The Magician's Tower (5 page)

But Madame Romania from Romania had asked for no money, and after the punchbowl's disappearance, Oona had listened intently as the woman explained how going to the police was out of the question.

“Gypsies are not to be getting very much along with the police,” Madame Romania from Romania had assured
Oona, before noisily blowing her nose into her ragged sleeve and falling into a sobbing fit of grief.

This in mind, Oona reasoned that if she did not solve the mystery, then no one else would. And while it was true that the gypsy woman had not specifically asked for Oona's help, she had not asked her
not
to help either. And the truth of it was, if Madame Romania from Romania was correct, then the Punchbowl Oracle—a crystal bowl precisely seven inches deep and thirteen inches in diameter—was the only fortune-telling device capable of not only showing the future, but also showing the past. It could answer any question, and indeed held the power to show Oona exactly what had happened the day of her mother's death.

One pestering bit of information continued to needle at Oona's thoughts: Madame Romania from Romania's insistence that the door to the caravan had been locked tight while she was away. No one could have gotten in. And yet with the punchbowl missing, Oona believed this impossible. She yearned to have a good look around the wagon for some clue—a sign of forced entry, or perhaps a loose floorboard—but in her grief over the missing punchbowl, the ragged gypsy woman had given Oona very few details before hurrying her out the caravan door and locking herself inside.

Today, during daylight
, Oona thought,
would be the perfect time to investigate, and yet …

As if reading her thoughts, the Wizard said: “You should put the punchbowl out of your mind, Oona. Concentrate your efforts on the contest.”

Put a mystery out of her mind? Before it was solved?
Ridiculous
, she thought. She had a good mind to tell her uncle just that, but instead she simply nodded, and said: “Yes, Uncle. I'll do my best.”

The response seemed to satisfy the Wizard, who rammed another piping-hot glob of pie into his mouth. Deacon, who knew better than to trust a response like that from Oona, tutted, and Oona threw him a warning glance. But Deacon couldn't seem to help himself.

“According to the
Encyclopedia Arcanna
,” he recited, “fortune-telling is a capricious art at best—meaning that predicting the future is … well … unpredictable.” Deacon paused, as if waiting for a laugh. When none came, he cleared his throat. “There is no mention of a Punchbowl Oracle in the encyclopedia whatsoever, nor any object with such prophetic powers. None in this world, that is.”

“An Orb of Cathesis could do as much,” Samuligan interjected.

“Yes, Samuligan,” said the Wizard. “But Orbs of Cathesis existed only in Faerie.”

Deacon fluttered to Oona's shoulder. “There is no record of an orb ever having crossed from one world to
the other. Even if one had, the orbs, of which there were only ten, were created to answer only one question each. They would most likely have all been used up by now.”

“Will it be difficult?” Oona asked in order to change the subject. “The contest, I mean. The Magician's Tower Contest.”

As the Wizard had just taken another bite of pie, it was Samuligan who answered. “The Magician's Tower Contest has been taking place for nearly as long as I have been serving the occupants of Pendulum House. It takes place every five years, and I have seen nearly one hundred of them. They are always amusing to watch …” The mop Samuligan was holding all at once turned into a sword, which he pointed at Deacon: “And often deadly.”

Deacon made a loud squawk, hopping from his perch on the candelabrum to the table.

“It is true,” said the Wizard. “People have died, in the past, but only because they were foolhardy and did not take the challenges seriously.”

Samuligan shrugged, as if death were nothing to fear. His sword changed into a trumpet, which he blew forcefully into the air before adding: “But mostly the applicants suffer only superficial wounds.”

Oona knew all of this, of course. She had been preparing for the contest for the past month, researching previous challenges with Deacon.

“Is it true that the challenges are never the same from one competition to the next?” she asked.

“They are always new,” the Wizard said.

“Except for the final challenge,” Samuligan put in. “It is always the same … and has never been completed.”

“The puzzle box,” Oona said.

Both Samuligan and the Wizard nodded thoughtfully. The unopenable box, a legendary object that defied solving. It was a mystery that she should dearly love to get her hands on.

“But to get to the final task, you must complete the first three,” the Wizard mused. “And that will be difficult to do on an empty stomach.”

Oona's stomach grumbled. The thought of the first set of challenges sent a wave of excitement through her. Just then, a memory came to her, one that she couldn't believe she could have ever forgotten. It was a fantastic memory, a fuzzy image of holding her father's hand in Oswald Park and watching the contestants disappear inside the tower.

“One day I'll go in there, and I'll win,” she had told her father.

Her father had grinned at her, and then said something that she could not remember. Perhaps it was then that he had told her of his own adventures inside the tower. It bothered her that she could have forgotten that such a
moment had existed. She wished that she could remember everything about her parents, but the more time went on, the more she seemed to lose them. Her mother had been there as well, standing beside her father on the grassy ground. She, too, had grinned at Oona and said … what? Something like …

And then Oona's breath caught in her throat as she remembered the words.

“Of course you will win, darling,” her mother had said. “I have the utmost confidence.”

And now here Oona was, five years later, getting ready to enter the contest. She wished that her parents could be there to see it. She wanted so badly to make them proud.

“On second thought,” she said, turning to Samuligan, “Uncle Alexander is right. Breakfast is exactly what I need. Pancakes please, Samuligan. With lots of butter, and strawberries!”

