Sanora gazed up, her vast eyes blinking dazedly. "I ... I think I will be all right. The chair took most of the blow."

The crumpled remains of the chair lay in a heap near the table, along with the broken chair leg Oona had used to cast her spell of light. What surprised Oona the most was that, when she looked at the splintered piece of wood, she didn't feel one st.i.tch of guilt. She had used magic, and yet there was no trace of the horrible sense of betrayal she'd felt only the day before when she had unintentionally fixed the broken magnifying gla.s.s. This time there had been nothing unintentional about it. This time it had been her choice. Lux lucis admiratio. The Lights of Wonder: the very spell that had gone wrong nearly three years ago beneath the trembling leaves of the fig tree. This time the magic had done precisely what she'd intended. This time it had felt exactly right.

"Can you stand?" Oona asked the witch.

"Think so," said Sanora, and Oona helped her to her feet. Like Deacon, the girl wobbled slightly, but she appeared less hurt than Oona would have guessed, and the dress was remarkably undamaged.

Mr. Mustache moaned on the floor, and Oona approached him warily. His club lay near his limp hand, half buried beneath a pile of books. Oona kicked it away.

"We should tie these two up before they come to," she said, and then, remembering that she had dropped the dagger to the floor, she quickly scanned the room. For one panicky instant she did not see it anywhere ... but the panic was short-lived and she let out a sigh. There it was, lying on the floor in front of the bookcase filled with newspapers, safely out of everyone's reach. If any of the witches wanted to get to it, they would need to get past Oona, and presently all the witches were standing near the table, staring at her with a kind of openmouthed wonder.

"What is to be done now?" Deacon asked.

"We must still find my uncle's true attacker," Oona said. "Nothing else is more important. Red Martin has disappeared."

"There's a tunnel that goes all the way to the hotel," Sanora explained. "That's how we get the root. He's probably halfway back by now."

Oona frowned. "Well, he is still the legal owner of Pendulum House, and he intends on stopping the pendulum at midnight." She turned to face the witches. "As it seems that you are all now out of Red Martin's good favor, I'm afraid your only hope for procuring turlock root for your beauty cream will be from Pendulum House. So I suggest that you all help me in any way possible. We must destroy Red Martin's legal ownership."

"Turlock root at Pendulum House?" several of the girls said at once. They looked at one another in surprise.

"Yes. It grows in the inner garden," Oona said. "But you'll just have to trust me on that. I'm sure once we have restored the Wizard to his human form, I might be able to convince him to allow you all some reasonable access to the roots." She walked to the bookcase and stood over the dagger, peering down at its unblemished blade before turning back to face the girls. "But only under the condition that you return the dresses to Madame Iree's showroom, and admit to having stolen the daggers from the museum."

Oona slid one of the yellowed newspapers from the shelf-an old edition of the Dark Street Tribune-and knelt down. Moving as delicately as possible, she slid the edge of the paper beneath the dagger, rolled it around both handle and blade, creating a thick tube, and then picked it up. The paper was just thick enough so that Oona could hold the dagger without getting burned. She could still feel the closeness of the dagger, but the paper had reduced the fiery sensation to a kind of tingling heat in her hand.

Deacon half whispered in Oona's ear: "It's a good thing that Red Martin did not pay too close attention to the precise wording of the dagger's enchantment."

"What do you mean, Deacon?" she asked.

"Well, according to the enchantment," he whispered, "once Red Martin had brought the dagger into the room, he could have still used it, regardless of who actually held it."

"You mean that even though he no longer had the dagger on him, he could have still used it to kill me?" Oona said, her heart seeming to skip a beat.

"Yes ... so long as you were no more than ten paces away, and he could see you, then he could still have used the enchantment to throw it with his mind," Deacon replied.

For a moment Oona didn't know what to say. It seemed that she had been very lucky indeed. She had a sudden fear that Red Martin might suddenly realize his mistake and step back into the room. But from the way he had turned and run, she suspected that Red Martin was currently far away from Witch Hill. And then a new thought struck her so forcefully she nearly dropped the paper. "Of course!" she whispered.

