anything was stolen.”

“We?” Oona asked.

“My mother and me. Why are you so interested in—” But Mary was cut short when a hidden door behind the desk opened and a bespectacled woman with dazzlingly large green eyes stepped through the doorway. Her red hair was cut unfashionably short, stopping just below her ears, and the hair was oddly stiff. It did not seem to move at all as she walked, and it reminded Oona of a metal helmet.

Aside from her hair, however, the woman’s own movements were smooth and quick, almost catlike, as she approached the counter. Similar to the lab coats that were the new fashion for doctors, she wore a long black jacket that covered her from neck to ankle and had pockets in the front. Her powdered face stood out in stark contrast, and was an older version of Mary’s, her eyes highly alert.

She smiled.

“Who is making all of that noise with their mouths?” she asked in a soft whisper. Surprisingly, she did not sound upset . . . and yet Oona could not help but feel nervous. There was an edge to the woman’s presence, a sharpness. Here was a woman whose authority required no raising of voice or disapproving stares.

“Oh, sorry, Mother,” Mary replied respectfully.

“Volume,” the older Mrs. Shusher said, her voice even quieter than before. “Voices down. This is a library, not an opera house.” Her eyes went from Adler to Mary. As her gaze fell on her daughter, she sighed. “And back to work, both of you. Those books aren’t going to shelve themselves.”

Hardly sparing a glance at Oona, Mrs. Shusher turned back to the hidden door. For a moment Oona could only watch her, captivated not only by her unique sense of style but also her manner. But then she remembered her mission. Oona moved forward, hoping to ask the librarian about her whereabouts the previous night. Mary seized Oona’s hand and shook her head. A moment later the librarian had closed the hidden door and was gone.

Oona pulled her hand from Mary’s and flexed her fingers. “What was that about?”

“You must keep your voice down,” Mary said seriously. “My mother is in a foul temper these days, ever since I told her of my dream to become a reviewer . . . and if you push her with your questions, I’m afraid she’ll kick you out of the library.” She hesitated for a moment before adding: “And besides, my birthday is at the end of the week, and I’m afraid if I irritate her even more then I won’t get the present I asked for.”

Oona scowled but managed to keep her voice at a whisper. “All I was going to ask was—”

“Was where she was at around nine o’clock last night, yes?” Mary said. “Well, I can tell you that. Last night was Monday night, and my mother and father have a literary club they attend every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from eight until ten o’clock at the Stratford Learning Center.”

Oona raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of nights for a literary club.”

Mary shrugged. “They love books.”

Deacon shifted excitedly from one foot to the other. “Sounds wonderful.”

Mary picked the butterfly book up off the counter and placed it on the shelf behind her.

“And what is the present you asked for?” Oona asked.

Mary considered the question for several seconds. “I’d rather not say just now,” she said before leaning over the counter, her voice dropping into an even quieter whisper. “I don’t want to jinx it.” She nodded conspiratorially toward the hidden door and then stood up straight. “Anyway, my mother is right, Adler. We need to return to work.”

And with that Mary Shusher rounded the counter and strode across the library toward the stairs to the second level.

Oona stared after her, shaking her head at the ridiculous excuse Mary had given for keeping her wish a secret.

Doesn’t want to jinx it?
she thought.
What an absurd idea. Talking about something doesn’t jinx anything.

“What say we find some books on knots, eh?” Adler said in a hushed tone. “The library is divided into categories by subject, so I’d suggest we look under books on sailing. There’s bound to be some books on knots there.”

Oona heaved a sigh before agreeing to search for books about sailing. As they looked, Oona couldn’t help but wonder what the present was that Mary was expecting from her parents, and why she wouldn’t just tell Oona what it was.

“Here’re the three books on sailing knots I could find,” Adler said, handing three thin books to Oona. They placed them on one of the reference tables and went through page by page. Each contained illustrations showing how to tie various sailors’ knots crucial to life on a sailboat. Oona thought fondly of how her mother, who had been a lover of all things having to do with boats, would have enjoyed reading through these pages with her.

But as much as Oona marveled over the various knots, none of them came close to the level of sophistication used by the thieves. The knots in these books were useful, but none as stunningly beautiful as that of the Rose Knot.

Undaunted, Adler suggested they next search under the subject of construction.

“Builders need to use knots all the time on construction sites,” he said.

Again Oona thought this was an excellent suggestion. As they perused the shelves, Oona stole several glances at Adler.

This section of the library was on the third floor and quite abandoned. The thought of the kiss he had given her all those months ago drifted across her memory like a leaf floating on a spring breeze. She glanced nervously around. Now would be an opportune moment to make such a magical moment happen again . . . if he chose to.

