Oona began rubbing her hands together. Here at last was something she could explain. "Remember last night, Isadora, when you asked the inspector if it were possible for the daggers and the dresses to have been stolen by the same person?"

"Everyone looked at me like I was crazy," Isadora replied, giving Oona a fiercely reproachful look.

Oona winced, realizing that, yes, the idea had seemed somewhat ludicrous at the time. "Well, it turns out, you were right." Oona pointed to the hole in the floor. "Sanora must have tunneled her way beneath the shop and come up here, beneath the platform. Though I doubt she was alone. This is a big job. One small girl could not have done it alone. It's my guess that she had some help from her fellow witches."

Oona scratched at her head. How the witches had known to come up in that exact spot, so that the platform would cover the hole, she didn't know. But she intended to find out.

Peering into the hole, she gulped. "Will you go down first, Deacon? Or shall I?"

"And why would I go in there?" Deacon squawked. "Now that we know how the thief got in, we simply need to tell the authorities."

Oona gave Deacon an incredulous look.

"Well, all right," he admitted, "perhaps Inspector White will muck everything up, but it's better than you or I going in there ... alone."

Oona turned to Isadora, but the fine young lady put up her hands. "I'm not going down in there."

"And besides," Deacon said, "if Sanora did steal the daggers, then that means she still has possession of the second one: Fay Mors Mortis. The Faerie Death. You promised your uncle that you would not go snooping around deadly criminals."

"I know what I promised, Deacon," Oona said. "But if Sanora was the one who threw the dagger at Uncle Alexander, then she is the only one who knows the words to transform him back. Red Martin intends to stop the Dark Street pendulum at midnight if the Wizard does not show up to reclaim Pendulum House." She pointed at the hole in the floor. "Sanora Crone could stay down there in Witch Hill for months, or even longer."

"Witch Hill?" said Deacon.

"Yes. Don't you see? There is a tunnel leading directly from this spot to the hill across the street."

"But how did you know it would be here?" Deacon asked.

"It all came from seeing those missing cobblestones. When I dropped the inspector's candy through the pothole, I did it to ill.u.s.trate a point, which is that the witches have dug a tunnel beneath the street. That's why the cobblestones have gone missing, as well as the earth beneath them. The witches must have dug the tunnel terribly close to the surface, and the ground has begun to fall away in certain spots, like where the carriage wheels travel the most. That is why the carriages keep getting stuck."

"Hmm," Deacon intoned, glancing toward the filthy black dress that hung from Oona's shoulder. "I can see why she would want to steal the dresses, since her own is so very drab, but why would she wish to imprison your uncle?"

"Maybe she meant to kill him," Oona said. "Maybe she didn't know which dagger she was using. I don't know. As to why she would wish to harm him at all ... that is precisely what I intend to find out."

Moving with a swift sort of confidence that she did not entirely feel, Oona s.n.a.t.c.hed one of the fallen candles from the floor. She then dug a match from her pocket and struck it along the edge of the platform. Her face glowed as she lit the candle and took in a deep breath, as if preparing to plunge into deep waters. The lit match dropped from her fingers into the hole, winking out as it disappeared into the darkness.

"Miss Crate," said Isadora, almost tentatively.

Oona glanced over her shoulder. Strangely enough, she thought she saw an expression of concern on Isadora's face. It seemed quite out of place there.

"Do be careful," Isadora said. "No one knows what those witches do down there."

It was the concern in Isadora's voice that set Oona's nerves on edge more than anything else. She had a strange, albeit short-lived thought that perhaps Isadora wasn't quite as bad as she had judged her to be. Maybe there was a sc.r.a.p of kindness in the girl after all. But the thought died quickly away when Isadora added: "And if you find the dresses, try not to get them dirty when you bring them back. That hole looks filthy."

Oona did not bother to respond, but instead she lowered herself into the hole in the floor, the burning candle held in one faintly trembling hand, and began her descent into the darkness below.

Deacon hopped to her shoulder, shaking his head from side to side. "Oh dear. Here we go."

Oona touched bottom, the moist earth squishing beneath her shoes. She stepped around the ladder, holding the candle high above her head, where the flame licked at the earthen ceiling. The tunnel stretched out before her like a long, dark throat, and she began to have second thoughts about continuing forward. Down here in the dark, things seemed much different than they had up above. They were ... well, they were darker, for one thing. And the air itself seemed denser and more threatening. She gulped audibly, considering whether or not to simply climb right back up, when something grabbed her attention.

