“But, it is nine thirty just now,” Oona said.
The man in the wheelchair shook his head at her as if she were very stupid. “You can’t fool me,” he said. “Mr. Ravensmith is not yet in. And Mr. Ravensmith is always in by nine o’clock. So you see, I’m afraid it cannot be past nine, as he has not yet arrived.”
Oona shook her head at the man’s logic. “But that doesn’t make any sense, Mr….”
“I am Mr. Quick,” the man in the wheelchair replied. “And I have worked as Mr. Ravensmith’s secretary for over ten years. Believe me when I say he is always in by nine o’clock, so whatever you say, I know that it cannot possibly be after nine. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to get back to dusting the office. If there’s one thing Mr. Ravensmith detests more than anything, it is dust and dirt, and today is Miss Colbert’s day off.”
“Miss Colbert, the cleaning maid?” Oona asked, remembering how Mr. Ravensmith had hired the old Pendulum House maid. And now that she thought about it, the pine-branch broom in the secretary’s lap looked suspiciously like the one that had gone missing from the Pendulum House broom closet just after Miss Colbert was dismissed.
“Is that the maid’s personal broom?” Oona asked curiously.
Mr. Quick rolled his eyes at her. “Of course it’s the maid’s personal broom. There is nothing more personal to a maid than a broom, except for perhaps a duster.”
He turned his attention to the window and began dusting. The enchanted feathers started to giggle, a highly annoying sound, and Oona needn’t wonder why her uncle sold so few of them. She watched the man dust the window for several seconds, when finally he turned back to her.
“Are you still here?” he asked. “I told you that we do not open until nine o’clock.”
“Oh, of course,” Oona said, attempting to keep her frustration at bay. “Well, perhaps we could wait for Mr. Ravensmith inside?”
“I told you—” Mr. Quick began.
“Yes, yes. You don’t open until nine.” Oona sighed heavily, looking down at the certificate of debt on top of the box.
“He may be next door,” Mr. Quick offered. “Mr. Ravensmith often visits the Magicians Legal Alliance before coming to the office.”
Oona felt almost shocked to receive a bit of useful information. “Oh. Thank you, Mr. Quick. We shall try next door.” She turned to go but stopped, unable to help her curiosity. “By the way, what happened to your legs?”
“It’s not the legs!” said Mr. Quick in a craggy, irritated tone. “How many times do I have to tell people? It’s the hip.”
“Oh, I apologize,” Oona said. “What happened to your hip?”
“I broke it, tripping on a pothole,” he replied. He appeared slightly embarrassed. “And let me say, there is no worse pain than a broken hip, I can assure you.”
Deacon tutted from Oona’s shoulder. “Ridiculous. I can think of many unfortunate accidents that would result in far worse pain than a broken hip. For instance, being slowly crushed beneath a hundred-ton boulder, or perhaps having one’s arm chewed off by a hungry bear, or maybe even—”
“I think we get the point, Deacon,” Oona said, suddenly feeling queasy.
Mr. Quick sneered at Deacon before flaring his nostrils at Oona. “I have work to do, young lady. Now, good day!” The secretary attempted to slam the door, but the door bounced off his plaster cast, then ricocheted off the wheel of the chair, sending Mr. Quick shooting backward. The door slammed shut, and they heard the faint sound of a crash and a curse from the other side.
“Okay then. Next door, it is,” Oona said.
The Magicians Legal Alliance resided in a plain, six-story building, whose entrance consisted of nothing more than a simple white door.
Oona turned to the faerie servant. “I would feel much safer if the Wizard were to remain out here with you, Samuligan.”
The faerie servant took the box in his long fingers, and Oona removed the certificate of debt from the top. She watched Samuligan return to the carriage, the box beneath one arm, his long faerie face shadowed beneath his cowboy hat. No one in their right mind would dare harass Samuligan the Fay. The Wizard would be safe. Satisfied, she removed the eviction notice from her pocket and turned to the door. It was time to get some legal answers.
The door fell open, but there was no one behind it. Oona stared through the empty doorway into the Magicians Legal Alliance building, perplexed. She glanced back toward the carriage, but Samuligan only shrugged.