He seemed to sense her gaze. He turned to her, and their eyes met. He did not move. An outrageous thought sprang into Oona’s mind—one that made all the tiny nerves tingle along her arms.

I could be the one to kiss him.

But the thought made her too nervous, and she shoved it aside the best she could. Silence. Deacon cleared his throat rather loudly from his perch on a nearby shelf, and Oona jumped. She had forgotten Deacon was there, and both she and Adler hurriedly returned their attention to the shelves.

“I was thinking,” she said offhandedly, though in truth her stomach felt as if she had swallowed a swarm of frantic butterflies, “that perhaps you would like to accompany me to the campaign rally for Molly Morgana Moon on Thursday.”

“Thursday?” Adler said thoughtfully. He continued to run his fingers along the book spines. “I have a test at the Magicians Alliance that day”

“Oh, I see,” Oona said, unable to conceal her disappointment.

Adler cocked an eyebrow. “But the test is in the morning. I should be done by noontime. Isn’t the rally planned for one o’clock?”

Oona’s spirits lifted. “At Oswald Park. You already know about it?”

He nodded. “My mother and sister are already planning on going. They’re big Molly Morgana Moon supporters . . . so perhaps I’ll tag along?” He returned his attention to the bookshelves before adding: “I could meet you there.”

Oona swallowed a rather large lump in her throat. “Very good.”

It turned out there were even fewer books on construction knots than on sailing knots. Indeed, they found only one, and it contained mostly illustrations of the same sort of knots they had found in the sailing books.

“Hmm,” Oona said as she slid the book back into place on the shelf. “This seems to be getting us nowhere.”

“Speaking of getting us nowhere,” Deacon said, “the time for your test is getting close, and we have done no preparation or research.” He flew to the nearby balcony and peered down toward the large clock on the main floor. “You have only an hour to get ready.”

“An hour?” Oona said sharply. “Deacon, how come you didn’t remind me earlier?”

“Oh, it’s my fault now, is it?” Deacon asked.

“What sort of test?” Adler asked.

But Oona was already moving toward the stairs. “I’ll tell you later. I have to run. Thank you, Adler.”

“Any time, Oona,” Adler replied with a quick tip of the hat.

It wasn’t until she was outside and stepping up into the carriage that she realized he had used her first name.

The First Test

“The test you are about to experience is not one of my design,” the Wizard said. He pushed back his seat and made as if to stand, but his long beard, which trailed down his chest as twisted and gray as a summer tornado, snagged on one of the hooked claws that poked out from the desk, and he was suddenly jerked forward.

“Oh, are you okay, Uncle?” Oona asked. She stepped hurriedly around the desk to help him.

He waived her back. “It’s all right. This has happened before. Now, where’s my wand?”

Oona had to stifle a laugh. It was a comical sight, seeing her uncle, the prestigious Wizard of Dark Street, bent forward over the ominous dragon-bone desk with his beard caught on the claw like a fish on a hook.

“Ah, here it is,” he said, removing his wand from his pocket and aiming it at the bottom of his beard. “Trim,” he said.

The distinctive sound of metal scissors cutting through hair reached Oona’s ears in the same instant that the Wizard stood upright, his beard decidedly less pointy than it had been.

“I’ve been meaning to have a trim anyway,” he said, fingering the flat spot at the bottom of his beard, and when he looked at Oona and saw her attempting to hide her smile, his face reddened considerably.

“You were saying, Uncle?” Oona said, only just managing to keep from giggling.

“Saying?” said the Wizard.

“About the test,” said Deacon, who was not as successful at holding back his laughter as Oona.

The Wizard picked the severed end of his beard from the claw on the desk and tossed it to the floor. “Yes, the test. As I was saying. It is a test that all apprentices must undergo when they are ready. One that I faced when I was an apprentice myself, long before I became a comical old man.” He gave Deacon a shrewd look, and Deacon’s laughter came to an abrupt halt.

“Of course, sir,” Deacon said, with a clearing of his throat.

Uncle Alexander returned his gaze to Oona as he moved out from behind the desk. “The test is quite difficult, but I think you will manage, Oona dear. Especially if you were able to prepare yourself.”

The Wizard gave her a shrewd look, as if he somehow knew that Oona had not given herself sufficient time to find anything in the Pendulum House library on the tests. Such information would likely have been quite easy to find, had Samuligan been around to find the book she needed, but the moment they had returned to the house, the faerie servant had disappeared, and no matter how many times Oona had called for him, he had not shown up.