"What is it?" Deacon asked, his voice br.i.m.m.i.n.g with concern.

"It's ... It's ... of course, Deacon! Why did I not see it before?" The newspaper continued to tingle in her hand like fiery nerves.

"See what?" Deacon implored, but she did not answer. Instead, she retrieved Sanora's flimsy black dress from where she had tossed it to the ground and handed it to the young witch.

"Sanora, I suggest you return to your own dress quickly," she said. "We need to go."

"Where to?" Deacon asked.

"First things first," Oona replied. "We will return this dagger to the museum. And then we must find the inspector and gather all the other applicants. I know who attacked my uncle."

It took nearly twenty minutes for Sanora to change and for her and Oona and Deacon to find their way out of the hill by way of the enchanted entrance beneath the roots of the crooked tree. They found Inspector White kneeling down in the street, peering into one of the potholes. Samuligan sat atop the Wizard's carriage in front of the museum, watching the inspector with an amused expression on his long faerie face, the hatbox containing the toad resting safely in his lap.

It took another thirty minutes for Oona to explain all that had happened, and for the inspector to accompany them into the museum to return the stolen dagger. The inspector had been quite eager to arrest Sanora on the spot, but Oona had insisted that the young witch be allowed to return to Pendulum House, along with all of the other applicants, for a sort of "restaging" of the attack on the Wizard.

It was early evening when Oona hurried through the front doorway of Pendulum House, Deacon balancing precariously on her shoulder. Samuligan followed close behind carrying the hatbox. Sanora Crone was the next to enter, and a moment later Inspector White strode into the entryway, wearing his checkered hunting jacket. Next came Isadora and Adler Iree, along with Lamont John-Michael Arlington Fitch III, and lastly, Hector Grimsbee, his great big nostrils flaring almost to the size of his milky-white eyes.

"I hope you have a good reason for having me gather up all these fine people, Miss Crate," the inspector told Oona. "And an even better reason for pulling me away from the scene of a crime. The cobblestone case is not going to solve itself."

Oona came to an abrupt halt in the entryway, looking down at her feet. Scattered across the floor were the remnants of Isadora's tantrum from the night before: the kicked-over umbrella stand, the toppled footstool, the scattered parasols, and Hector Grimsbee's red umbrella.

"I believe we are about to solve all of these peculiar cases at once," Oona told the inspector, and when his face contorted, expressing more confusion than normal, she gestured toward the entryway coatrack. "Would you be so kind, Inspector, as to bring that black jacket? The one hanging on the coatrack. I believe it will be needed."

The inspector took in a sharp breath. "What is my jacket doing here? It is supposed to be at the tailor's getting mended."

"Just bring it!" Oona said so forcefully that the inspector took a step backward before hastily removing the jacket from the coatrack and then following Oona, along with the others, into the parlor.

Oona stopped several feet into the room. She studied the scene as if from a distance. The Wizard's robes lay empty on the floor, where he had fallen. She took in the paintings and tapestries on the walls, the ceaseless swing of the pendulum, the long bench, the two magical contracts on the table, and the large book that Adler Iree had left behind.

"Please, everyone," Oona said. "If you would resume your positions from yesterday, when my uncle was attacked, we may proceed."

"Proceed with what?" Hector Grimsbee asked, sounding characteristically peeved. "I have a monologue I could be polishing."

Isadora pointed an accusing finger at Sanora. "Why is she not under arrest? Clearly she is the one who stole my mother's dresses. Shouldn't we be more concerned with getting the dresses back before the masquerade tonight?"

Oona looked from Sanora to Isadora. "By the time we finish with this demonstration, Miss Iree, I can a.s.sure you that the dresses will be back in the showroom at your mother's boutique."

Oona raised an eyebrow at Sanora, and the girl nodded. Before leaving Witch Hill, Oona had seen to it that both of Red Martin's thugs had been tied up, and then she'd made the eight remaining witches promise to return the dresses to the shop, a.s.suring them that if they did not, then there would be no chance of their receiving turlock root from the Pendulum House garden.

