The Magician's Dream (Oona Crate Mystery: book 3) (6 page)

It spread out before them in both directions, the glistening Glass Gates just visible some six and a half miles to the south, and the dark Iron Gates six and a half miles to the north. To the east and west, behind the line of buildings on either side of the street, there was nothing to see, just the vast expanse of nothingness known as the Drift, where Dark Street spun through the space between worlds.

Though spectacular, the view made her feel somewhat queasy, and it was not without a sense of relief that Oona pressed forward on the dragon’s back and they began to descend. She considered landing outside the gates, but then remembered that the task was to reach the gates, not to get past them. She steered them to the ground, as close as possible to the gate, making sure to keep well clear of Samuligan, who remained rooted to the spot where they had left him, watching their flight.

They came down harder than she had anticipated, and this time Oona actually did lose her grip. She tumbled forward over the head of the dragon and landed in a heap of skirts on the uncut lawn. Heart in her throat, and afraid that Samuligan would beat her to it, she sprang to her feet and dashed for the gate, her hand wrapping around its cold metal frame where she sank to her knees, breath heaving in her chest.

The instant her hand touched the metal, Oona felt the magical link to the house drop away. And so, too, did the dragon, for it folded itself back into the form of the Wizard’s slumbering desk.

Samuligan stuck out a long-fingered hand. “Very good, Miss Crate,” he said, showing no signs of disappointment that she had beaten him.

“Yes, very good indeed,” said the Wizard, who was coming down the walkway with Deacon on his shoulder. He paused beside the desk and scratched at his head. “There were, of course, less . . . destructive ways of achieving your task.” He peered back toward the house, where the dragon’s destruction could be seen quite clearly in the form of a gaping hole where the front door had once been. “But it
was
effective. And I’m sure Samuligan and Mrs. Carlyle can have things tidied up in no time.”

Deacon fluttered from the Wizard’s shoulder to the desk, looking at the piece of furniture wearily. He poked gingerly at the desktop with his beak before saying: “You may not
have
a maid to help clean all of this up.”

“Oh,” the Wizard said thoughtfully. “Good point. We do have trouble keeping good help, don’t we?”

Oona threw a hand to her mouth and glanced around, as if hoping to find Mrs. Carlyle standing nearby. She peered out the gate in both directions, but the maid was nowhere to be seen.

“I hope she is all right,” she said. “Probably ran home to tell Mr. Carlyle what crazy people we are. Do you think she will come back?”

She felt a twinge of sadness at the thought of Mrs. Carlyle not returning. The maid was, after all, the only female companion Oona had whom she related to.

“Oh, I’m sure she can be persuaded,” the Wizard said. “Though perhaps we will set the next challenge away from the house.”

Oona looked toward the ruins of the front door and laughed. “Good idea.”

The Wizard peered at the massive old desk, which was slowly sinking into the lawn, and frowned. He scratched at his head as if contemplating a serious problem, and said: “Now, how do we get this monstrosity back inside?”

Knots and Lies

“Never in all my life!” said Mrs. Carlyle. “I just don’t know.”

“But please stay, Mrs. Carlyle,” Oona said. “I apologize about the dragon. It won’t happen again.”

They stood facing each other in the house entryway, which had been miraculously repaired by Samuligan the previous evening. The clock in the antechamber clanged, indicating that the time was nine o’clock in the morning, and Oona felt exhausted. She had slept poorly, lying awake most of the night, and when she had actually managed to fall asleep, she had dreamed of riding the wild dragon and falling from a great height.

But it had not been the flight of the dragon that had kept her up half the night. It had been the needling thought that her father’s murderers were out there, back at their criminal deeds.

“Oona is quite right,” the Wizard reassured Mrs. Carlyle. Only Oona, Deacon, and the Wizard greeted the maid in the entryway. Oona had requested that Samuligan remain absent for fear he would frighten Mrs. Carlyle away.

The Wizard continued: “We will have today’s test in Oswald Park, miles from here, which will give you plenty of room to do your job unimpeded, Mrs. Carlyle. As you can see, Samuligan has already cleaned up our . . . ah . . . mess, so you may concentrate on your usual duties.”

The maid looked skeptical. Oona had been certain that she wouldn’t have shown up at all, and that she, Oona, would need to seek her out, but Mrs. Carlyle had come nevertheless, and Oona was delighted to see her dressed in her maid’s uniform.

Mrs. Carlyle ran a nervous hand down the front of her apron. “And that faerie . . . he’ll be gone with you?”

“Samuligan?” the Wizard asked. “He will be at the park as part of the battle test. You’ll have the whole house to yourself.”

Oona felt her stomach tighten at the thought of another test. Especially one that involved Samuligan. Not only had she dreamed half the night of falling off dragons, and the clattering sound of their moving bones, but also of the wild gleam she had seen in the faerie’s eyes the day before. It had been so unnerving to witness, and Oona did not relish the idea of going toe to toe with him once again.

