The Magician's Tower (17 page)

Oona's heart skipped a beat. For an instant she thought maybe, just maybe, she might have a chance. Yes. It was there: the slimmest possibility that she could get to the door just as Isadora pulled it open, and Oona could slip through the opening before the other girl had time even to know what was happening. She could almost taste the victory, but unfortunately, Roderick was between them. He placed himself purposefully right in front of Oona, blocking her path to the door … and that was all it took.

In the few seconds that Roderick held Oona up—sticking his arms straight out like a cross, and moving first
to one side of the walkway and then to the other—Isadora yanked her key from the lock, flinging the door wide open. A stream of sunlight spilled across her smug face as she held the key over her head like a victory trophy and, to Oona's dismay, once again immerged first from the tower doorway, the winner of another day's challenge.

To Oona, it all seemed like a bad dream. Roderick Rutherford, as had happened the day before, emerged only seconds after Isadora, finishing in second place, leaving Oona to step through the doorway in third.

As she exited the tower, squinting against the bright sunlight, Oona was forced to suppress a shout of indignation. Isadora grinned triumphantly in Oona's direction as the architect handed the fine young lady yet another blue ribbon, and Oona could do nothing but weakly smile back. She had lost again, and it was simply insufferable.

I
'm thinkin' my sister's cheating,” said Adler. “And now I'm out of the contest.”

The two of them, Adler and Oona, sat side by side on the curb, watching the spectators exit the gates outside Oswald Park. Deacon had taken his customary place on Oona's shoulder. In the distance, the Magician's Tower pointed to the sky like a disjointed finger.

Oona could only hope that Headmistress Duvet from the Academy of Fine Young Ladies did not happen by, as it was highly unladylike to sit on the sidewalk with one's feet resting on an iron utility-hole cover in the street. But at the moment, Oona didn't care. In her hand she held the second white ribbon she'd received from the architect,
which contained the clue for the next day's challenge. She had scarcely looked at it.

“I'm sorry, what did you say?” Oona asked. It was hard for her to concentrate on anything at the moment, even Adler Iree's charming Irish-accented voice.

“I said, I think Isadora is cheating,” he replied. “But I can't figure out how.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, watching the spectators disperse. Among the crowd were Sir Baltimore Rutherford, his daughter Penelope, and Roderick. Sir Baltimore looked more furious than ever. His normally impeccable hair was standing up at the edges as if he had been pulling at it with his fists.

“Will you read to me now, Daddy?” Penelope asked as they exited through the park gates.

To Oona's surprise, Sir Baltimore snatched the book from his daughter's small hands and tossed it violently into the air. The book sailed nearly twenty yards over the fence and plunked down in a stand of thorny bushes.

“Daddy!” Penelope began to cry. “My book! How are you going to read to me now?”

The spectators began to stop and stare, pointing at the family squabble and murmuring in low voices.

“I don't need that bloody book!” Sir Baltimore shouted at his daughter. “I've read it to you a hundred times. I can remember every annoying word!”

“Don't take out your anger on Penelope, Father,” Roderick said. “I'm the one you're angry at.”

“You're bloody well right, I'm angry at you!” Sir Baltimore howled. “That's twice you've lost. And for no good reason! What are you trying to do, ruin our family? Just wait till we get home. Why I should … should …” But when he realized he had an audience, Sir Baltimore trailed off. He picked Penelope up in one strong arm and trudged past the onlookers, leaving Roderick behind.

“What about my book?” Penelope cried.

“Hush about your bloody book. I'll buy you another one,” Sir Baltimore said, then glancing back at Roderick, he added: “If I can even afford it.”

This last bit he said mostly to himself, but his carriage was parked very near where Oona and Adler sat at the curb.

Just then, Isadora Iree glided through the park entrance accompanied by her mother, as well as Headmistress Duvet and several younger members of the academy. None of them so much as glanced in Oona's direction, and Oona was thankful. She didn't feel much like sharing polite smiles with people who disapproved of her.

She, Adler, and Deacon watched as Roderick approached Isadora, took her hand, and bowed. Isadora curtsied.

“Well played, my lady,” Roderick said.

“You, too,” Isadora replied, and when she removed her hand from Roderick's, Oona caught a glimpse of something in Isadora's hand.

“A note,” Oona said.

“What?” asked Adler.

“A note,” Oona repeated. “Roderick just passed Isadora a note.”

Adler rolled his eyes. “Oh. Probably another of his love poems.”

“You know about the poems?” Oona asked timidly, wondering how Adler felt about such things.

“Oh, aye,” Adler said. “I haven't read them, so I can't say if they're any good. Isadora says they are for
girlfriend eyes
only. Whatever that means.”

Oona blushed. She thought she knew exactly what Isadora meant by girlfriend eyes only, and she had a moment's fantasy of one day receiving her own letter from Adler meant for Oona's “girlfriend eyes” only.

“Roderick, let's go!” Sir Baltimore shouted.

Roderick gave Isadora a shrug, and then the two of them parted, Roderick heading to his father's carriage and Isadora and her entourage moving in the opposite direction up the street.

Oona watched the ladies until they had disappeared in the crowd, resisting the urge to follow. One of them,
either Madame Iree or Isadora herself, was likely in possession of the Punchbowl Oracle. Oona would have loved nothing more than to catch them at their cheating as they pulled the bowl from its secret hiding place.

“There is a rumor going around,” said Adler, “that Sir Baltimore has quite a bit of money at stake on this contest.”

Oona raised an eyebrow. “You think he's bet for Roderick to win?”

Adler tipped his top hat back. “It would explain that attitude of his, so it would: why he's so upset at Roderick coming in second and all.”