"Look, Deacon. Do you see?" She moved closer to the sidewall of the tunnel, exposing a pile of pickaxes, chisels, and handsaws.

"Tools of the trade," she said. "And look how many. It appears I was right, and there is actually more than one thief involved." She bent down, examining the ground. A set of wheel ruts cut into the floor and disappeared down the tunnel. "Some sort of cart has pa.s.sed this way, many times."

"Careful," Deacon whispered. "Even I am having trouble seeing very far."

The two of them began to inch their way forward, the walls seeming to close in around them. It wasn't long before they came to a spot where the hooves of a horse could be heard clopping overhead.

"We must be under the street," Oona said, and looking up, they saw several square-shaped patches of sunlight leaking down through the holes in the street. At her feet lay the missing cobblestones, and beside one of them lay the candy Oona had dropped through the hole. She picked it up and put it in her pocket.

"I tried to tell Inspector White my suspicions," she said. "But he wouldn't listen."

Beyond the reach of the pulsing candlelight, she could see nothing. The hand holding the candle began to tremble as the wax dribbled down over her fingers. It was not the sting of the warm wax that caused the tremor inside of her, however, but the thought of the witches. Not only did she know nothing about them, but neither did Deacon, and he had the entire Encyclopedia Arcanna stored inside his head. They could have magic that no one knew about. Horrible spells.

Eventually, the two of them came to a spot where the tunnel split in two different directions. The wheel ruts turned left.

"What do we do now?" Deacon asked.

Oona thought for a moment. "Let's go left," she said, "and we will continue left on any other forked tunnels so that if we need to make a run for it, we can easily retrace our steps."

The tunnel curved and the ground sloped, so that it felt as if they were walking in a giant corkscrew, going down, down, down. They walked for what seemed a very long time, following two more forked tunnels, each time bearing left, until finally they came to a small, round room, where no fewer than six tunnels branched off in different directions. The floor here was smooth marble, and the walls were plastered smooth. An unlit chandelier hung down like a shadowy claw from the vaulted ceiling. It felt more like a palace entry hall than some underground cave, albeit a palace that had long gone to ruin.

A large sheet of paper hung on the wall between two of the tunnel entrances: a diagram of some sort.

"Do you know what this is, Deacon?" Oona tapped her finger on the paper. "This is a complete plan of all of the stores in the shopping district of Dark Street ... including the dress shop and the museum bas.e.m.e.nt. Look how detailed it is. You can even see right where the showroom platform is, and the mirror. This is how they knew exactly where to dig their hole."

"But how would they be able to acquire all of this information?" Deacon asked.

"My guess," Oona said, "Red Martin. This is very big, Deacon."

"You think he and the witches are working together?" he asked.

Oona shushed him. "Do you hear that?"

Deacon listened. "It's coming from there." He indicated a tunnel to their right with his wing.

"I guess we'll have to break our always-go-left rule," Oona said, and the two of them started down the first tunnel to their right. Oona's pulse rose. The deeper they went, the more distinct the sound became. It was the sound of voices arguing.

A dim light could be made out up ahead. Oona blew out the candle. Her nerves tingled, her muscles tensing with each step. The tunnel opened just ahead, the flickering light appearing to come from a room at the end.

She slowed, stepping as lightly as possible. Once she came within a few feet of the tunnel's mouth, she could hear them clearly: two young voices, female. The first voice Oona recognized right away. It was Sanora. The second voice was one that Oona had never heard before. It sounded more mature than Sanora's girly soprano, though still young and feminine-perhaps someone Oona's own age or older. It was the second voice that spoke now, sounding exasperated.

"You are so clumsy, Sanora. You almost ruined everything."

"I'm sorry, Katona," Sanora replied.

"First, you pester me into returning to the dress shop so you can take the dress from the window, and regrettably, I agreed, so long as we were very careful. But then you insisted on trying it on in the showroom, and I warned you against it. But would you listen? No. You should have waited until we came back down here. Really! Whirling about in front of that mirror like that, and knocking over the mannequin ... you cracked the mirror. It will need to be replaced now, and when they remove it from the wall to do so, they will find the hole leading into the museum. Must you act so childish, Sanora? I'll admit, the dress is magnificent. And you do look stunning in it. And yet ..." The girl named Katona paused a moment before saying: "Sanora, where is your dress?"

"I'm wearing it," Sanora said.

"Not the one you stole. Your dress. Your work dress. The one you were wearing before you put that one on?"

"Oh," said Sanora. "I must have left it up in the ..." She trailed off.