“Oh, and one other thing,” the Wizard added. “Oona has told me of your wish to attend the Molly Morgana Moon political rally tomorrow. That will, of course, be no problem. In fact, we will all be there.”

The news surprised Oona. “You are coming, Uncle? But I thought you said Molly Morgana Moon was not going to win?”

Uncle Alexander ran a wrinkled hand down his long gray beard. “That does not mean I won’t show my support for what I feel is right. And who knows, I could be wrong. I have been so before and will likely be so again.” He turned to the maid and cocked his head to one side, as if awaiting her decision.

“Well, all right,” Mrs. Carlyle said at last, though reluctantly. “I’ll return to work . . . against my better judgment, mind you. Just so long as I’m not attacked again, I think we can make it work. I brought my own duster this time.”

She held up her normal feather duster—one that did not giggle—and managed a faint smile. Oona smiled back, pleased to have the matter settled.

“Very good,” the Wizard replied, and turned to Oona. “Three o’clock at Oswald Park then?”

Oona nodded and sighed. “I suppose I have no choice.”

Her uncle crossed the antechamber toward his newly constructed study door—which Samuligan had put right the previous night—and spoke over his shoulder. “We always have a choice, Oona.”

He closed the door behind him, leaving the maid, Deacon, and Oona alone in the entryway.

“He’s right about that,” Mrs. Carlyle said.

Oona looked at her thoughtfully. “You could have chosen not to come back.”

“I might have, and don’t think I didn’t consider it. That dragon monstrosity nearly scared the life out of me.” She sighed and looked at the feather duster. “But alas, I need the job, and I’d be hard-pressed to get paid elsewhere as much as I do here.”

Oona continued to stare at her, the same thoughtful expression creasing the space between her eyes. “Would you prefer to have some other sort of job?”

Mrs. Carlyle’s smile broadened. “You mean one less dangerous?” Oona’s face reddened, and the maid patted her on the shoulder. “I’m just playing. I know you didn’t mean to come after me with that dragon. One of the reasons I decided to come back this morning is because you’re the type who learns from her mistakes, and I can trust you not to make that one twice.”

Oona nodded, pleased that the maid thought so highly of her, but also embarrassed at the same time.

“I hope not,” she replied.

“Let’s all hope not,” Deacon said. He shifted from one foot to the other on her shoulder. “Let’s also hope, Miss Crate, that you learned a lesson about neglecting your research.”

Oona had to will herself not to roll her eyes, because despite Deacon’s insistence that they research the battle tests in order to prepare in advance, she didn’t think that anything they might have found in a book would have prepared her for what had happened the previous day. And besides, she already had an idea for how she would spend her day, and it did not involve hanging out in the Pendulum House library.

She felt torn by this decision. Being prepared was something she liked to pride herself on. But with her father’s killers at large—a mystery unsolved—she felt that discovering who they were and bringing them to justice must take precedence.

“Suppose I should be getting to my duties,” Mrs. Carlyle said.

Oona nodded, but she could not help but satisfy her curiosity. She asked: “Would you prefer a different job?”

The maid was readjusting her white apron over her black dress. “A different line of work? Well, for a woman not born to the upper class, this is a fine enough job. Of course, women servants don’t get paid as much as male servants do.”

“They don’t?” Oona asked, surprised. “But why?”

Mrs. Carlyle shook her head. “No reason. Just the way it is . . . which is why the ‘way it is’ needs to change. Just like we’ve been talking about.”

Oona frowned. “Well, that needs to change right now.” She spun on her heels, intent on marching straight into her uncle’s study and demanding that Mrs. Carlyle be paid every cent a man would.

Mrs. Carlyle placed a hand on her shoulder. “Hold on, just now. Don’t go making trouble. Your uncle pays me just fine. That’s one of the reasons I returned, despite being chased down the front path by some monstrous skeleton. I get paid more than most housemaids get, and likely as much as any man servant would. But elsewhere, I’m afraid the inequality is something most women have to live with.”

Oona could feel herself growing angry just thinking about it. If people did the same job, she thought they should get the same pay, regardless of their gender.

Deacon twisted his head to one side—something he often did when retrieving random facts from deep within his brain. “There have been a nearly equal number of females who have held the post of Wizard as there have been males. Of course, the Magicians of Old were highly influenced by the faerie culture, where there is no clear distinction between female and male magic. In the Land of Faerie, magic is genderless.”

Mrs. Carlyle shrugged. “Well, in this world, and the World of Humans beyond, things aren’t so equal.” She glanced at the clock. “But oh, goodness me. I need to be getting on with my work.”

