The Wizard of Dark Street Read online

  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 knob 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 space, 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 pass 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 wineglasses 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 balls 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 shifted 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, cushioned 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 apprenticeship. 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 Samuliga
n 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 doorknob, 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 doorknob. 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, crashing 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, brushing 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 embarrassment.

  Presently, the well-dressed, chubby New York boy spoke up. “What precisely does the document say?” he inquired.

  “And you would be?” asked Mr. Ravensmith.

  “Lamont John-Michael Arlington Fitch the Third,” the boy said. He stared at the document on the table. The contract was so long that it had been rolled into a thick scroll, with only the bottom portion showing, where the applicants were to sign their names.

  “I’ll tell you what it says,” said Isadora Iree. “It says if you do not sign it, you won’t get the job.” She snatched the fountain pen from Mr. Ravensmith’s well-groomed fingers and scribbled her name so large that it took up three lines.

  “Next,” said Mr. Ravensmith. His gaze fell back to the New York boy.

  “My father is the head of the Palmroy Manhattan Bank,” Lamont said. “He told me never to sign something before reading it.”

  “Your father is a wise man,” said Mr. Ravensmith. “Do you read music, Mr. Fitch?”

  “Music?” said Lamont. “Why, no.”

  “Well, then,” said Mr. Ravensmith, “how are you going to read the document before you?”

  Lamont gaped down at the contract as Mr. Ravensmith partially unrolled the immense document. Oona was fairly certain that she knew what was causing the boy’s vexed expression. There would be no actual words on the contract, but instead only a very complex musical score. Clearly, the boy did not know that magical contracts were always written in musical notation.

  “I don’t understand,” said Lamont. “What kind of contract is this?”

  “A legal and binding one, young man,” said Mr. Ravensmith. “Now, if you would be so good as to sign … there, just below Miss Iree.”

  Lamont blinked at the lawyer. He glanced once toward the other occupants on the bench, who appeared to find nothing strange in musical documents, and then shrugged. When he had finished signing, Lamont set the pen on the table and squared it, lining it up perfectly with the edge of the paper. “I have one more question,” he said.

  Mr. Ravensmith grimaced. “If you must, but make it quick. Time is money, Mr. Fitch. Your father must have taught you that, at the very least.”

  “What precisely is Dark Street?” Lamont asked.

  Mr. Ravensmith slapped his own forehead. “Goodness! If you don’t know that, then I can’t possibly see—”

  But Mr. Ravensmith stopped speaking when Samuligan placed his gaunt hand on the lawyer’s shoulder. “Now, now, Mr. Ravensmith. Let us be fair.”

  The lawyer bowed slightly and stepped away, brushing his fingers at the place where the faerie servant had touched his jacket.

  Samuligan moved forward, his cowboy hat shading his eyes. He smiled at Lamont, an expression that made the boy shrink back in his chair. “Mr. Fitch. The question you ask is a complicated one, for sure. But for you, the basics will have to do, so listen up. Dark Street is the last of the thirteen Faerie roads. It is not like any other road you have known. It exists in the space between two worlds—a place known as the Drift. It is called the Drift because in this in-between place, nothing stands still, but instead remains in nearly constant flux. The street acts much like the hour hand on a clock, rotating through the Drift in a great circle. Do you follow me so far?”

  Lamont John-Michael Arlington Fitch III nodded his round head, though to Oona it appeared that the boy was more frightened of annoying Samuligan than truly understanding.

  “Very good,” said Samuligan. “Now, at the north end of the street stand the Iron Gates. This is important to know, because at precisely twelve o’clock midnight, every night, the Iron Gates open upon New York City, where they remain open for exactly one minute before closing, and once again beginning the rotation. The pendulum that swings through this room is the instrument that keeps the street moving in perfect time.

  “Also worthy of note is the fact that the Iron Gates are far older than the city of New York. There was once a time when, at midnight, the gates opened upon Paris. Before that it was Prague, and before that, Oxford, all the way back to five hundred years ago, when the Magicians of Old first set the street into motion as a protective measure against faerie attack.”

  At the mention of attack, Lamont’s eyebrows shot up
in alarm.

  Samuligan strode the length of the room, pointing at the portrait of Oswald the Great and his lizard, Lulu. Oswald was beardless and hatless. He looked to be a man in his mid-forties, yet appeared both young and old at the same time; as wise as any sage, and wild as the wind. His long, straight hair fell just past his shoulders, black as a raven’s wing. With his famous magic wand in hand, and dressed in his dark green magician’s robes, he stood before an enormous open gateway made of glass, beyond which a great stone stairway ascended endlessly into the clouds.

  “Which brings us to the opposite end of Dark Street,” Samuligan continued. “The south end. That is where you will find the Glass Gates, which do not open, and which have remained locked shut ever since this man, Oswald, the greatest of the Magicians of Old, closed them nearly five hundred years ago. As you can see in this painting, those gates lead to a set of enormous steps, which in turn lead to what some refer to as the Other-lands, or the Land of the Fay, but which most people simply call Faerie—a place where every grain of sand, and every breath of air, is filled with magic. It was through the generosity of the mighty Queen of the Fay that the Magicians of Old learned their first spells, and it was there, in Faerie, that they became greedy and stole the secret knowledge that the queen would have kept hidden. The magicians were very clever, indeed, but when the queen learned of their treachery, so began the terrible thirteen-year Great Faerie War. Many and more perished, magicians and faeries alike. I should know. I was there. But that is a tale for another day. All you really need to know is that the place where you now rest your ample bottom is Pendulum House. It is the magical anchor to which the street holds its course. It is also the home of the Wizard, whose sole job is to protect the World of Man should the Glass Gates ever fall. Does that answer your question?”

  The chubby New York boy looked as though he might ask yet another, but upon second consideration he simply nodded.

  “And now if we are quite done with the history lesson,” said Mr. Ravensmith in an exasperated tone, “I implore the rest of you to please sign below Miss Iree and Mr. Fitch before we are asked to explain why the sky is dark at night.” He thrust the fountain pen into Adler Iree’s hand, watched as the boy signed his loopy scrawl, then snatched the pen back and handed it to the witch. She signed the paper with a shaky hand.