The Wizard Of Dark Street Part 3

"Money?" said the Wizard.

"Or, at the very least," Mr. Ravensmith went on, "you might have specified the proper method for the applicants to send in their resumes. No doubt, anyone interested in the position tried to use their American postal service instead of properly addressing their letters and then setting them on fire."

"Well, if they couldn't figure that out," the Wizard said stubbornly, "then they don't deserve the position. And look here." He waved the resume with the blackened edges in front of him. "At least someone from New York figured it out. And as far as money is concerned, I think you are quite wrong, Mr. Ravensmith. If someone is more interested in money than in learning magic for its own sake, then I won't have them."

Mr. Ravensmith raised his thick eyebrows before clearing his throat. "Speaking of money ... and with all due respect, it is something I am loath to bring up, but my secretary, Mr. Quick, has informed me that we have yet to receive any payments from you, whatsoever, for services rendered in the past two years."

Mr. Ravensmith pulled a thick envelope from his inside pocket and gave it a little shake, as if ringing a bell. "Mr. Quick was so good as to tally up all one hundred and sixteen invoices."

The Wizard said nothing, only sat there, elbows pressing in on the slowly breathing desk. Deacon s.h.i.+fted restlessly on Oona's shoulder.

"And that, I'm afraid, is just the beginning," Mr. Ravensmith went on. "While it's true that you have sold quite a lot of your ever-burning lamps, and that your never-melting ice was a great success in the past, the problem remains that no one ever needs to come back and buy more. The lamps stop working the instant they are removed from Dark Street, and the ice immediately begins to melt the moment it crosses through the Iron Gates, so there is no chance of selling them in New York. Your enchantment store has done nothing but lose money for three years straight. Your house staff has dwindled to one servant because of lack of funds, and those who have left are demanding their severance pay. Your love for throwing frivolous parties has pushed you into considerable debt. The list goes on and on, Alexander."

Mr. Ravensmith paused to once again brush some bit of dust from his jacket. The room remained decidedly silent. The lawyer s.h.i.+fted uneasily in his chair before continuing, his voice losing all sense of formality and dropping into exasperation. "Do you know, Alexander, that Miss Colbert, your former cleaning maid, came to me not six months ago complaining of her sudden dismissal from your service? She was threatening to sue. I was forced to take her on as a maid myself, if only to appease her. It is lucky for you that I can always use another cleaning lady, so I hired her on the spot. And to tell the truth, her superior talent for cleaning both my office and my home leaves me completely baffled as to why she was let go in the first place. Perhaps if you gave up these outlandish parties you keep throwing, then you might be able to hire her back."

Mr. Ravensmith ran a finger along the arm of his chair, creating a trail in the dust. The tattoos on his face squinched up, and he sat forward in his seat, as if in imminent danger of sullying his jacket.

Oona frowned. It had been Oona herself who had discovered the maid stealing silver from the Pendulum House kitchen, and Oona believed that her uncle had been extraordinarily lenient by simply relieving the maid of her duties and not reporting the incident to the police.

Mr. Ravensmith might want to lock up his silverware, Oona thought.

"I fear, Alexander," Mr. Ravensmith added in an eerily hushed tone, "that your ... creditor ... has become somewhat impatient."

Oona glanced suspiciously at her uncle, but remained quiet. She had known he was having financial troubles, but to what extent, she was unsure. Her uncle disliked the subject of money, she knew, and had never shared such information with her.

As if to prove his dislike for the subject, the Wizard ignored Mr. Ravensmith's envelope, focusing instead on the resume.

"Well," he said after a long moment, "this applicant will have to do. Samuligan, where is he now?"

Samuligan spoke from the shadows. "As Mr. Ravensmith has instructed, he is in the parlor. With the others."

"The others, yes," the Wizard said, opening a drawer in the desk and removing four more sheets of paper. Similarly burned around the edges, he placed those resumes on top of the first, looking more disappointed than ever. "Four applicants from Dark Street, and one from the World of Man. That is all. There was once a time when ... when ... Ah, but let's not dwell upon the past."

He turned to Oona, a sadness in his face that she found difficult to look at. He appeared reluctant to speak. "You will need to sign away your rights as my apprentice, Oona. This is very serious now, and if you are certain that this detective business is what you want, I won't stand in your way. So long as you are careful."

Oona nodded, afraid that if she spoke, her voice would betray her mixed feelings.

The Wizard turned to the grandfather clock. "Samuligan, please accompany Mr. Ravensmith to the parlor."

"It shall be done, sir." The faerie servant stepped from the shadow of the clock, his tall, razor-thin body poised to attention.

"Mr. Ravensmith," the Wizard said. "Please have each of the applicants sign the appropriate eligibility contract. Miss Crate will be along in a moment to sign her own relinquis.h.i.+ng doc.u.ment as well, but I wish to speak with her alone."