“Well,” Oona said. “This is going to be interesting.”
She stepped through the doorway, Deacon riding on her shoulder like a strange appendage. Once inside, the door swung shut, leaving the two of them in a small foyer, in the middle of which stood the fattest man Oona had ever seen. Though his head was bald as a crystal ball, a set of thick side-whiskers hung down below his jiggling jowls. Dressed in a shabby-looking suit—of which the trousers were at least a foot too short—he smiled at her, exposing a set of straight white teeth. Most striking of all were the tattoos on his face. One cheek appeared nearly solid silver, while the other glittered as brightly as a new gold coin. Even his ears were covered in the alliance’s strange pattern of squiggles and lines, making them look purplish blue.
“Welcome to the Magicians Legal Alliance,” said the man in a booming voice. “I am Mr. Bop, senior undersecretary to the secretary of the Board of Secretaries, and acting vice secretary in charge of all matters of secretarial law.” He sounded very proud of his title, and Oona nodded appreciatively. Mr. Bop extended his hand. “And you are?”
“Miss Oona Crate,” she said, shaking the man’s hand. Mr. Bop, she thought. That name was familiar. Where had she heard it before?
“And how may I help you today?” the man asked.
“I am hoping to find Mr. Ravensmith.”
“Ah, Ravensmith?” Mr. Bop looked apologetic. “I’m afraid he is not here. But it is possible that he may come in later.”
“Oh,” Oona said, feeling quite disappointed. She let go with a heavy sigh, considering her next course of action, when she suddenly asked: “Is Adler Iree in?”
Mr. Bop’s face brightened. “He is, indeed. He is, indeed. Adler Iree is one of our finest and brightest young members. Just follow me, and I will take you to him.”
The enormous senior undersecretary turned quite nimbly on his heels and made his way across the foyer, the entire floor shaking noticeably beneath his feet. Oona and Deacon followed him through a set of double doors, only to find themselves in a wide-open room with various-shaped desks and comfortable seats. Many of the desks were occupied by solitary figures, each of them hunched over their tables with their noses buried in one book or another. The walls were covered floor to ceiling with books—the most remarkable part being that the ceiling soared some six stories above their heads. Books, books, and more books; and rickety, crooked ladders—some of them hammered together piecemeal, one on top of the other—that ran on tracks all the way to the top shelves. It made Oona’s head spin just to look.
Something Hector Grimsbee had said the night before suddenly popped into Oona’s head, and she turned excitedly to Mr. Bop. “Are you the same Mr. Bop who lives in the apartment above Madame Iree’s dress shop?”
Mr. Bop’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I am, indeed. But how did you know that? Do you know my wife?”
Oona shook her head. “I am acquainted with Hector Grimsbee, who lives in the apartment above yours. Do you know anything about him?”
“The man upstairs?” asked Mr. Bop. He frowned slightly. “Never seen the fellow, to tell the truth. We must have different schedules. What did you say his name was?”
“Grimsbee,” Oona said. “He’s a blind man. Use to be an actor at the Dark Street Theater.”
Mr. Bop shook his head. “Can’t say I’ve heard of him. I don’t go to the theater much, but if he’s an actor, my wife may know him. She’s an actress. It keeps her busy while I’m working. She plays the role of the Faerie Queen every yea
r in Oswald Descends. I’ve never seen it myself, but according to her, not only does she have the best speeches, but it is she who gets to battle Oswald, the most famous of the Magicians of Old, during the play’s spectacular finale upon the fabled steps of Faerie.”
To Oona’s surprise, Deacon threw both wings out in a dramatic gesture, nearly slapping her in the face, before quoting the final lines of the Faerie Queen: “‘Sleep not, ye thieves of magic! I shall avenge ye! I shall avenge ye all!’”
Oona’s eyebrows rose, and Deacon looked suddenly abashed as he folded in his wings and attempted to recompose himself. Oddly enough, despite Deacon’s outburst, not one of the figures at the tables looked their way.