"In the showroom!" Katona said, sounding outraged. "Don't you realize that if they find it, they'll know it was us? Sanora, really, why must you act like such a child?"

"But I am a child," Sanora said.

"You are nothing of the sort!" Katona said. "You have simply been applying far too much of the cream. The turlock root has affected your judgment. Look at you."

"Look at you," Sanora said defensively. "I'd say you're looking quite a bit younger than-"

"I look and act like a young lady," Katona said. "You, on the other hand, have become a young girl, and at the rate you've been caking your face with that cream, you'll be an infant again in no time."

"I'm sorry," Sanora said, sounding quite meek.

"Hmm. I must discuss this with the rest of the coven, Sanora. We'll need to figure out what to do with your mess. Perhaps you'll have to go back for your old dress. That is, if it hasn't already been discovered."

"But-" Sanora began.

Katona cut her short. "I've heard enough! Stay here while I meet with the others. In the meantime, perhaps I should take that dress, so that you don't ruin-"

"No!" Sanora shouted, and now it did not sound like the voice of a ten-year-old girl, but instead like that of a much older woman. The sound of it sent goose b.u.mps skittering up Oona's arms.

"All right," Katona said, and Oona thought she could hear unease in the older girl's voice. "I will bring it up with the others."

Deacon took in a sharp breath. "She is coming this way."

The two of them ducked back into the darker part of the tunnel. Oona pressed herself flat against the wall. For a second she could make out the silhouette of a figure wearing a dress and pointy hat outlined against the flickering light, and then the blackness swallowed her up. Oona held her breath. The sound of swishing skirts filled the tunnel, growing louder at first, and then fading away down the pa.s.sage behind them.

Oona let out her breath, uncertain of what to do next. She turned the questions over in her mind: Should she move forward, or turn back? Was she doing the right thing? After several seconds of deliberation, however, she reminded herself that she had not come all the way down here simply to turn back at the last moment. This was her chance to learn the truth. Now was the time to be brave like a true detective, not meek like a frightened child. This is what her father would have done, she was sure of it. He would have met the challenge head on. And with that final thought, turning back was suddenly not an option. It was all or nothing. She took in several deep breaths to calm herself, and then said: "Come along, Deacon. It's time to confront Sanora."

They found Sanora huddled on the floor of a candlelit room-though calling it simply a room would have been an understatement. Perhaps thirty feet across by fifty feet long, the room appeared to be an entire underground library. The stone walls had been carved into rising shelves, all of them stuffed with books, stacks of yellowing newspapers, and thousands of scrolls.

A long wood table occupied the center of the room, atop of which sat a pair of flaming candelabras. There were only two chairs that Oona could see, one at the end of the table and another sitting beside a bookshelf, as if someone had used it for a stepping stool. The floor was nothing more than hard-packed earth.

Sanora had curled herself into a ball on the floor in front of a shelf containing newspapers. She hugged her knees, rocking from side to side on the ground.

"Remarkable!" Oona said as she stepped from the opening of the tunnel into the light of the library. "Not only do you steal a gorgeous dress, but you choose to use it as a floor rag as well. Here. I believe this would be more suitable." Oona tugged the black dress she had found in the showroom from her shoulder and tossed it to the floor.

Sanora looked up, her large eyes round and red from crying. She sprang to her feet. The dress looked positively radiant on her, its shimmery cloth causing Sanora's normally pale complexion to look as if it glowed.

"Oh, Miss Crate," said Sanora in a small, shaky voice. "I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have. But ... But I can explain."

Oona raised an eyebrow. "You mean explain why there is a tunnel leading from the dress shop to Witch Hill? I've already figured it out, Sanora. It was quite devious of you to tell me that you saw Hector Grimsbee on the steps of the museum, especially when you knew quite well that it was you, and not he, who stole the daggers."

Sanora sank back to the floor, as if defeated, and she spoke in a trembling voice. "It's true, I told you about seeing Mr. Grimsbee so you would think he stole the daggers. But I also thought that it must have been Grimsbee who was the one who threw the dagger at the Wizard."

Oona shook her head, confused. "What are you talking about? If you stole the dagger, then why would Grimsbee or anyone else be the one who threw it?"

But before Sanora could answer, a voice interjected. "What is this?"

Oona whirled around, only to discover a girl, about fifteen or sixteen years old, standing at the mouth of the tunnel. Upon her head sat a tall, pointy hat. Her dress, a silky purple gown, was breathtaking in its finely detailed craftsmanship. The girl wore the dress well, and from the way she held herself, she knew it.