Mr. Ravensmith sighed, agitatedly returning the unpaid invoice to his pocket. He stood, brushed the dust from his coattails, and followed Samuligan to the door.

"I can wait outside, if you wish, sir," Deacon offered, but after a moment's consideration the Wizard shook his head, indicating that that would be unnecessary. He waived a hand to Samuligan, who closed the door, leaving the Wizard alone with Deacon and Oona.

"Lawyers!" said the Wizard. He leaned back in his chair and, in a softer tone, said: "You have backbone, my dear. A spirit I can only admire. It is a spirit that would serve this seat well. The things you could do." He nodded to no one in particular and added: "I envy you. As an apprentice I, too, had other interests. Other aspirations. I might have gone on to become one of the great badminton players of our time. But that is neither here nor there. I stayed. There were others who were even better suited for the position than I was, but I stayed because it was what was expected of me."

Oona felt a dull ache growing in her chest. She bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to let her emotions show. She felt sad for him, this old man who had sacrificed himself for the honored magical position. Dutifully. In a way, she felt she was letting him down, he who had raised her as his own. Educated her. Protected her.

"I don't blame you for abandoning your post," the Wizard continued. "Nor do I blame you for your dislike of magic. How could I? What happened to your mother and sister that day in the park was very sad. Very, very sad, and unfortunate. I loved them deeply as well. We both miss them very much, but you can't continue to blame yourself, Oona. It was an accident. I am as much responsible for what happened as anyone else. I was responsible for you. For honing your extraordinary powers."

He gazed at her as if expecting a reply. But what reply was there to give? She was silent. The dragon-bone desk breathed steadily in the background, and the floating tea saucer over the fireside table continued its endless pattern of crazy eights.

"I must warn you, Oona," the Wizard continued, "some people may be able to simply walk away from this position and leave the magic behind. But not you. You are a Natural Magician. The magic is in you. And while you continue to live with me, though I will have a new apprentice, I believe I still have the responsibility of helping you control those powers."

The thought was a sobering one. Oona had of course known that leaving her position as apprentice would not rid her of the magic, but only of her obligation to practice it. Still, the idea that she would need to keep it under control for the rest of her life was an unpleasant thought, to say the least.

She glanced nervously at Deacon, but the bird remained respectfully silent.

"The reason I bring these things up now," the Wizard said, "is because if your disinterest in magic sp.a.w.ns solely from what happened in the park, then I urge you to reconsider giving up the apprentices.h.i.+p. If, on the other hand, it is something more than that ... for instance, your heart calling you in another direction, then I urge you to follow this new direction. Think on that before you sign the papers. That is all I ask."

Oona swallowed hard. "I will." She felt like a little girl again, small, and fragile, and confused.

"Now please, Oona, leave me alone for a moment. I will meet the applicants only after they have signed the doc.u.ments. In the meantime, I need to drink." He cleared his throat, and corrected himself: "I mean think."

Oona pushed open the study door, exited the room, and turned back. The Wizard sat drumming his long, wrinkled fingers on the desk, introspective, not looking at her. The door had just begun to close when her uncle abruptly stood and moved to the bookcase behind the desk. He made a sudden motion with his hand. The gesture was quick and precise, but with his back to her, such as it was, Oona was unable to make out what the movement had been. To her surprise, a shelf swung outward in front of the Wizard, revealing a hidden compartment behind the books. The study door had closed almost completely when Oona stopped it with her foot, leaving only a crack through which to see. Inside the hidden compartment she could make out what looked like the curling edges of several flat sheets of paper, on top of which sat a mysterious black ball. A bottle of scotch whiskey and a gla.s.s sat beside the papers, and farther back in the compartment, she thought she glimpsed the dark outline of a large book. The Wizard poured a drink, closed the shelf, and returned to the desk.

Oona let the door fall slowly shut behind her.

The Wizard's disappointment in her decision could not have been more obvious, and she suddenly found it very hard to bear. She knew that he felt nearly as guilty about her mother's and sister's deaths as she did. It was soon after the accident in the park when he had begun his drinking. Oona also suspected it would have been around that time that he had begun to let the servants go, and allow the gardens to fall into disrepair.

Halfway across the antechamber Oona stopped and peered sidelong at Deacon. An idea occurred to her that she thought just might raise her spirits.

"What do you say we get a good look at the applicants before going into the parlor?" she said, rubbing her hands excitedly.

"An excellent idea," Deacon replied. "And how do you propose we accomplish it?"

"The broom closet."

"I beg pardon?"

"Why, through Oswald's portrait, Deacon. I'm sure I've mentioned it."

Deacon slowly nodded his head. "Ah, yes. Now I remember. That is rather convenient, would you not say?"