This was unlike Samuligan, who was usually no more than a few feet away after she called for him in the house. She needed only to shout his name and he would appear from out of a shadow, or from behind a drapery, or on the other side of the nearest door. No such luck today.

Without the faerie’s help, Oona found the organization of the library to be nonexistent. If only, like the public library, the books had been organized into subjects, and authors, and alphabetical titles.

Deacon cawed from his place on the fireplace mantel, sounding his disapproval of how she had handled her time. She threw a hard glance his way as Uncle Alexander moved around the slumbering dragon-bone desk and peered at the clock. The hour hand struck three o’clock, and he began to nod.

“As you know, Oona, when you become Wizard, it will be your job to protect Dark Street and the World of Man beyond.”

“World of Humans,” Oona interrupted.

The Wizard nodded, but absently, as if he had not truly heard her. “Should the Glass Gates fall, you alone must hold back the wrath of the faerie queen, her army of faerie warriors, and all the might of the Other-lands. The question that every apprentice eventually asks is: How can one person accomplish such a seemingly daunting task? And the answer stands all around you: Pendulum House. The Magicians of Old pooled all of their powers into the house long ago, and the Wizard’s job is to tap into that power and direct it to do his or her will. And that is what we will be training and testing you on today: your ability to link with the house.”

Oona’s heart began to beat a little faster. She had never tapped into the house’s powers before. She had always used her own Natural Magic. She was often aware of the immense power that was locked inside of the house as she walked down its unpredictable hallways, or as she lay in bed at night—sensing that the house easily dwarfed her own extraordinary natural powers—and it frightened her a bit to consider how she might control such a force.

The Wizard ran his fingers down his beard. “Your task shall be to feed off the house’s magic, and use that power to overcome and defeat your opponent.”

“My opponent?” Oona asked.

Again the Wizard continued on as if he had not heard her. “Since it is your first time linking with the house, we will set you a simple task . . . simple in the sense that you have only one clear objective . . . but remarkably difficult in all other aspects. Once you
tap in
, your job will be to reach the Pendulum House front gates by whatever means necessary.”

Oona furrowed her brow, thinking she had not heard correctly. “Did you say all I need to do is walk out to the front gates?”

The Wizard grinned. It was a knowing sort of smile, one that assured her there was something much more complex happening. Yet what could be so complex about walking from the Wizard’s study to the front gates? It was nearly a straight line out the study door, across the circular antechamber, past the broom closet in the entryway, and out through the front door. From there the course involved a bit of bobbing and weaving through the tangled vegetation of the front garden to an old iron gate that opened upon Dark Street, but Oona managed that time and again each day.

“I said nothing about walking,” the Wizard replied rather cryptically. “I merely stated that you would need to get there by whatever means necessary.”

Oona looked to Deacon on the mantel, but he only cocked his head to one side and said nothing. He did not need to say a word. She could hear his voice in her head loud and clear:
You should have spent your time researching the test.

Oona reminded herself that this was not just a test, but a
battle test
—whatever that meant.

Her uncle read her expression and nodded, his wrinkled hand continuing to run down his beard, which fluttered in the rising warmth of the nearby fire. He seemed to be waiting for her to speak.

“My . . . opponent,” she said hesitantly. “My opponent will try to stop me from getting there.”

The Wizard clapped his hands together, causing the fire in the fireplace to briefly burn blue. “That is precisely right. Might I introduce you to him? Samuligan!” he called.

Samuligan leapt from the shadow of the grandfather clock, his hooked nose and long faerie face shadowed beneath his cowboy hat. He landed in front of the door with a resounding
clang
, the sound emanating from the black body armor he was wearing. Coupled with the cowboy hat, Oona thought the faerie servant looked quite comical, as if he were going to a costume party and could not decide what he wanted to be.

She nearly laughed until it occurred to her that Samuligan was not here to
fetch
her opponent, but that he
was
her opponent. The comical effect quickly disappeared when she noticed streaks of dried blood speckled across the dark dented metal, and more dried rivulets of blood that had never been properly cleaned from the various spikes and rivets at the shoulder and elbow joints.

The armor had a kind of negative glow about it, she noticed, a sinister presence that seemed to suck all the light off its surface rather than reflect it; and yet Oona could see the story that the blood told quite well. This armor was battle tested, and battle proven . . . and she—a four-foot-five-inch-tall, thirteen-year-old girl—most certainly was not. She had a strange feeling that the armor itself wanted to bite her and chew her up. It was faerie-made armor, she realized, and just to look at it made her insides feel as if they had all shriveled up.