Oona braced herself. If these witches knew any sort of magic at all-or were in possession of the second dagger-then this was surely the moment she would find out. But nothing happened. On the contrary, it was Sanora who blurted out: "Katona, be careful! She's a Natural Magician. I saw her yesterday. She conjured a powerful spell right in front of everyone, so she did."

Oona glanced down at Sanora, feeling a shock of guilt shoot through her body like lightning, and for a moment the shame of doing the magic-letting it happen-came rushing back to her. It had been a dreadful betrayal of her promise to never do magic again. A betrayal to her mother and sister. It had been a mistake. A stupid mistake.

A trace of movement at the mouth of the tunnel pulled Oona's attention back into the present moment. A second girl, roughly the same age as Katona, stepped out of the tunnel and into the library. She was followed by another girl, and then another, and another, each of them dressed in the finest of clothing-Madame Iree's missing dresses, no doubt-and each was wearing a pointy black hat. They stopped a few paces into the room and stared at the intruder and her bird.

Oona swallowed a lump in her throat, and Deacon whispered, "Oh dear," under his breath.

Again, Oona's muscles tensed in antic.i.p.ation of being struck with some secret spell, but just as before, there appeared to be no threat of this at all. Indeed, they all seemed quite a bit more afraid of her than Oona was of them.

"Who is that?" asked one of the girls.

"It's that Crate girl," said another. "The Wizard's niece."

Katona's eyes widened beneath the brim of her pointy hat, like she'd suddenly remembered something. "You ... You're the one who ... who killed your own mother."

Oona took in a sharp breath, and it seemed as if the entire room gasped with her. No one had ever said it so directly to her before, so matter-of-factly. It sounded so brutal to her ears, so painfully cruel and true. It was like a blade slid right into her chest, sinking deep into her heart, and for a second she thought perhaps one of the witches had thrown the second dagger, piercing her straight through. But it was not steel that cut at her, nor any enchantment. This was cold, undeniable remorse. It was guilt and loss all tangled together in barbed wire. It was the drowned song of heartache. She wanted to shout out that it had been an accident, that she had not meant for it to happen. Part of her wanted to crumble to her knees and fall into a fit of tears, while another part wished to leap on Katona and pull at her hair, to tell her to take it back; to take back what she had said in order to make it untrue. But Oona did neither of these things. There was nothing she could do that would make it untrue, nothing at all ... not even magic.

But she also knew that there was something that she must do, and that was save her uncle and Pendulum House. She might not be able to turn back the clock and save her mother and sister, but she could save the street from Red Martin's greedy scheme, and bring all those responsible to justice. That was what her father would have done.

Looking at the astonished expressions on the girls' faces, Oona realized for the first time that she just might be able to use their fear of her magic to her advantage. Even if she did not intend on using magic, that did not mean that she could not make the witches believe that she would. She only hoped that she could bluff them all.

And, she thought, let's pray that none of them possesses Fay Mors Mortis.

"What is it you want," Katona asked Oona wearily. "The dresses?"

Oona stepped forward, and the group of girls stepped back, all except for Katona, who seemed to be their leader. Oona could tell that the older girl was nervous, and yet there was an air of defiance about her as well.

Oona raised her chin. "The dagger that Sanora used to attack my uncle has turned him into a toad. What I want is for Sanora to tell me the magical phrase that will turn him back into his human form."

Katona laughed. It was a high-pitched chortle, filled with nervousness. "Sanora is not the person who attacked your uncle, Miss Crate."

Oona's eyes slitted. "Explain yourself."

Before Katona could answer, Oona noticed that several of the girls were attempting to edge their way back toward the tunnel. She arrowed a finger in their direction, like a Magician of Old preparing to cast some terrible enchantment. The girls stopped in their tracks.

"I want you all where I can see you," Oona commanded. "All of you, get on the table!"

The next moment, Deacon was soaring into the air, batting his wings at the girls, and cawing his high raven cry. The girls darted for the table; all except for Sanora, who remained where she was on the floor. There were nine witches in all, including Sanora.

"Where are the rest of you?" Oona asked.

The girls looked at one another. They did not seem to know what she was talking about, and then Oona suddenly understood.

"You mean to say that this is all there is? Nine witches?" She furrowed her brow, trying to adjust to this strange bit of news. Oona had always imagined scores of witches living below the hill. She'd imagined them beating on drums and dancing wildly around boiling kettles. The fact that none of them appeared older than sixteen was quite a surprise ... or, that is to say, it was a surprise until she remembered the turlock root.