The Uncanny Raven Winston

by Tammie Painter

  But before I could suggest anything, his phone pinged to remind him he was already late for a mandatory lecture on the ethics of the use of magic in political campaigns.

  31 - SEARCHING AGAIN

  ONCE ALASTAIR TOOK off for his lecture, I debated what to do. I could continue working on Nigel’s education or I could sulk in my room. But before I had a chance to decide, the heavy curtains framing the window swished closed, the hallway darkened, and with her orb providing just enough light, Banna was at my side.

  "The others are all in that lecture, you know." All trace of her earlier icy attitude was gone, replaced with a conspirator’s friendliness.

  "And?"

  "And I’ve told Tobey to go fetch Busby’s key. Now would be a perfect chance to search for the files you need. That is," she paused and lifted her glasses to give me a knowing look, "assuming they’re still there."

  "What do you mean?" But did I really need to ask? I’d already found the empty spots where two important files should have been.

  "Let’s just say that you and Tobey aren’t the only ones using that room lately. A certain someone has been in there. Who knows what he might not want found."

  "Alastair, you mean?" My stomach plunged down into the depths of the dungeon. Okay, I didn’t really know if there was a dungeon in the White Tower, but there had to be, right?

  "I wouldn’t like to name names, but it’s best you get in there and find what you need before anything else wanders off." As proof of how thrown off I was by the test, by Alastair’s kiss, by the possibility of being drained, I didn’t even think to ask why, if she worried about their being stolen, Banna couldn’t just bring the relevant files to me. "I’ll tell Tobey to meet you there, shall I?"

  "Yeah, you do that." Confusion charged through my veins. I had just allowed myself to truly think of Alastair as an ally, as someone I could trust. And now this. Should I cry? Should I scream? I wasn’t sure, but I did know that Team Brain was jeering, "I told you so!" and gloating over Team Heart’s stupidity.

  Team Brain’s triumph filled me with a rigid determination. So, despite the test and the previous day’s preparation leaving me aching, and despite my belly demanding breakfast, I trudged my way to the records room.

  As before, Tobey insisted we work through the files alphabetically.

  "That’s dumb," I told him. "You yourself said we should try the Kilbride file. If we don’t find anything there, we can move on with names and places we know, like Rosaria, Tenpenny."

  "Tenpenny?" Tobey narrowed his eyes with disapproval.

  "Your grandfather oversaw my parents’ last mission." An idea struck me. "Was there a name for the mission? You know like Operation Save the World, or something?"

  Tobey shook his head. "Yeah, maybe, but it’s not exactly something we discuss around the dinner table."

  "Right. I wonder if Olivia has a list of missions somewhere."

  "Look, it’ll just be more organized if we go alphabetically. That way we won’t miss anything. Now, can we get started? That lecture only goes for forty-five minutes."

  I rolled my eyes at him and headed to where I’d left off. As I passed the file cabinet with the Te drawer, I caught the scent of chocolate. I glanced up the row. Tobey was busily sifting through his own cabinet’s contents. I inhaled once more. Raspberry.

  Damn it.

  I tried to tell myself that Alastair had only taken the files to study what was in them in the comfort of his own room, or perhaps to organize them to compile his case. He’d said he’d found something we could act on in a few days, but why wouldn’t he just tell me what he’d found? Why be so vague, so covert? Was he taking the files to help or to hinder the search for my parents?

  I was tempted to pull open the Te drawer and see what they had on Mr. Tenpenny, but Tobey had seemed annoyed with me ever since he and Busby showed up at my door that morning. And that foul demeanor had only increased. One little annoyance might set him off, might make him unwilling to let me in here again.

  I didn’t have the energy to deal with a grumpy Tobey. I was also dizzy with hunger and not in the mood to waste time where it wasn’t needed. So, I started where I’d left off, making a show of flipping through the documents, and giving only cursory glances at the contents as I rushed my way to the Tenpenny files.

  Even in my haste, I did catch a few tidbits, including the original business application for the Wandering Wizard. The first branch — I had no idea it was a franchise — dated back to 1266, and had been set up by a real wandering wizard by the name of Merkle Morningstar to commemorate his hundredth birthday. Each century, he broke ground on a new branch of his cheery pubs in a new community. The one in MagicLand had opened in 1866 as part of Merkle’s six hundredth birthday celebrations. Sadly, he died before he could expand his empire further.

  I did little more than brush my fingers over the files starting with U. Although, out of curiosity, I did check for Umbridge. Turns out there was one and she did have a thing for cats, but there was no mention of her being a sadistic monster. Quite the opposite: She was the driving force behind the first flying cat veterinary clinic.

  I had just opened the Te drawer, when Tobey’s phone went off with what sounded like the world’s loudest alarm.

  "Time to go," he called. It looked like he was still standing in front of the same cabinet he’d been at when we started. Slacker.

  "Let me just finish this drawer."

  "Make it snappy. My grandpa’s due back any minute."

