“Morium!” Samuligan cried in a low, guttural voice. The ball stopped and then once again moved toward the faerie’s coaxing arms. His hands moved in a “come here” gesture, as if assuring the ball that he was its master.
With her own spell still connected to the sphere, she could sense the might of the faerie’s magic, and she had a feeling that he wasn’t even giving it his all. He was playing with her. But according to her intuition, she and Pendulum House had far more magic as well.
“Morium,” she called, increasing her own spell’s power just as Samuligan had done, and the ball once more began to return to her.
“Morium!” Samuligan cried again, and the ball switched directions.
“Morium,” she called back.
And so it became a tug-of-war, with the ball being pulled first one direction, and then another, each time the opposing forces increasing until Oona’s mind began to feel like soup. Her arm began to ache, her grip on the wand increasing, and it soon felt as if she were slipping away, the magic taking her over completely.
The enchantment intensified to a fevered pitch, charging the air above the water, where thin bolts of white and purple lightning arced off the ball, striking the surface of the pond. A smell of sulfur infused the air, hitting Oona’s nose on an electrically charged breeze, and still she held on, determined to save the World of Humans from the diabolical faerie.
That’s when she saw Samuligan waver on the far side of the water. He staggered forward and dropped to one knee. Oona took in a sharp breath and immediately released her spell, alarmed that she might have injured the faerie.
The ball simply hovered over the center of the pond.
“Samuligan, are you all right?” Oona shouted.
Samuligan glanced up from his kneeling position . . . and grinned. Oona groaned at her own stupidity as the faerie snapped his fingers and the ball shot like a bullet toward his open hand.
He wasn’t hurt, she realized. He was just pretending because he knew I would be concerned for him.
It was a clever and dirty trick, and a clever trick demanded an even cleverer bit of retribution.
Again, it was as if she didn’t need to think about what to do. The magic guided her—the house’s seemingly infinite wisdom—and with a motion much like the flicking of a whip, Oona shot her mind out the tip of the wand and sent it into the ball.
“Akvis!”
Suddenly, she was the ball. Her body may have been standing on the far side of the pond, but presently she was flying through the air toward Samuligan’s outstretched hand. It was the most extraordinary and bizarre magic she had ever experienced. For one panicky moment she had a fear that she might not be able to get back . . . that she would be stuck inside of this metal ball forever, but the thought passed as quickly as it had come. There was no time to do anything but think: Up!
And up she went, heading straight for the sky and beyond. She had a feeling that if she did not change directions she would eventually strike the moon.
To me, she thought, which was a strange thought to have because presently she was the ball. What was even stranger was that she heard her own voice shout “To me!” from below, and had she still been connected to her body, she might have shaken her head at the confusion it caused.
Regardless, she began to plummet in the direction of her body’s outspread hand. As she fell, another voice seemed to fill her up.
“Come to me,” it said in a lulling, sly tone. Oona knew that voice. It was Samuligan once more trying to regain control of the ball, but now that she had planted her mind inside the sphere, Samuligan did not have a chance of controlling it. She was in control, and she would decide the fate of the world.
And then it was over. The ball slapped into Oona’s palm, and her mind returned to her body. She staggered, disoriented, swinging her hands out at her sides for balance. Lucky for her, a set of strong hands caught her before she fell.
Looking around, she discovered that it was Samuligan who had prevented her fall. How he had gotten from the far side of the pond to right behind her so quickly she did not know, but she was glad he was there. He helped her back to her feet and then held up three fingers.
“And that makes three,” the Wizard said, sounding quite pleased.
“Three indeed,” Samuligan said, raising his eyebrows so that they disappeared beneath the brim of his hat. “You know, I do believe you are the first apprentice to best me at all three attempts in nearly three hundred years.”
Oona blinked several times, still trying to reorient herself with her body. She glanced down at the metal ball in her hand. “You mean that other apprentices have failed some of the tests?”