Oona thought of the bruise on Roderick's cheek. “Do you think Sir Baltimore would actually strike his own son over the loss of a little money?”

“Who says it's a
little
money?” Adler asked.

Deacon cleared his throat. “It would not be the first time Sir Baltimore were to get himself into trouble over a bet. I believe he has lost quite a bit of money to a certain criminal organization over the years.”

“You mean Red Martin and his Nightshade Corporation?” Oona asked.

“The very same,” said Deacon. “It is said that the Rutherfords were once much wealthier than they are now. And Red Martin's pockets are much fatter for it.”

“It's mostly because of Sir Baltimore's so-called
eidetic memory
, so it is,” said Adler. “It's not so perfect after all.”

“Very true,” replied Deacon.

“His what?” Oona asked, unfamiliar with the term.

“Eidetic memory,” Deacon said. “It means a perfect memory. Sometimes referred to as ‘total recall.' And more recently, since the invention of the camera, it has been known as a ‘photographic memory.' ”

“Oh, yes,” Oona said. “I remember his boasting about his memory at the party the other evening. How he had inherited it.”

Adler shook his head. “Yeah, to be sure. It's his claim to fame. Except Sir Baltimore doesn't seem to have such a good memory as his father and grandfather had.”

“But what does that have to do with gambling?” Oona asked.

“He uses his extraordinary memory to his advantage when playing cards,” said Deacon. “But playing cards is not a science.”

Oona shook her head at the irresponsibility of such frivolous gambling, but knew that Sir Baltimore would not have been the first man or woman to lose large sums of money to Red Martin. Even now, with Red Martin in hiding, his Nightshade Hotel and Casino still operated freely, continuing to dig deep into the pockets of the street's unwise gamblers.

The thought reminded Oona again of how the Punchbowl Oracle was just the sort of thing that a scoundrel
like Red Martin would love to get his hands on. But surely it wasn't he who was behind the theft. How could it be, when so far all of the evidence—the fact that Isadora kept winning the challenges, and that Madame Iree's ring had been found beneath the caravan—pointed to the dressmaker and her daughter? She wondered if perhaps Adler might know something, or at least might know a place where the ladies might keep such an object.

“How do you suppose Isadora's doing it?” Oona asked. “How is she getting the answers?”

“Haven't the foggiest,” said Adler. “But she's not getting those clues on her own. I just don't believe it.”

“Well, there are no rules saying you can't have help,” Oona pointed out.

“Help is one thing,” Adler said. “But she's got the
answers
. Somehow, she knows them ahead of time.”

Oona considered whether or not to let Adler in on the disappearance of the Punchbowl Oracle. She thought the matter through very carefully before finally deciding to tell him everything she knew, including her suspicions that Adler's own mother was the thief. After all, Adler was now out of the competition, leaving only herself, Roderick, and Isadora to compete the following day. She turned to Adler, met his handsome gaze, and the story spilled out of her.

When she had finished, Adler began to shake his head. “I just don't see it happening.”

“Which part?' Oona asked.

“Well,” Adler said, “the part about my mother crawling beneath the gypsy caravan wearing one of her prized dresses.”

Oona nodded. “Well, it is only a theory. But how do you explain her ring being found under the wagon?”

“That I don't know,” Adler said. His brow furrowed as he thought, and Oona found the expression exceptionally cute. At last he said: “I know what you're thinking.”

Oona's heart gave a sudden thump in her chest, and her face went bright red. But when Adler continued, she realized that he had not actually been reading her mind, and had not been referring to her thoughts about his cuteness.

“You're wondering, if my mother did steal that bleeding punchbowl,” he said, “then why would she give the answers to Isadora and not to me?”

“The thought had occurred to me,” Oona admitted, feeling somewhat guilty, even though she hadn't been the one who had brought it up, and for an instant she was tempted to place her hand on top of Adler's to comfort him. Remembering that they were out in public, however, she restrained herself.

Adler nodded gravely. “Well, I actually don't think
she would. But then again, I do know that those who attend the Academy of Fine Young Ladies swear some sort of oath of loyalty to the other members. That being the case …” He trailed off.

It was Deacon who finished his thought for him. “That being the case, then it would be out of a sense of duty that she would give the answers to her daughter and not to her son.”

Adler nodded solemnly. “That, and the fact that I wouldn't want to win by cheating, anyway. She would know that.”

Oona suddenly beamed at Adler, completely forgetting all sense of decorum and placing her hand on top of his, despite the very open display of affection she was showing out in public toward a boy she hardly knew, and giving it a squeeze. “I didn't think you would,” she said.

For several long seconds, their eyes met, locking in place, and Oona's fingers tingled. It seemed to Oona that, if she weren't careful, she might actually fall into those blue eyes of his and be lost forever.

Deacon made an uncomfortable throat-clearing sound, and Oona shook her head as if coming out of a hypnotic trance. She quickly removed her hand from Adler's. Adler cleared his own throat, and Oona could still feel the tingle in her hand.

“I still don't think my mother would have stolen that
punchbowl, Miss Crate,” he said. “I don't know how that ring of hers got where it did, but to think of her crawling beneath that caravan and through some trapdoor? Just doesn't sound like something she's capable of.”

Oona nodded. It was indeed an almost comical thought: imagining Madame Iree crawling in the dirt and forcing her voluptuous form through that trapdoor. Indeed, now that Oona considered it, she wasn't sure if Madame Iree
could
have squeezed through, even if she hadn't been wearing the voluminous dress. Her prodigious bosom alone might have even eliminated her as a suspect.