  To which I thought, So what? I mean, it wasn’t as if Tobey was a five-year-old who couldn’t go wandering around the Tower grounds on his own, maybe pop into the pub for a pint. Did Busby immediately check for the file room key the moment he returned from anywhere? But I held my tongue and searched for Mr. T’s file. Tennison, Tenopin, Tenrider.

  Oh, you have got to be kidding me.

  I flipped through the names once more, scanning the drawer front to back. No Tenpenny.

  "Cassie, come on, wrap it up."

  I slammed the drawer shut.

  What was Alastair playing at? Did he find something? Was he searching for something? Was he hiding something from me?

  "Find anything?" Tobey asked when I stormed up beside him.

  "No. You?"

  "Nothing of interest." He opened the door and scanned the hallway before we hurried to the stairwell. "Want to grab something to eat?" he asked once we’d stepped out onto the level I recognized as being the one Olivia’s office was on.

  "Not really." I chided myself for the snappy response. It wasn’t Tobey’s fault he wasn’t a fast reader and hadn’t gotten through many files. It wasn’t his fault Alastair was stealing the very files I wanted. It wasn’t his fault I was cranky from my test results and from not sleeping well the night before. "Sorry, I’m just insanely tired. I’ll catch you later."

  Tobey shrugged off my response and headed toward the stairwell that would take him back to his room. I, however, had a score to settle.

  "Where was the lecture being held, do you know?" I called after him.

  "St. John’s Chapel. Second floor." He pointed to the stairwell we’d just come from. I hesitated. I didn’t want to admit to Tobey that I had no idea which floor I was currently on. "Down two flights," he finally said and I didn’t miss the well-duh tone in his voice.

  I hurried down the stairs, but when I reached the stunning chapel with its cream-colored stone and graceful Norman arches, it was empty except for a few tourists.

  I wanted to find Alastair, but the need for food hit me more keenly than it had since I started drawing a regular paycheck. I figured breakfast had reliably appeared in my room before, so I grunted and groaned my way back up what felt like half a million stairs. Given my day was going horribly, I was pleasantly surprised when, only moments after I entered the room, another full English breakfast appeared on my table.

  I had just bitten in
to the last slice of toast when I caught sight of Alastair out my window. He was striding away from the White Tower and toward the walls. As tempting as another plateful of fried protein sounded, I dropped the last bite of toast and raced down to confront him.

  I don’t know who I was kidding. I might have long limbs, I might be physically fit from cycling all over Portland, but only magic could have gotten me through the interior maze of the White Tower and out to Alastair quickly enough. And as yet, no one had taught me a thing about teleportation.

  Still, it was the first time I’d been out of the White Tower for over twenty-four hours, and my phone pinged so many times with messages it sounded like I had a pinball machine in my pocket. I ignored it, racing over to where Alastair had been headed. I passed through a gateway in the inner walls and reached an entryway in the outer walls. I raced over, ready to run to catch up with Mr. File Thief. But before I set one toe into the exit, two Yeoman Warders and the sari-wearing woman from the cafeteria blocked my path.

  Stupid me. I forgot I was the latest prisoner in the Tower of London.

  I didn’t say a word. I didn’t argue. I didn’t see the point. Alastair had to come back some time.

  I headed back to the raven enclosure to check my messages. Two were photos of Pablo: one of him dressed as a dragon, the other of him donning a space suit. Mr. Wood had sent some more BLT food porn and an image of a crocheted length of red yarn that looked like (if you tried really hard and if you were told in a caption what it was) a strip of bacon.

  He also said they had three clients lined up.

  Because of the time difference, if I did text back, I couldn’t expect a response for at least another few hours. But right then, I didn’t know what to say. I honestly hadn’t expected any work to come in while I was away. I suppose I had hoped Mr. Wood wouldn’t take on clients without me, that we were partners in a way. It was a stupid and selfish assumption. He needed the money and he needed to keep his business viable.

  But the real question eating at me was: Would Morelli be able to do the make up without turning someone’s dearly departed into Bozo the Clown?

  32 - THE MUSEUM OF LONDON

  I SPENT MOST of that afternoon with Nigel. Since I had dead bodies and prisoners on my mind, we went over the use of the Tower as a prison. And surprisingly, with my help, by the time the gates were closing for the day, Nigel managed to recite a pretty decent speech in which the only inaccuracies were your typical tour guide’s embellishments.

  I never did locate Alastair. He wasn’t in his room when I pounded on the door, he wasn’t in The Keys (the pub for the Yeoman Warders and Tower residents), and by the time the sun began to set, I was too exhausted to keep searching.

  I woke the next day with my arms aching, my shoulders throbbing, and my mind wondering what would be expected of me now that I hadn’t managed to graduate Magical College after only a few days of study. I eventually pulled myself out of bed and winced at the bruises and scrapes on my knees.