“Ah, there he is,” said Mr. Bop. He pointed toward a speck of a person at the top of one of the more unsafe-looking ladders. For half a heartbeat Oona thought Mr. Bop was speaking of Grimsbee, but even from this distance, Oona recognized Adler’s raggedy cloak and threadbare hat. He slid a book from a shelf near the top of the stacks and then began descending the rickety ladder at a breakneck speed. Before Oona could blink several times, the boy had made his way to the ground floor, the ratty old top hat resting securely on his head. He made his way hurriedly toward a desk.
“Mr. Iree!” called Mr. Bop.
Adler froze in mid-sit, looking around.
“You have a visitor,” Mr. Bop said, and then to Oona: “If you’ll excuse me, I’m off for a bite to eat. Very nice to meet you, Miss Crate.”
The floor shook like a small earthquake as Mr. Bop swiveled around and quickly marched away, disappearing through the double doors. Oona hardly noticed. She was too busy observing the tattoos on Adler’s handsome face, how they crinkled up ever so slightly as he tried to suppress a smile. He swiftly stood, pulled a second chair to his desk and held out his hand. Oona wasn’t sure, because the room was so dimly lit, but she thought the boy might have winked at her as she made her way across the room. Suddenly, her mouth was very dry.
No one looked up as she padded across the ornate carpet and took the seat provided for her. Nor did anyone speak. Everyone seemed completely absorbed in their reading material—everyone except for Adler Iree, who took his own seat, placing his elbow on the table and resting his jaw in the palm of his hand.
“I was expecting you,” he said.
Ah, riddle me, fiddle me,” spoke Adler Iree, seemingly indifferent to anyone whom he might disturb in the quiet atmosphere of the Magicians Legal Alliance. “Come to check up on me, have you, Miss Crate? Thinking maybe my sister or I stole that dagger from the museum, and then later used it on the Wizard?”
Oona did not respond immediately, but instead she watched him. He was direct, and intelligent, and yet boyish all at the same time.
She adjusted her hat and said: “Your accent is Irish, Mr. Iree, yet your sister’s and mother’s accents, like most of the citizens on Dark Street, are distinctly British.”
Adler rolled his eyes. “Isadora got the Irish twisted out of her by our grandmother. Our father, may he rest in peace, was Irish blood, going all the way back to before his great-great-grandfather first stepped foot on Dark Street. Father died when we were but eight years old. That’s when our grandmother—me mother’s mother—moved into the house. Tried to make us speak what she called proper English, and told Isadora that she was going to go to that la-di-da Academy of Fine Young Ladies just as soon as she was old enough. You should have heard Isadora before Grandmother showed up. Her accent was thicker than mine, if you’d believe it.”
Oona nodded, feeling her chest tighten at the mention of Adler’s father’s death. She of all people knew how hard it could be to lose a parent. But Adler simply shrugged. And the way that he shrugged … it was sort of …
Well, it’s cute, she thought, but then quickly forced the thought aside, reminding herself that this charming boy could very well be her uncle’s attacker.
“Well, now that that little mystery is solved,” she said, perhaps a bit too hastily, “I’d first like to talk about yesterday.”
Adler shifted in his seat. “I did not go to the museum to steal the daggers, if that’s what you’re after. I showed up at ten o’clock, just when the museum opened. I signed in at the front, and then headed straight for the library, where they keep the rarest law books in the back.”
Oona glanced at the walls, looking at the stacks upon stacks of books, before saying: “Don’t they have law books here, Mr. Iree?”
Adler’s fingers rubbed at the edge of his book, where Oona could plainly read the title: The Little Red Book of Large Legal Loopholes.
“The books at the museum date back hundreds of years before any of the alliances’ books do,” he told her. “That’s why the museum books are preferable.”
“Bit of a scholar?” Oona asked.
Adler straightened in his seat but did not answer. Yet Oona could tell the comment had delighted the boy. He glanced inquisitively at the two red-colored documents in her hand. Oona had nearly forgotten that she was holding them. Adler said nothing, yet the scarlet moons at the corners of his eyes crinkled almost imperceptibly. It seemed as if he were holding back a smile. Oona could not have said why exactly, but she decided then and there to trust him. It was perhaps irrational, but what choice did she have? Ravensmith could not be found, and she needed answers. Adler was, after all, a studying lawyer.