The Wizard placed a hand on her shoulder. “Of course. If you had researched the tests in the Pendulum House library, you might have known that most of the apprentices have failed many of the tests. When I was an apprentice, I believe Samuligan got the ball from me on his second try . . . and he wasn’t even using a pedestrian as a human shield.”
The Wizard eyed the faerie disapprovingly, and Samuligan gave a little bow.
“Now get back over here, you hooligan!” they all heard a far-off voice call. They turned to discover the woman in white standing in the boat across the pond, red in the face, one hand on her hip. She pointed in Samuligan’s direction. “Get over here and turn this boat back into a bicycle!”
Even Oona found the woman to be somewhat of a comical sight. Remembering that it was she, Oona, and not Samuligan who had transfigured the bicycle, she met the faerie’s gaze, and the tension from the battle suddenly melted away. He placed a hand on her shoulder, and the two of them burst out laughing.
“It’s no laughing matter!” the woman called indignantly from across the water. “This bike is a rental, and I’d very much like to get my deposit back!”
Chapter Seven
The Perfect Bite
“You are still planning on visiting the Culinary Institute?” Deacon asked. He stood upon Oona’s dressing table, where scattered papers lay messily across the wood surface.
Oona had just finished changing into her evening attire, a green dress trimmed with white lace. She fastened the front buttons and looked herself over in the mirror.
“I think maybe I should have chosen the black dress. I would be less conspicuous in black, and I wish to observe, not be observed.”
“Then your answer is yes, I take it?” Deacon asked.
Oona gave him a measured look. “Of course I’m planning on going to the cooking class, Deacon. How else am I to find out why Mary Shusher lied about her whereabouts on the night of the theft?”
“You could ask her tomorrow at the library,” Deacon reasoned.
Oona grabbed a pair of black gloves from off her bed and turned toward the door. “I want to surprise her, catch her in the very place that she did not want us to know about.”
Deacon flew to her shoulder. “How do you know she did not want you to know about it?”
Oona started down the hallway, slipping her fingers into the gloves. “Mary Shusher intentionally told us that she was home with her grandmother when she was actually at the cooking school. There has got to be a reason why she lied.”
“Either way, she has an alibi for the night of the theft of the Faerie Carbuncle,” Deacon pointed out, as the two of them descended the curving staircase to the first floor.
The smell of wood and dust infused the air, yet there was another smell as well . . . a subtler smell that Oona had failed to notice before. It was the permeating smell of magic. Ever since she had linked with the house the day before, she had become aware of the ever-present smell. Indeed, she had never even known that magic had a smell, but now that she did smell it, she realized that it had always been there, filling up the rooms and the hallways with its hidden sent.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was eight thirty. The cooking class started at nine.
“Samuligan?” she called.
“Yes?” he replied.
&
nbsp; Oona peered around the antechamber but did not see him. Something above her moved, and she looked up, startled.
“Samuligan, what on earth are you doing up there?” she asked.
Samuligan, who was presently hanging upside down from the chandelier, looked surprised, as if he’d had no idea of his whereabouts until she pointed it out. But Oona had lived with the faerie servant too long to be fooled. He knew exactly where he was and what he was doing.
“Anyway,” Oona said, attempting to ignore the faerie’s high jinks, “I need you to bring around the carriage.”
“Ah, but I have already brought it around, Miss Crate,” Samuligan said. “It sits at the curb even now, waiting to take us to the Culinary Institute.”
He somersaulted through the air, landing catlike upon the floor, and then bounded forward to open the door. Oona followed. As she climbed into the carriage, she turned to Deacon, who had perched himself upon the opposite seat. “What was it you were asking, Deacon?”
Overhead, they could hear Samuligan slap at the reins. The carriage turned north in the direction of the Iron Gates.
Deacon steadied himself against the motion of the carriage before answering. “I was saying that no matter how you look at it, Mary Shusher could not be the thief because she already has an alibi.”