Oona gave him a wink.

"Indeed, Deacon," she said. "Nothing like a bit of spying to put one in the right mood."

The broom closet, located inside the front entryway to the house, was small. The pine-branch broom that usually sat in the closet was nowhere to be seen, and Oona had a sneaking suspicion that their old cleaning maid, Miss Colbert, had made off with it when she'd been fired. Miss Colbert had made off with quite a few things, Oona was fairly certain. Currently, however, Oona was pleased that the broom was absent because it allowed more room for her to squeeze inside the tiny closet.

The k.n.o.b on the door had fought stubbornly against Oona's initial turn, and only by squeezing down and heaving with all of her strength had she managed to unlatch it.

Now staring at the filthy inside, she began to have second thoughts about going in. After a moment's consideration, however, she decided that getting a good look at her would-be replacements, without their having the ability to see her, was worth getting a little dirty. She squeezed awkwardly into the tight s.p.a.ce, Deacon perched like a gargoyle on her shoulder. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the two of them in complete darkness.

"Oops," Oona said. "I hadn't meant for that to happen."

"Rather a tight fit," Deacon said.

"Yes, sorry," Oona said. "And get your beak out of my ear."

Her foot pressed against something hard in the darkness: a low footstool that she now stepped up onto.

"Where are the spy holes you spoke of?" Deacon asked.

Oona fumbled in the dark. "Ah, here," she said, and slid a small part of the wall away. Two holes appeared in the wall, spilling light onto Oona's grinning face.

"And here, Deacon. I believe the other is ..." She found the second concealed panel and slid it open, revealing two more holes to the left.

Deacon peered through. "And you say that I am looking through the eyes of the lizard?" he mused.

"Precisely," Oona said. "And I am looking through the eyes of Oswald the Great." She placed her own eyes against the first set of holes and peered into the next room.

The grand parlor at Pendulum House was tall and wide. It was without question the most comfortable room in the house and had been furnished as a place for entertaining guests. It seemed to Oona that not a week would pa.s.s when the Wizard wasn't hosting some party or another, using the room to celebrate the full moon, or the new moon, or the existence of the moon altogether. He had thrown parties to show off a new robe, or an old one that he'd had tailored, or simply because it was Wednesday. On such evenings, plates of hors d'oeuvres floated several inches above the tabletops, along with bobbing winegla.s.ses and hovering teacups. While many agreed that the Wizard was a second-rate magician at best, it was also said that he was a fabulous host, and that if you wished to see his best magic, then you simply needed to get invited to a party at Pendulum House.

Though the room had no windows to speak of, that did not affect the lighting, since the entire ceiling was lined with countless glowing b.a.l.l.s of light. The walls were decorated with enormous portraits of past Wizards and historical figures, as well as intricate tapestries depicting mystical creatures-sprites and goblins, elves and gnomes. Though the creatures appeared frozen in place, like in a photograph or a portrait, if a houseguest should happen to look away from the tapestry and then back again, the creatures would appear to have s.h.i.+fted positions-as if, while the observer had been distracted, the creatures were having a party themselves.

The most peculiar aspect of the parlor was the enormous pendulum that swung in a perfect arc through the center of the room. This, of course, was the very pendulum for which Pendulum House took its name. It rocked back and forth, slowly swinging through the parlor, dividing the room into two separate gathering areas. A sofa had been cut in half to make way for the seven-foot pendulum bob as it swept through its middle.

The portrait that Oona stood behind was that of Oswald the Great and his faithful lizard, Lulu, who sat on the magician's shoulder, the two of them looking remarkably dignified and brave.

A long, cus.h.i.+oned bench had been placed in front of the fireplace, parallel to the swing of the pendulum. On it sat four applicants for the Wizard's apprentice. Oona recognized Isadora and her brother, Adler Iree, instantly, but there were two other applicants she had never seen before. The first was a girl dressed in a black witch's costume, complete with pointy black hat, who looked younger than Oona, perhaps nine or ten years old. Oona was shocked to see her there.

"Is that a witch?" Oona asked.

"It certainly is," said Deacon, sounding equally surprised.

Oona considered the oddity for a moment. "You don't see many of them outside of Witch Hill. And even then, only the girls."

"You speak truly," Deacon agreed. "I don't believe any of them have ever applied for the position of apprentice before."

"What does the Who's Who have to say about her?" Oona asked.

"Nothing," Deacon said. "There are no entries for any of the witches, old or young. It is a testament to how very reclusive they are."

"Hmm," Oona replied, and then turned her attention to the second stranger on the bench: a rather plump young man, perhaps thirteen years old, dressed in a fine suit. He wore small round spectacles, and his hair was parted straight down the middle. Oona blinked in surprise, realizing that she had seen the boy before.

