The Magician's Tower (3 page)

Presently, most of the partygoers were on their feet, and Oona slipped around the empty tables, squeezing nimbly through a sea of tuxedo tails and bustled dresses. She was playing a little game with herself as she moved, trying not to touch anyone as she bobbed and weaved her way across the park, when she suddenly found herself nearly knocked off her feet. She stumbled back in surprise, looking hurriedly around, only to discover that
she had collided with what appeared to be a moving pile of rags. Deacon cawed noisily from her shoulder at the unexpected jostle.

“A thousand pardons,” said the pile of rags, and Oona's heart leapt, more from the unexpected voice coming from the rags than from being so violently jostled. And then she realized that this was not just a pile of rags, but a woman draped from head to foot in jaggedly cut cloth. The woman looked wildly out of place among the well-dressed party guests.

“Please, do be forgiving me,” said the woman, her voice old and cracked, like ancient wallpaper. The heavy smell of mint did little to disguise the reek of her breath, and Oona stepped back to avoid the pungent odor. The woman continued to speak in a thick, foreign-sounding accent: “I am Madame Romania from Romania, and I am here to be telling the fortunes of these fine guests.”

“Oh, a fortune-teller,” Oona said, unable to keep the skepticism from her voice.

“Would you like your fortune told, young miss?” asked Madame Romania from Romania. “My caravan is parked just over there, and I can be giving you the answers to very many of the questions.”

Oona shook her head, thinking to herself that, if any question truly needed to be answered, it would be how to cure such terrible breath.

“No, thank you,” Oona said. “I'm looking for someone, but thank you for—”

The woman's hand shot out quick as a snake, grabbing Oona's wrist and squeezing tight. Oona took in a startled breath, suddenly frightened.

“You are not responsible for the burden you hold!” Madame Romania from Romania said in an urgent, hushed tone.

“Release her at once!” Deacon demanded, poising himself on Oona's shoulder, ready to attack.

But at the sound of the woman's words, Oona froze. She blinked in surprise, staring into the woman's eyes, which were the only part of the fortune-teller she could see. And then Madame Romania from Romania released her grip, pulling her hand back so that it disappeared within the tangle of multicolored fabrics.

“Please do be forgiving me,” she said. “I do not mean to be frightening the young miss. But Madame Romania from Romania sees.”

Oona rubbed at her wrist, looking wary. “What do you mean I am not responsible for the burden I hold?” But Oona thought she knew exactly what the gypsy was speaking of. The laughing faces of her mother and baby sister filled her head.

The gypsy woman shrugged. “Madame Romania from Romania is not so sure what she means. We would
need to be consulting the punchbowl to see these things clearly.”

“The punchbowl?” Oona asked quizzically.

“Yes,” the woman said, and she stepped closer to Oona. “The Punchbowl Oracle can show you all the answers you seek.” She pointed toward a wagon—her large, boxlike gypsy caravan—which was parked near the far end of the stage. Small bells hung from the caravan's windows and tinkled in the breeze. “I am having the bowl there, inside for the safekeeping. You may visit if you are liking to know much answers.”

The woman abruptly spun on her heels and trotted away in the direction of the caravan.

Oona hesitated, and as she stared after the fortune-teller, she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to discover Isadora Iree—Adler Iree's twin sister—standing behind her in the ghostly lamplight. A gorgeous girl only a few months older than Oona, Isadora grinned, her enormous blue eyes blinking prettily in the flickering glow from above. Beside Isadora stood the most handsome boy Oona had ever seen. With short, well-groomed blond hair, high cheekbones, and a square-shaped chin, the two of them—Isadora and the boy—made quite a picture.

“Oona, darling,” said Isadora, as if the two of them were the best of friends, “it is good to see you.”

Isadora wore a pretty blue-and-white patterned dress,
with an extravagant pink shawl. Why Isadora was being so nice to her, Oona couldn't have said. The two of them had never gotten along well, and Isadora's pleasantness put Oona on her guard.

“Hello, Isadora,” Oona said warily. “You are looking lovely.”

Isadora's eyes flicked quickly over Oona's appearance, but she did not return the compliment. She held her hand out toward the well-dressed boy.

“This is my BOYFRIEND,” she said so forcefully that Oona nearly stepped back.

The boy smiled at Oona, displaying a set of marvelously straight teeth. “Roderick Rutherford,” he said, and extended his hand.

A look crossed Isadora's face as if she might swat Roderick's hand back, but she somehow managed to control herself. Oona took Roderick's hand and shook.

“The son of Sir Baltimore,” Deacon intoned from Oona's shoulder.

“Indeed,” said Roderick.

“And did I mention that he's my BOYFRIEND?” Isadora asked.

Oona worked hard to suppress a smile. “I believe you did, Isadora. And a fine couple you do make.”

What followed was a long, awkward moment in which Isadora and Roderick appeared to strike a pose. Oona
spotted a splotch of mud on the shoulder of Roderick's well-fitted jacket. She squinted, as if not seeing correctly, and then realized that one entire sleeve of his jacket was dripping wet. Roderick followed her gaze to the spot on his shoulder, but did not seem surprised to see the mud there.

“Oh, this,” he said, then gestured vaguely in the direction of the gypsy caravan. “Isadora was about to step in a puddle. It's very muddy.”

Oona shook her head. “But how did the mud get on your shoulder?”

“My BOYFRIEND didn't want me to have to walk around,” said Isadora. “So my BOYFRIEND put his jacket down over the puddle, so that I wouldn't muddy the bottom of my dress.” She squeezed Roderick's arm tightly, looking like a child who's received an expensive new toy. “Isn't my BOYFRIEND wonderful?”