“Then why did she lie?” Oona asked.
“I don’t know,” Deacon said. “But I’m beginning to think that you are simply trying to get back at her for criticizing your abilities yesterday.”
Oona was about to tell Deacon that he could not have been further from the truth when she paused. Was it possible? It was true that if Mary had indeed been at the cooking school at nine o’clock, she could not have committed the crime at the museum. It was also true that Oona had not cared for Mary’s criticism. But the two things were unrelated, as far as she could tell.
“You are wrong, Deacon,” Oona said as she peered out the carriage window. “I’m simply after the truth.”
She watched the street roll by, hardly noticing the candlestick trees that lined this section of the street, their flickering light pushing back the night. A lone cello played a mournful tune along the sidewalk, devoid of a player.
Farther up the street she saw an owl on a tree branch staring fixedly at the ghostly image of a transparent rat. The rat ran up the tree and jumped to a window ledge. The instant the ghost rat touched the ledge, it lost its balance and fell to the ground and once again climbed the tree where it would leap unsuccessfully for the ledge. Each time the rat climbed the tree, the owl took a swat at it with its thick talon, and each time the talon went right through the transparent rodent. The scene continued on in a seemingly endless loop.
Seeing the ghost made her think of her family. Oona knew that ghosts were real. Many of those buried in the Dark Street Cemetery appeared in their ghostly forms every night. It was only because of an army of poltergeists guarding the entrance that no ghost could exit, nor could any living human enter until daybreak, after the specters returned to their graves. She had often wondered if any of her family members appeared within the cemetery after dark. And sometimes she was not sure if she truly wished to know.
But then again, if she were able to speak with the ghost of her father, she wondered if he would be able to tell her who the Rose Thieves were. Or perhaps, even more importantly, he could tell her how proud of her he was, and how much he loved her. But would he really be proud of her? she wondered. So far she had not discovered anything about the people who had murdered him.
As Oona watched the looping ghost rat disappear in the distance, she let loose a sigh, realizing that in all of the years following the funerals, she had yet to visit her parent’s graves.
The carriage pulled to a stop in front of a six-story brick building. The rickety-looking structure leaned so heavily upon its neighboring building that the two appeared in danger of becoming one.
“The Culinary Institute!” Samuligan called.
Oona stepped to the curb, and Deacon flew to her shoulder. To her surprise, Samuligan climbed down from the driver’s seat.
“Are you coming with us, Samuligan?” Oona asked.
“I do love cooking,” the faerie replied. “I was known as somewhat of a dab hand in the kitchen back in Faerie. But I can always learn something new.”
Oona grinned at him. While it was true that Samuligan prepared all of their meals, she had never actually seen him working in the kitchen. She had always assumed he did all the cooking by magic, and the thought of the ominous-looking faerie working over a stove was quite amusing.
“Well, all right . . . but be on your best behavior,” Oona said.
The faerie’s expression became one of utmost seriousness, and he crossed his heart with his finger.
“The institute appears to be on the second floor,” Deacon said. He gestured with one wing toward a sign beside the front steps.
1st floor: lady matilda’s flower shop
2nd floor: the rude culinary institute
3rd floor: dark street dance academy
The upper three stories appeared to be filled with apartments.
Oona entered first, ascending the front steps and stepping through the open doorway into an entryway. From there they ascended a spiraling wooden staircase to the second floor, where they came upon a door with the word rude written on it in large red letters. Below the red letters, written in a smaller white font, were the words: culinary institute.
“This is the place,” Oona said, and pushed open the door.
***
“You’re late!” a man shouted.
Oona was taken aback. She had thought she was paying a surprise visit to the cooking school, but a thin, very large-nosed man in a tall white chef’s hat was shouting at her from a nearby table.
