The Magician's Dream (Oona Crate Mystery: book 3) (17 page)

The thought sparked the house into an immediate response.

Gospinster’s Wind!

And though she had never heard those words together in her life, they materialized in her mind as if she had known them always.

The clouds began to swirl and twist. Like an artist sculpting an enormous masterpiece in the sky, the wind formed the clouds into two massive hands that clamped hold of the end of the rope ladder, holding it steady.

Oona’s head felt heavy as she concentrated as hard as she could upon both spells at the same time, splitting her mind in two. She tugged on the rope ladder. It felt strong and sturdy.

Now all I have to do is climb
, she thought, which she had a feeling was going to be difficult to do while concentrating on two magical activities at the same time. She pulled herself up onto the first rung and the ladder continued to hold. So far so good, and yet as she began to climb, she became immediately aware of how difficult it was to climb even two rungs, let alone hundreds of them. The rope ladder rose hundreds of feet into the sky and she did not believe she had the strength to make the climb.

Once again the house knew precisely what to do, and it occurred to Oona that she had the solution already . . . except for one tiny problem: it required another piece of magic. Holding two spells within her mind at the same time was difficult enough, but could she hold three?

Looking down, she realized that she was only a few feet off the ground; if she fell now, she would not be too badly injured. She opened her mind once more to the house’s magical influence and allowed the magic to enter, placing it side by side with the creation of the ladder and the cloudy hands that held it up.

It worked.

Slowly, steadily the ladder rose into the air. Oona looked down and could see the ground dropping away—her uncle, and Deacon, and soon even Pendulum House began to shrink in size—and then she looked up in amazement as the massive cloud hands pulled her up to meet them. Her heart began to pound rapidly from both excitement and fear as she clung desperately to the rope. The higher she rose, the stronger the breeze and rain felt upon her face. The thought of falling occurred to her time and time again, but so long as she did not let go she felt somehow that all would be right.

For now
, she thought.

What sort of treachery Samuligan had planned within or above the clouds was another matter altogether.

As she rose into the sky and the wind played with her hair and dress, it occurred to her that, so far today, she had not uttered a single spell, which was strange because usually magic required a verbal command. She was aware that very powerful magic—that which was beyond the scope of what she had learned so far in her training—was often conjured using thoughts and feelings alone, but thus far her uncle had not taught her such advanced skills.

Yet as she linked with the house, she was linking with all of the knowledge of the Magicians of Old, who had pooled their magical know-how into the house hundreds of years ago. She began to wonder if there were any limits at all to what was possible.

She did not have time to wonder for long, however. At last the ladder pulled Oona into the graying clouds and beyond.

***

Her dress collected tiny pellets of water as she passed through the dense clouds. The water beaded on her eyelashes, and she blinked the drops away only to have them form again seconds later. But the ride through the clouds was brief, and before long she emerged into the bright sunlight above. There the clouds spread out beneath her like a sea of gray and white waves. It was a breathtaking sight, and for one brief moment her apprehension about what challenge Samuligan had for her vanished as she took in the awe-inspiring view.

Oona cast her gaze about, wondering where the faerie had gotten to. She spun around, only to find Samuligan waiting patiently for her inside a small rowboat. The boat bobbed upon the clouds as if floating upon rippling water.

“Climb in,” Samuligan said.

Oona did as she was told, though reluctantly. Despite the beauty of her surroundings, she felt quite anxious about what might come next. The instant her foot left the ladder, the rope dropped away through the clouds and disappeared below. She peered over the edge of the boat after it, and that’s when the first flash of lightning lit up the sea of clouds beneath them, followed by a rolling rumble of thunder. The sound resonated through Oona’s entire body and caused the boat to rock unsteadily from side to side. Oona took her seat and clasped hold of the sides for support.

Samuligan’s expression was as calm as a windless lake. “How many spells did it take?” he asked.

“Three,” Oona said. “Though none of them were spoken.”

“Impressive,” the faerie replied. “Of course, you’ll need to do better than that to wake up.”

Oona’s eyebrows slid closer together. “Wake up? What do you . . .” She trailed off, looking about her and frowning. “Is this . . . another illusion?”

Samuligan shook his head. “No . . . not really. We did illusions yesterday. But then again, what isn’t an illusion?”

Oona could feel her frustration beginning to rise. “That’s not very helpful at all. And if it’s not an illusion, then what is it?”

“That I can’t say. I’m not the one creating it.”

“Creating what?”

Samuligan gestured toward the sea of clouds, which all at once looked not so much like a vast sea, but more like the rolling hills of the Dark Street Cemetery. Countless headstones poked out of the tops of the clouds, the sight of which sent goose bumps skittering up Oona’s arms.

“What’s this all about?” she asked.

“Again, I have no idea,” the faerie replied. “Yesterday I was the one who created the illusion of Faerie. But this . . . this I suspect is a dream.”

“A dream?” Oona said skeptically.

Samuligan shrugged. “In all of your history lessons, have you ever heard of someone being able to climb into the sky?”

Oona considered the question hard before shaking her head. “Now that you mention it . . . no.”

“No. Not even faeries such as I possess such powers.”

Oona peered around at the cemetery landscape in the sky. “I still don’t understand. Then how did we manage it?”

“
I
did not manage it.”

“What do you mean
you
didn’t when I can see you clearly right—” But she stopped abruptly, a strange thought occurring to her. “You mean to say that
I
am creating this? Yesterday
you
created the illusion of Faerie, but today
I
am creating this illusion myself. But why . . . how—” She took in a sharp breath, remembering the cup of tea the faerie had poured for her. “You put something in my drink. In my tea. A potion.”