She swallowed dryly, remembering how nearly five hundred years ago, Samuligan the Fay had been a powerful general in the Queen of Faerie’s royal army during the Great Faerie War. Looking at him now, in his daunting attire, she could see why even Oswald the Great had feared him; and why, when the faerie had been captured, the Magicians of Old had used their magic to trap Samuligan into a life of servitude to the members of Pendulum House.

“But surely Samuligan is not allowed to harm me,” Oona said, and she could hear the nervousness in her own voice.

Samuligan seemed to hear it, too. He grinned his horrible grin. His eyes sparkled with a kind of otherworldly delight beneath the brim of his hat, and though she loved the faerie servant very much, and trusted him with her very life, she shivered to have that look directed at her.

“He will not harm you,” the Wizard tried to assure her, but Samuligan’s crescent moon of a smile suggested otherwise. “He’s just excited because he only gets to do this every new generation. No, he will not hurt you—not on purpose, that is—but what he will do is attempt to stop you from achieving your goal, from reaching the front gate. And he is very good at it, I can assure you. He tested me, and Armand Flirtensnickle before me, and all the apprentices going back for hundreds of years. He has always done so, for who better than an actual battle-hardened faerie to prepare an apprentice for battle against faeries?”

Oona briefly wondered if Samuligan might take offense at the Wizard’s eagerness to defeat faeries in battle. But if Samuligan did take offense, he never showed it, and indeed, looking at him now, he seemed quite eager to start Oona’s training to do just that.

“But first,” said the Wizard, and he held up a finger to make his point. “First you must tap into the source of every presiding Wizard’s magic. You must link with the house. I think you will need this,”

He pulled from his pocket a slim black wand and handed it to Oona. It was not the Wizard’s own wand, for her uncle’s wand was brown and made of ornately carved oak. This wand was smooth, and glossy, and black as night. It was a wand that Oona had held before, months ago, when she had removed it from the black box at the top of the Magician’s Tower. It was Oswald the Great’s very own wand.

It felt cold in her hand, like cool metal, though she knew it to be made of wood. Such great things this wand had done, remarkable feats that now resided in the history books. From her history lessons with Deacon she could name half a dozen off the top of her head, not the least of which included the permanent closing of the Glass Gates. It was said that this wand was the only key to opening those gates.

It made her nervous just to hold it. Ever since her discovery of the wand, it had resided within its protective box and been hidden safely away within the house, its location known only to the Wizard.

“You are no doubt wondering why I have given you Oswald’s wand,” the Wizard said.

Oona considered him for only the briefest of moments before answering: “A link with the house must require a conductor. A wand or staff. But I already have my magnifying glass, which has proven just as competent as any wand.”

In fact, the Wizard had offered to make a wand for her—a “proper wand” had been his precise words—but Oona had declined. She preferred the smooth wood handle and glossy golden ring of her magnifying glass, which held much more meaning for her than any silly bit of wood. It had been her father’s magnifying glass, and though he had not been a magician himself, Oona always felt a part of him was with her, guiding her, when she held it in her hand.

The thought reminded her of the very people who had been responsible for his death, and that they were out there now, back at their nefarious deeds.

“Actually, a link with the house does not require a conductor,” the Wizard said. “But once you have achieved the initial link, and you wish to use that power to achieve some task or another, a wand is then most advisable. The power you are connecting with is like that of nothing you have ever experienced before, Oona. I fear that your magnifying glass, as fine as it is for everyday spell work, may not be up to the task. I could not guarantee its safety, and I know how much you cherish it. You would not want it ruined.”

Oona nodded thoughtfully, her nerves doubling up inside of her.

“Oswald’s wand,” the Wizard continued, “is perfectly suited for this task. Now, are you ready to link with the house?”

Oona shook her head no, but what came out of her mouth was: “I suppose.”

Uncle Alexander smiled reassuringly. “Come now, don’t look so frightened. As I said, Samuligan will not hurt you.”

She let out a quick
tsk
sound, not because she disbelieved her uncle, but because it wasn’t Samuligan she was afraid of. Well,
mostly
it wasn’t Samuligan. Rather, it was the magic she was about to connect with that she feared. She had experienced great power before, her own, and had thought that magic barely controllable. Though she did feel somewhat comforted with the fact that both her uncle and Samuligan would be here if anything went too wrong . . . she hoped.

“Now, what I want you to do is stand here, beside the desk, and face Samuligan. Once you link with the house, he is going to do everything he can to keep you from leaving the room.”