  When I emerged from the bathroom, a tray of breakfast showed up on my table. Propped next to the teapot was a folded note. I slathered a piece of toast with strawberry jam and munched on it as I read:

  As we are uncertain what to do with your practical studies at the moment, we have decided it would be best you spend the morning on some background work. This coursework will take place at the Museum of London.

  The prisoner freed! Huzzah!

  I stabbed a piece of sausage…sorry, pudding, with my fork and continued reading that I was to meet my instructor at ten a.m. at the Guildhall portal door, the same door I’d used the morning before to go to my test. He would then show me the way to the museum.

  In other words, I’d be chaperoned. So much for freedom. I was, however, grateful for a chance to get out of the Tower. After all, I’d been in London for well over eighty hours and had only visited two attractions. That’s no way to whirlwind your way through a trip abroad.

  It was already half past nine — apparently my body had finally gotten over its jet/portal lag. I hurried through my breakfast, helped by Winston who showed up at my window to sample the bacon and steal my fried tomato. He then clacked his beak as if saying thanks before flying off.

  My knees protested down the first flight of spiral stairs, but once they realized I wasn’t giving in to their demands to stop moving, they slowly quieted down. I seemed to be getting the hang of the White Tower’s confusion of stairwells and hallways, and found my way to the Guildhall portal without making a single wrong turn. Unfortunately, this was the extent of my good luck for the morning because I soon discovered my newest teacher had been in the audience during my test. So, as we strode along the City’s sidewalks, passing modern office buildings and historic churches, he teased me about my display with Alastair.

  "Now, you control yourself around me. I might be tempted to hand out easy tests just to celebrate," he said after introducing himself, his voice filled with a Monty Python-esque wink-wink-nudge-nudge tone.

  To be fair, Alvin Dodding was cute… for a guy who looked to be in his late nineties. He had a small frame that might have been taller about fifty years ago, but not by much. His white hair leapt out of his head like it was trying to launch its own space program. And he had a strange habit of adjusting glasses that weren’t there. In between his teasing, he explained to me that Olivia had convinced him to allow Chester to magic his eyes into proper form about ten years ago and he still hadn’t broken the habit of fiddling with his spectacles.

  Despite his age, Alvin had a quick, lively step as we zigzagged around the City’s businessmen and women. I wondered if Chester might have also worked his wonders on the old man’s arthritic joints. It took only ten minutes to reach the museum where Professor Dodding had no problem jogging up the steps leading to his office, one wall of which was almost entirely window and looked out over the remnants of a stone wall.

  "Is that part of the arena?" I asked.

  "What?"

  "The big hunk of ancient ruins in your backyard."

  "Oh, no, just a wall, another part of the old Roman infrastructure. You hardly notice it after a time, I suppose. Now," he said, climbing up on a very wobbly step stool and reaching for a book that looked like it might weigh about as much as he did. If he donned a diver’s weight belt and a backpack full of bricks, that is.

  I rushed over to help, but he hopped off the stool, balancing the book in the palm of one hand.

  "You’re very spry," I commented.

  "Ah, that’s the Floating Charm. Ever try it?" I said I hadn’t. "It adjusts the gravity around you. Does wonders for people my age."

  I almost asked him what that age might be, but even in the magical world I was pretty sure it was rude to pry into how many years someone had been roaming around on Planet Earth.

  In Portland — and boy, did it seem like ages since I’d been there — I’d already learned that magic did something to slow people’s aging. But as was evidenced from the wrinkled old man across from me and from Mr. Tenpenny’s grey hair, Magics did age. I almost wished I could stop by Dr. Dunwiddle’s and pester her about the magic aging process, but I’d have to leave that conversation for another day.

  Alvin flipped back and forth through the book while he explained the theory behind his low-gravity talents. Which he demonstrated by leaping up and drifting down into his creaking leather chair like a feather. Finally, he seemed to find what he’d been searching for and settled into his seat.

  "It seems my job is to teach you a bit about why you’re in London."

  "I thought I was here to control my magic," I said before he could continue. His fluffy eyebrows showed his displeasure. "Aren’t I?"

  "That’s what you will do here, not the why of it. Do you always interrupt like that?" I was about to apologize when he got a teasing glint in his eyes. "No wonder Alastair kissed you. It was probably to shut you up."

  He gave a good laugh at
his own quip. A dry, old man’s laugh that stirred up his underlying scent of sage. Once he’d composed himself, I pointed at the book, "Does that say why I’m here?"

  "Oh no, I just like the feel of leafing through the pages. Now, I’ll ask you some questions to get an understanding of what you already know. Have you learned what the watch does?"

  "Brings people back to life."

  "Correct, but what is the problem with that?"

  "There’s already too many people on the planet?" I said doubtfully.

  "That is very accurate. Can you imagine the parking situation if all the dead came back? But the real reason is that the watch lends the person who owns it an amazing amount of control over time, over life, over magic itself. With enough strength, the possessor can make themselves immortal; they can kill a person with only a tiny twist of the wrist; a grander twist, and they can wipe out an entire city. With the watch, a Magic is in control. Too much control."