O
ona was astounded. It appeared that nearly all of Dark Street had turned out to either participate in or watch the contest. From the enormous fountain in the shape of Oswald the Great at the gate entrance, to the soaring red brick wall at the far end, Oswald Park was jam-packed with people of all shapes and sizes. On the other side of that brick wall, Oona knew, was nothing at all—a vast emptiness known as the Drift, where Dark Street swung around and around like an enormous clock hand, coming to rest only once a day, at exactly midnight, when the Iron Gates at the north end of the street opened for one minute upon New York City before closing again and moving on.

Nearly thirteen miles long, Dark Street was home to thousands. Considering that the contest took place only once every five years, it should have been no surprise to Oona that so many people had shown up, yet she could scarcely remember having seen so many of the street's citizens in one place at one time.

It took her longer than she would have liked to make her way to the front of the stage at the base of the crooked tower.

If she had thought that the daylight might have added a tinge of beauty to the monstrosity of a building, she was sorely mistaken. Every rickety curve, kink, and wobbly defect revealed itself in the bright light of day. Oona was forced to crane her neck to see the mysterious pyramid at the top of the tower, where it rocked precariously against the purplish-blue sky. Her stomach turned at the thought of going up there.

With Deacon resting on her shoulder, Oona had only just reached the front of the stage, having forced her way between two overly dressed women, when a high-pitched girly voice grated in Oona's ears.

“Read me a story from my storybook, Daddy!” the voice whined, and Oona could feel Deacon's claws tighten on her shoulder at the sound of it.

Sir Baltimore Rutherford leaned casually against the front of the stage, his young daughter Penelope sitting
on the edge beside him. With her scarlet hair pulled back in tight pigtails, and her electric-blue dress puffing out around her like a bell, she looked a bit like a large rag doll, one that had been magically brought to life. She waved a storybook in her father's face.

“Not now, Penelope, dear,” said Sir Baltimore. “The contest is about to start. We're here to support your brother.”

“But I want to hear the story of the evil chipmunks and the wicked farmer!” Penelope chided.

“I told you, Penny,” Sir Baltimore said, “we're here to watch Roderick.” Then, as if speaking more to himself, he added: “And he'd better win … or else …”

But Sir Baltimore did not finish his thought out loud, having suddenly noticed Oona. He tipped his hat. “Ah, Miss Crate. See, Penny. Here is Roderick's most dangerous competition … that is, if she is at all like her father.”

He laughed idly, but Oona detected a note of seriousness to his tone.

“Hello, Sir Baltimore,” she said politely.

Roderick appeared quite suddenly at his father's side, with Isadora Iree in hand, the two of them looking striking as usual. And then Oona's heart fumbled in her chest. Adler Iree stepped through the crowd and tipped his hat.

“Sorry I missed you last night, Miss Crate,” he said in his thick Irish accent.

Oona nodded, displaying what she hoped was the socially acceptable amount of a smile, though she felt like beaming at him. With his scruffy old top hat resting cockeyed on his head, he gave Oona a roguish wink. Oona felt a fluttering in her stomach, and her cheeks grew warm.

“Did you meet my BOYFRIEND?” Isadora asked Oona before she could reply to Adler.

Oona suppressed a smile. “I believe you introduced us last night. Are you all participating in the competition?”

“Oh, yes,” said Isadora. “Wouldn't miss it for the world. I suppose you are entering as well?”

Oona nodded. “I am.”

Isadora stepped closer and crossed her arms. “Of course, you'll have the advantage with all of that magic stuff you know.”

Oona peered up at Isadora, who stood several inches taller, despite the fact that Isadora was less than six months older. Oona knew by Isadora's tone that she was getting at something. “What's that supposed to mean?” Oona asked.

“Oh, nothing,” said Isadora. She narrowed one eye, inspecting Oona from head to foot. “I'm just saying that, well, if you were forced to play by the same rules as the rest of us, without magic, you probably wouldn't even make it past the first set of challenges.”

“Oh, dear, don't fall for that,” Deacon whispered in
Oona's ear. “There are no rules against using magic in the contest. Any advantage you have is fair game.”

But Oona wasn't listening. She pointed her chin like a spear at Isadora. “Is that a challenge?”

Deacon groaned.

“It is whatever you make of it,” Isadora replied.

Oona's face grew warm. She had fallen for a challenge of Isadora's once before, when the insufferable girl had dared Oona to find Madame Iree's missing dresses before the Midnight Masquerade … and in the end, Oona had come out the winner. But this was different. Here, Oona had the clear advantage of using magic to overcome whatever obstacles lay within the Magician's Tower. Her magical abilities would come in quite handy … but it irritated her to think that Isadora believed Oona needed magic to win. The truth was, Oona nearly always found nonmagical solutions to be preferable to magic anyway, and she quickly decided she would have none of it.

“Fine,” she said. “I won't use any magic at all during the contest, and then we shall see who is the better.”

Isadora grinned like a fox. “We shall.”

Oona felt a lead weight drop into her stomach, realizing too late that she had done exactly what Isadora had wanted.

“Attention!” called a voice. “The contest is about to begin. May I have your attention, please?”

“That was unwise,” Deacon whispered in Oona's ear.

“Oh, hush,” Oona said, feeling foolish enough as it was.

The architect took to center stage and spoke through an enormous cone that amplified his voice. The crowd hushed. “The first four contestants to make it through both of today's challenges will continue on to tomorrow's challenge,” he announced. “Good luck to you all.”

Then came a pause in which Oona could feel Deacon's claws grip at her shoulder. The pause turned into an even longer silence, and then a clock tower chimed in the distance, twelve strokes marking the hour.

“The first clue can be found on the flyer announcing the tower contest!” the architect said through the cone. He adjusted the ridiculously tall hat on his head, adding: “That is all.”