“Of course,” Oona said as she watched the maid make her way toward the same hallway through which she had been chased the day before.

The maid hesitated at the mouth of the hallway, where several portraits still hung cockeyed against the wall. Taking in a deep breath, she straightened the frames one by one and then peered down the dim corridor, as if expecting something to jump out at her.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Oona said reassuringly.

“Me, too,” Mrs. Carlyle said. “I think.”

And with that, she disappeared down the hall.

Oona crossed her fingers superstitiously, hoping that Samuligan would not startle Mrs. Carlyle today, not even a little bit, or, despite the better pay, the maid might decide to make a permanent run for it.

The best way to make sure she was not disturbed would be to get the faerie out of the house.

“Now,” Deacon said. “Shall we begin our research?”

“Indeed,” Oona replied. “Samuligan?”

“You called?” The faerie stepped from behind the standing coat rack in the entryway, half startling her. Deacon cawed in surprise.

“Were you there the whole time?” Oona asked.

“I am wherever I am required,” Samuligan responded in his customarily sly tone.

“Could you bring around the carriage?” Oona asked. “I should like to go downtown.”

“At your service,” Samuligan replied, and with a deep bow headed out the front door.

“But I thought we were doing research,” Deacon squawked.

“We are, Deacon,” Oona said. “We are going to find out who the Rose Thieves are. We’re going to find out who killed my father.”

***

Pedestrians moved about the sidewalk and carriages clattered down the street. On this bright and clear day, the pointy-hat-shaped library cast a shadow across the street to where Oona stood in front of the Dark Street Theater.

Arms folded, she stood beside the ironwork joke-telling clock, upon which a flyer had been posted announcing Molly Morgana Moon’s Thursday political rally at Oswald Park. Oona hardly noticed it. She was too busy staring at the museum steps, attempting to imagine how the thieves snuck up on the night watchman.

A mechanical voice sounded from within the clock: “Why did the wild pig cross the road?”

“I don’t know,” sounded a second, equally mechanical voice. “Why
did
the wild pig cross the road?”

The first voice replied: “He wanted to get away from his friends . . . they were all
boars
!”

“Terrible,” Deacon said. “
Bore
and
boar
aren’t even spelled the same.”

“That’s the point, Deacon,” Oona said absently. “That’s what makes it amusing.”

“If you say so,” Deacon said.

But Oona was hardly paying attention to their conversation, let alone the clock and its ridiculous sense of humor. Her attention was fixed upon the museum door. She remembered what she had overheard the night watchman telling Inspector White, about the woman running up the steps. Clearly, the woman had been a diversion meant to distract the guard, giving the male thief time to sneak up behind and knock the watchman on the head. At night the building was not well lit. The man could easily have been lying in wait close by.

“The thieves likely knew that the guard took his snack break at the same time every night,” Oona said. “They were waiting for him. It was well planned.”

“Indeed,” Deacon said, “which is precisely what you need for this afternoon’s battle test. A plan.”

“Oh, I think she handled herself quite all right without preparation,” Samuligan said from atop the nearby carriage. He wiggled his fingers in display of the red line that ran across the back of his hand in a great slash. “I have the scar to prove it.”

“See, Deacon,” Oona said. “Samuligan thinks I did well.”

“Of course he’s saying that,” Deacon chided. “He doesn’t want you to be prepared for your next challenge. He’s your opponent.”

Oona raised an eyebrow. “Is that true, Samuligan? Will I be facing you once again today, or will it be something different?”

The faerie pulled his cowboy hat down over his eyes and shrugged.

“You see,” Deacon said. “He’s no help. We should be back in the Pendulum House library, researching.”

Oona knew he was right. Yesterday’s test had turned out to be far more demanding than she had expected, and yet her instincts were telling her that the more important thing to do was to find those responsible for taking her father away—taking his life—and to make sure they paid for it. She did not, however, want to say so out loud, as she was sure that Deacon would not understand.

She was convinced that, unless someone had experienced it for themselves, it was impossible truly to understand what it was like to know that your father—the man who was supposed to care for you and keep you safe—had been murdered, and that his killers where still out there. It was impossible to know the emptiness that came with never again feeling your hero’s arms wrap around you, or kiss you good night, not to mention the frustration of knowing that the police department was too incompetent to capture the culprits.

She was happy to change the topic. “Look, Deacon, it’s Mr. Bop.”

“So it is,” he replied rather dryly, as if detecting the purpose of her dramatic shift of subject.

An enormous man was exiting the building next door to the museum. He made his way across the street in Oona’s direction. The closer he came, the easier it was to see the mask of squiggly tattoos that inked every surface of his broad face—a clear reminder that Mr. Bop was a prominent member of the Magicians Legal Alliance. A top hat rested precariously atop his bald head, and for such a giant of a man Mr. Bop moved quite gracefully.