But what potion specifically?
she wondered. Every apprentice Wizard was taught that potions were breakable by their ingredients. Know the parts of the potion, and then a counterpotion or spell could be used to reverse the effects.

Samuligan only watched her with an amused expression on his long faerie face. He was not going to help.

How can I know what it’s made of?
she wondered.

The question stirred Pendulum House’s magic to life. A sensation like that of being squeezed through the neck of a very small bottle overcame her as her consciousness suddenly descended into her body. Her purpose was clear as the magic pulled her deeper and deeper, sniffing out the foreign substance like a bloodhound on the scent.

“Birch root . . . elder twig . . . night moss and elm. Essence of juniper and . . .” And something else she could not make out. An essential ingredient. She increased her awareness, opening herself even more to the house’s masterful influence as she followed the magic down into her blood and the cells within. For a long moment she was no longer in the boat but swam deep within her own body, so small that she could see its workings as if they were giant machines churning their endless work: the beating of her heart, the breathing of her lungs, the miracle of life spread out before her . . . and yet the final ingredient of the potion eluded her.

Yet there
was
a smell. A familiar smell. Something she knew well. How strange that she could not place it. This was not plant, nor metal . . . it was, in fact, animal in nature. Something dark . . . and light . . . .and . . .

Oona snapped her fingers, coming out of her magical trance. She had it. She knew the final ingredient. It was no wonder she had had such trouble identifying it because it was something so familiar that she had thought it was a part of herself and not a foreign substance at all.

“Feather of crow,” Oona said. “Very similar to feather of raven.”

Samuligan grinned at her from the other end of the floating boat and thumbed back his cowboy hat. “Very good.”

Her link with the house told her this was a sleeping potion. “You’ve put me to sleep. That’s why you keep saying that you aren’t creating the illusion.”

“Illusions created by others are easily detectable,” the faerie said as he pushed himself to his feet. The boat rocked unsteadily beneath him. “But self-made illusions are the hardest to sense, and even harder to break. That is why faeries love potions. Let your enemies defeat themselves, and the act of war is so much easier. Of course, once you know what ails you, the antidote is easily made. The Magicians of Old knew this, and so do you.”

Oona shook her head, confused. “But if this is all a dream that I am creating . . . how am I supposed to create an antidote?”

Instead of answering, Samuligan tipped his hat and smiled his mischievous grin. “You know, they say that when you fall in a dream, you always wake up just before you hit the ground.”

And with that, the faerie leapt out of the boat and dropped through the clouds like a stone through water.

Oona screamed.

“Nothing to be frightened of,” said a voice. Oona’s scream stuck in her throat and she turned, casting about for the owner of the voice. To her surprise, she discovered a man in a long coat sitting atop one of the tombstones. Even more of a surprise was the fact that she recognized him . . . a man who had been dead for years but who looked just as alive as he had on the last day Oona had seen him. Her mouth fell open as she stared into the clever, handsome face of her father.

Reading the startled and confused look on Oona’s face, he smiled reassuringly. “Samuligan will be fine.”

Oona searched for words. “But . . . but . . . you’re . . .”

“Dead?” her father said. “Yes.”

“Then how are you here?” she asked wonderingly. Her heart felt as if it were about to explode with joy at seeing him so close, and yet her mind was terribly confused. Her throat constricted as tears began to well in her eyes.

“Come now, Oona,” her father said, and tapped the side of his head. His short brown hair looked just as it had on the last morning she had seen him. “How is it possible I’m here? Use your brain, little one.”

Her breath hitched in her throat. “Little one” had been his nickname for her. It was something she had nearly forgotten, a fact that now made her feel quite sad. What else had she forgotten?

“Not so little anymore,” Oona said. “I’ve grown.”

He pulled his magnifying glass from his pocket and peered at her through it, making one eye look enormous. “And so you have grown. Though not quite a giant.”

Oona nodded thoughtfully. “Still short, you mean.”

He spun the magnifying glass playfully in his fingers. “Just right, I’d say.”

Oona peered at the magnifying glass and then reached into her pocket, pulling out an exact duplicate. She held the magnifying glass that she had inherited from her father up in front of her and looked from the glass in her own hand to the one in her father’s.

“How can we both be holding the same glass?” she asked.

“Think,” her father said.

Oona considered the conundrum, though it did not take her long. “You are a dream. You’re not real.”

“A dream, yes. Real? That’s another thing altogether.”

“So I brought you here. But why?”

“What do you need?”

The question struck Oona like a brick in the chest. It was unexpected and terrible—terrible because she knew the devastating answer.

“I need
you
,” she said, and her voice cracked with emotion. “I need you, and Mother, and Flora to be alive.”

Her father dropped his finger from the side of his head and tapped his chest. “You have us, always. Here.”

Oona shook her head. “It’s not enough!”

“It is more than enough,” he said, and though he sounded suddenly stern, his voice never lost its edge of care.

Oona stared at him for a long moment. After a while she asked: “Can I just stay here with you?”

“That’s part of the test.”

“How do you mean?”

“The potion put you to sleep. Will you sleep your life away?”

Oona ran a hand through her hair, thinking. “It’s why Samuligan brought me here, isn’t it?”

“Samuligan didn’t bring you here,” her father said. “You did. And you have a purpose. That is why you won’t stay.”