"The stout young man, at the far end of the bench," Deacon said. "He's the one we saw in the carriage earlier today. That must be the New Yorker."

"An excellent observation, Deacon," Oona replied. She couldn't have said why, but it bothered her to think that a total stranger to Dark Street might take over the apprentices.h.i.+p. She couldn't help but wonder about how the boy had known to light his letter on fire in order to send it to the Wizard.

She watched the boy for a long moment, curious as to how he had found his way to Dark Street, though in truth her curiosity was not all that strong, since it was Adler Iree, who sat beside the boy from New York, whom she could not stop looking at and wondering about. He wore the same ratty old top hat on his head, and the same shabby cloak draped across his shoulders. Presently, he was bending over a large book in his lap. From this angle, it was difficult to make out the tattoos on his face, but she could see the cute way his brow furrowed as he concentrated on his reading.

On the other side of Adler, his sister, Isadora, sat perfectly still, her posture perfectly straight. Her perfectly manicured hands rested in her perfectly composed lap. The beautiful girl searched the room, studying the others with her deep blue eyes, which were huge and stunning and, most unmistakably, perfectly wicked.

"But wait," Oona said. "Uncle Alexander spoke of five applicants. One from New York and four from Dark Street. Someone is missing."

As she spoke, Mr. Ravensmith and Samuligan entered the parlor carrying a narrow wooden table. They set the table in front of the applicants, and the lawyer pulled a large paper scroll from his pocket.

"Come, Deacon," Oona said, sliding shut the two hidden panels. "I'll sign the papers and be done with it."

But when Oona swiveled her hand round for the doork.n.o.b, she found it was stuck tight.

"What is the problem?" Deacon asked.

"The door. It seems to be ... somewhat ... stuck."

"Somewhat?" Deacon questioned.

Oona tried once again to twist, only to have her sweaty palm slip from the awkward grip.

"Oh, all right. Completely stuck. Must you be so literal, Deacon?"

Oona felt the bird bristle against the side of her face. "Perhaps if you could manage to turn around," he suggested, "you could get a better grip."

This was easier said than done, considering the fullness of her skirt. After what might have been several long minutes, she managed to get herself fully turned around and facing the door. The closet was full of dust, and she could feel bits of spiderweb clinging to her face.

She twisted the doork.n.o.b. Nothing happened. The latch had jammed. She twisted again. Again, nothing.

Deacon clacked his beak before saying: "Perhaps if you attempted ... well, you know, some ..."

He trailed off, and Oona suddenly realized what he was getting at.

"No magic!" she shouted, and heaved at the door with everything she had, teeth clenched, fingers squeezing, shoulder shoving. The door snapped open, and the two of them went flying.

Oona landed hard on her side and slid several feet across the entryway floor. Behind her, the closet door slammed open against the nearby coatrack with such force that the rack toppled over, cras.h.i.+ng painfully against her side.

"Oh, oh, are you all right?" Deacon asked, landing safely beside her. "Should I get some help? I could find-"

"No, Deacon," Oona told him. She shoved the coatrack aside and pushed herself into an upright position. "It's my pride that is the most injured. No need to damage it any more by drawing attention."

She rose to her feet, brus.h.i.+ng several ghostly clouds of dust from her skirt, and then propped the coatrack back into its upright position. That's when she noticed a beautiful shawl lying on the floor. The shawl was made of the same red-and-gold material as Isadora Iree's dress. Oona admired it for a moment before hanging it back on the rack, and then calmly closed the broom closet door. She straightened the top of her dress, which was sooted with a fine layer of dust and cobwebs.

"Remind me to have Samuligan oil that latch," she said.

Deacon returned to her shoulder, chuckling. "Or perhaps I should remind you never to go in that closet again."

Oona grinned. "Oh, Deacon. Where's your sense of adventure?"

She turned her back on the closet, and the two of them made their way to the parlor.

My name is Mr. Ravensmith," said the lawyer. "Now, if you would all be so kind as to sign your names to this contract, you will become eligible for the position of apprentice to the Wizard of Dark Street, blah, blah, blah, and heretofore throughout the universe, blah, blah, blah, and until the end of said selection process be bound by the agreement laid out before you, and so on and so on."

Oona entered the parlor and stood beside the door, Deacon on her shoulder. Isadora Iree glanced in Oona's direction and snickered. Looking down at her own dress, it wasn't until that moment, standing in the bright glow of the parlor's magic lamplight, that Oona saw precisely how filthy she was. She ran a hand through her newly grown hair and brought it away filled with cobwebs. Adler Iree chanced to look her way at precisely the same moment, and she flushed with embarra.s.sment.

Presently, the well-dressed, chubby New York boy spoke up. "What precisely does the doc.u.ment say?" he inquired.