The wide room took up the entire second floor and was filled with various tables and cooking stations, many of which were occupied by student chefs. The students wore long white aprons, and Oona recognized Mr. Bop at once. His apron looked to be the size of a large tablecloth. To the right of Mr. Bop’s station stood Adler’s sister, Isadora Iree. Blonde hair piled artfully upon her head, Isadora looked as pretty as ever, even in her cooking apron, and Oona could not say that she was happy to see her. The two of them, Oona and Isadora, had never been friends.
At the far end of the room, a low stage rose several feet from the floor. Upon the stage stood a table and three chairs. Two of the chairs were occupied. Oona guessed that this was the judge’s table. There, sitting in the middle seat, was Mary Shusher, looking quite surprised to see Oona. The young woman’s mouth hung slightly open, and Oona was satisfied to see that she was fidgeting nervously in her chair.
The other judge was a bit of a surprise to Oona. Sitting beside Mary was none other than Hector Grimsbee, the blind actor who had applied for the position of Wizard’s apprentice over six months ago. As ever, Grimsbee’s white eyes, completely devoid of pupils, appeared to stare at her in rather unnerving way.
“Well, what are you just standing there for?” the man in the chef’s hat shouted at Oona. His eyes bulged in their sockets. “We are ready to start and we need our final judge!”
Oona’s mouth fell open in surprise. “There seems to be some sort of mistake. I’m not—”
The man’s face reddened, and his nostrils flared. “Don’t tell me you’re not late, because the class started three minutes ago and we’ve been waiting for you. I do not take lightly to lateness in my judges.”
Oona threw a hand to her hip. “And who are you?”
“I?” the man said, looking highly offended. “Who am I? Why, I am Chef Rude.”
“You most certainly are,” Deacon said from Oona’s shoulder.
The man ignored the raven and spoke directly to Oona. “Take your seat at the judge’s table so we can start.”
Oona once again opened her mouth to assure the chef that she was not a food judge, but all at once it became clear that this was the perfect opportunity to questi
on Mary Shusher, who was still looking shocked to see Oona there.
“Very good,” Oona said, and started toward the judge’s table. “Where is the usual third judge?”
“Mr. Vanderbean?” the chef said. “After our last class, he told me he was never coming back. He said I had offended him in some way. Can you imagine?”
“I can, actually,” Oona said.
The chef seemed not to have heard her. “I thought for sure he would come back anyway. This is one of the most prestigious culinary schools, not only on Dark Street but in the entire world. But now that you’re here, we’ll send Vanderbean away if he shows up. He had a weak stomach, you know. Couldn’t handle the spice.”
“She’s not going to judge us, is she?” Isadora Iree asked. “She has no experience judging.”
Mary Shusher looked quite nervous, though when she spoke, she sounded genuinely concerned. “Have you any qualifications?”
Oona hopped onto the stage and slid the empty chair out from behind the table. “I have tasted food before.”
Mary nodded solemnly. “Of course. I didn’t mean to suggest that you have no taste. It’s just that you must know how to critique the food as well. Tasting is one thing. Expressing that taste requires a certain level of knowledge and skill. It is an art form really.”
“The main thing,” said Hector Grimsbee in a loud, theatrical voice, “is to smell the food. If it does not smell good, it will not taste good.”
“Silence!” Chef Rude cried, and all went quiet. Somewhere in the room a faucet could be heard leaking as the chef rounded on Samuligan. “And who are you?”
To Oona’s great amusement, Samuligan removed his cowboy hat before reaching inside and pulling out a long white cooking apron. He began enthusiastically tying it around his waist and then stood at attention beside one of the empty cooking stations.
“I,” he said in his sly faerie tone, “am Samuligan the Fay . . . and I am your newest student.”
He snapped his fingers, and the sound cracked against the walls like thunder. Everyone jumped. For a moment Chef Rude only stared at the faerie, blinking, and then he seemed to come out of a daze.
The Magician's Dream (Oona Crate Mystery: book 3) Page 9