“Tell me what you make of these.” Oona slid the eviction notice and the certificate of debt across the desk. The boy took his time reading both documents line by line before handing them back.
“Hmm,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
He walked to a nearby bookshelf, ran his fingers along the book spines, and then slid a large, single volume from the shelf before returning to the table.
“What’s that?” Oona asked.
Adler flipped through the pages. “It’s a record of all of the businesses on Dark Street. Ah … here it is. Dupington Moneylenders. Looks like they are a legitimate business, registered with the Dark Street Council.” He paused a moment before adding: “Says here that Dupington Moneylenders is owned by another company named Fool’s Gold Enterprises.” Adler flipped several pages back in the book, ran his finger down the page, and then stopped. “And Fool’s Gold Enterprises is owned by yet another company.”
“Let me guess,” Oona said. “The Nightshade Corporation.”
Adler snapped the book shut. “You got it. Dupington is a fitting name, Miss Crate, because it seems your uncle was duped into borrowing money from the Nightshade Corporation … in a clever, roundabout way. And now ol’ Red Martin’s finally found himself a way to build his dreadful Indulgence Island. Been bloody well tryin’ to do it for years, from what I hear, but there was no vacant land on Dark Street large enough. Not till now, anyway. I hear he’s wanting to import sand from some exotic beach and make the place look like a tropical island, if you can believe it.”
Oona could believe it, remembering the image of palm trees and the enormous hula hut painted on the sign in front of Pendulum House.
“Can you imagine what an awful sight that would be?” Adler added. “Right smack in the middle of Dark Street?”
Deacon cleared his throat. “Surely the Dark Street Council would never approve of such a thing. It would ruin the street’s characteristic charm.”
“But they have approved it,” Adler said, pointing to the top of the letter at the council’s official seal. “Red Martin’s got all them council members in his pocket. He’s been putting it in their heads for years that Pendulum House is too unkempt and frightening looking, with its crooked tower and tangled gardens.”
“I myself find palm trees much more frightening,” said Deacon.
“You mean to tell me that these documents are legal?” Oona said so loudly that she turned to see if anyone was looking. No one was. Every head in the room appeared fixed in place, bent over their various books.
Adler leaned forward, his seat creaking beneath him like twigs underfoot. “Oh, aye
,” he said. “It’s fairly simple. In the event of your uncle’s death, ownership of Pendulum House would normally have gone to you, if you were still the apprentice, but since you gave it up, and no other apprentice was yet chosen, then Red Martin, as the ultimate owner of Dupington Moneylenders, legally has the right to repossess the Wizard’s personal property—meaning he can take all the Wizard’s stuff—as compensation for the money your uncle borrowed. Very cleverly done, if you ask me.”
“So because I signed away my rights as apprentice, Red Martin owns the house?” Oona asked, feeling as if her heart had dropped into her stomach.
“Yes. Just so,” Adler said. “And think on this. If the Dark Street pendulum stops swinging at midnight …” He raised his eyebrows at her, waiting for her to get it. Suddenly, she did.
“If the pendulum stops at midnight …” She trailed off, shaking her head and wondering why she hadn’t figured it out sooner. “If the pendulum stops at midnight, then Dark Street will cease its rotation. It will be permanently open to New York City.”
Adler snapped his fingers. “It’s a theory, anyway. All those New Yorkers will come flooding through the gates to see the magical world, and Red Martin will make a bloody fortune off his new hotel/casino. That is, if it works.”
“What do you mean, if it works?” Oona asked.
Catching on to Adler’s train of thought, Deacon said: “Ah, well, since the pendulum has never been stopped, no one knows for sure what will happen. The Magicians of Old set the street to spinning as a measure against faerie attack. That way, if the faeries ever did manage to break through the Glass Gates, then their armies would have only one minute per day in which they could cross over. The magicians also bestowed an enormous amount of magic into Pendulum House, so that the Wizard could tap into that power and enable him—or her—to not only fend off the attacking army but also to protect the house itself, thereby ensuring the uninterrupted swing of the pendulum within. As Samuligan explained last night, part of the house’s job is to hold the street on course as it spins through the Drift. It is for that reason that the house was constructed at the very center of Dark Street.”
The Wizard of Dark Street Page 15