“Chivalry!” said Roderick, as if announcing the answer to some unasked question. “It is all about chivalry. Like the knights of King Arthur. No deed is too small, no task too large for my lady. She need only ask, and I'll scale the city walls, battle a sea monster, slay a dragon, or bake cookies. I am a modern chivalrous.”

Deacon shuddered. “A person cannot be a chivalrous! It is an adjective. The proper term would be a chevalier.”

Roderick seemed not to have heard. “Chivalry!
Chivalry! Chivalry!” he intoned, and then fell silent, reveling in himself.

For a long moment Oona did not know how to respond. Finally, she pointed toward the back of a woman standing nearby. The woman's dress flowed outward in extravagant lavenders and blues.

“Isn't that your mother, Isadora?” Oona asked. “I do believe I saw that dress in her shop window only last week.”

The corners of Isadora's mouth turned downward. “That is not my mother, nor is it my mother's dress. It is a copy … a knockoff.”

Isadora spun around, pointing in the direction of the crowd near the stage. There, beside the architect, stood the real Madame Iree, a matronly woman with a prodigious bosom who just happened to be the most exclusive dressmaker on all of Dark Street. The dress Madame Iree wore appeared identical to the one worn by the lady standing nearby.

Oona was just about to excuse herself from Isadora and Roderick's company, intent on tracking down Madame Romania from Romania, when a commotion broke out near the architect's table.

“My dress!” Madame Iree shouted. “You've spilled your soup all over it!”

Oona could just make out the figures of the architect
and Madame Iree lying in a heap on the ground. The stunned-looking architect was attempting to push himself up with one hand while holding an empty bowl in his other.

“I'm so sorry, madame. Please excuse my clumsiness,” said the architect as several hands from the crowd reached out to help them both back to their feet.

“Don't be ridiculous!” said an enormous man standing nearby. Oona recognized him to be Mr. Bop, the tattoo-faced senior undersecretary from the Magicians Legal Alliance. “I saw the whole thing, and
she
is the one who bumped into
you
.”

The architect appeared confused. “Well … I don't know what happened, but do please accept my apologies, madame.”

“Now I shall have to return home for a change of wardrobe!” Madame Iree announced before making a rather dramatic exit across the park.

“Poor Mother,” said Isadora. “Can you think of anything more dreadful than having soup spilled on your dress?”

“I can think of countless things that are far worse than—” Deacon began, but Oona cut him short.

“It was lovely speaking to you, Isadora,” Oona lied. “And a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rutherford. Please excuse me.”

“The pleasure was mine,” Roderick replied.

Oona turned away just as Isadora's mouth wrinkled into a frown. “Don't forget you're
my BOYFRIEND
.”

“Of course, Isadora, my lady. I was only saying …,” but Roderick's voice trailed off as Oona and Deacon pressed through the crowd, her original interest in finding Adler Iree all at once squashed by the urge to learn more of what the gypsy had to say.

The caravan was a large box-type wagon, festooned with ornate molding and draping swaths of shiny cloth. A sign painted in large black letters across the side exclaimed:

“You aren't seriously considering talking to that fortune-teller, are you?” Deacon asked.

Oona's face flushed red, and she paused on the step leading up to the caravan door.

“She'll simply take your money and tell you some bit of vague nonsense,” Deacon added.

“I … yes, I suppose you're right,” Oona said, not wishing to explain how the gypsy's words had sparked a flame of hope in her that she had thought long dead. “But it could be fun.”

Oona moved to the second step. One of the flyers announcing the opening of the tower contest had been tacked to the door. It read:

Oona reached for the doorknob. Her hand froze. A sudden shout pulled her attention in the direction of the stage.

It was the architect.

“The plans!” he shouted. “The plans for the tower contest are missing from my satchel. Someone call the police!”

Oona's pulse quickened, and a smile creased the corners of her mouth.

“A case,” she whispered.

“A case, indeed,” Deacon said excitedly.

And then Oona was running toward the commotion, Deacon soaring just above her head like a shadowy thought. By the time she forced her way through the crowd, her heart was pounding.

“What has happened?” she asked.

“Who are you?” asked the architect. The squat little man looked as white as a ghost.

“I am Oona Crate. I heard you say that the plans had been stolen.”

The crowd muttered in hushed tones all around them.

“Yes, yes,” said the architect. He patted his satchel. “The plans were in here. All of the tower's secrets. They must be found, or the contest will have to be cancelled.”

Oona peered around at the crowd, wondering if whoever had stolen the plans might still be among them. There were many familiar faces: Mr. Bop, Isadora Iree, and Roderick Rutherford were clustered near Oona's uncle. Adler Iree stood from his table, his top hat askew, the arcane tattoos on his face scrunched up in an expression of concern. The woman wearing the knockoff version of Madame Iree's dress held her gloved hand to her forehead, as if she might swoon. Sir Baltimore and Mr. Glump, the curator from the Museum of Magical History, were there to steady her.

As she took in the faces of possible suspects, Oona was taken completely by surprise when Deacon announced: “Here they are!”

“Here are what?” Oona asked, spinning round to discover Deacon standing on the ground near the edge of the crowd. He was poking his beak at several pieces of parchment.

The crowd stepped away to reveal the pages.

“The plans,” Deacon said.

“But … why are they there on the ground?” Oona asked.

“That is obviously where you dropped them!” said a high, knifelike voice. Oona closed her eyes and shook her head. She knew that voice. Knew it all too well. She spun around to discover Inspector White of the Dark Street Police Department stepping through the crowd. He stooped to retrieve the papers.