Isadora's expression brightened. She clapped her hands together excitedly and said: "Well, in that case, I should like to go immediately and begin getting ready for the masquerade."

"Me, too!" said Hector Grimsbee, scratching absently at his bloodstained bandage. "The director of the Dark Street Theater will be there, and I wish to look my best!"

"I know who attacked my uncle!" Oona shouted at them.

The shout startled Deacon into the air. He took flight and began to caw his haunting raven's cry as he swooped about the applicants, herding them toward the bench.

Once everyone was in place, Deacon returned to Oona's shoulder, and Oona turned to Samuligan. "Now, if you would please place my uncle there, on his robes, I think we can begin."

Samuligan obligingly did as he was told, removing the toad from the box and placing him on top of the Wizard's crumpled purple robe.

"Inspector White," Oona said, "if you would be so kind as to put on that jacket and then stand out of the way, over there, beneath that portrait."

She was pleased to see the inspector do as she asked without launching into a fit of irrelevant questions. He removed his hunting jacket, tossing it over the back of a chair, before slipping his arms into the black jacket from the entryway.

"Hey, what has happened to my jacket?" the inspector asked. "I'll need to have a word with that tailor. He was supposed to fix a hole in the sleeve, not make the entire jacket bigger." In truth, the jacket appeared quite baggy as it hung from the inspector's narrow shoulders.

"Please, Inspector," Oona said. "Stand over there, and we may begin."

As Oona had instructed, the inspector took his position beneath the portrait of Oswald the Great, puffing up his chest in an attempt to fill out the jacket.

Oona scanned the room, making sure everyone was in place.

"If there is one thing I have learned throughout all of this," she said, "it is that rumors can sometimes be true. It was rumored that Red Martin was hundreds of years old. And now I know that this is true. It was also rumored that Natural Magicians, such as myself, have active faerie blood in their veins, and this has also been proven true to me." She pointed to the rolled-up doc.u.ments on the table. "Had I known this fact before yesterday, then I might have recognized what was happening when I placed my hand near the second doc.u.ment in order to sign my name. I had no idea that the uncomfortably hot, tingling sensation that I felt in my hand was due not to my nervousness but solely to the fact that rolled up inside that oversize doc.u.ment was a dagger created to burn the hand of any faerie." Oona turned in a dramatic swish of skirts to face the inspector. "It was you, sir, who brought the dagger into the room concealed inside that contract."

She arrowed her finger at the rolled-up doc.u.ment on the table.

The inspector took in a sharp breath. "Me? But ... I don't remember even being in the room at the time."

Oona shook her head. "Not you, Inspector. I'm referring to the lawyer, Mr. Ravensmith, of whom you are playing the role. That is why I had you put on his jacket."

"Ravensmith's jacket?" the inspector said. "But how do you know that it is his?"

"I believe, if you reach into the inside pocket," Oona said, "you will find an envelope containing an invoice for services rendered to the Wizard over the past two years."

The inspector reached into the pocket and removed a single envelope. He pulled the invoice from inside, and after a brief glance, he said: "But how did you know it would be there?"

Oona glanced at Deacon, and it was he who answered. "She knew because we both saw Mr. Ravensmith present that invoice to the Wizard yesterday. When the Wizard did not take it, Ravensmith returned the envelope to his own pocket. The jacket most certainly belongs to the lawyer."

Isadora Iree peered at Oona, one perfect eyebrow arched over a patronizing eye. "Yes. So the man left his jacket here. What is the crime in that?"

"And if you are saying that the lawyer attacked your uncle," added Lamont John-Michael Arlington Fitch III, pensively pushing his eyegla.s.ses against his chubby face, "then might I remind you, Miss Crate, that the attacker had to have been in the room to commit the crime. Isn't that what your bird explained?"

"Hmm, yes indeed," Oona said. "It is true that Mr. Ravensmith had already left the room when my uncle was attacked. Deacon, would you please repeat what you told us yesterday? The magical laws regarding the two daggers."

Deacon looked at her, a sympathetic softness about his eyes. "I'm afraid that the magical scripture states very clearly: *For purposes of accuracy, the throwing of either dagger must take place within a confined s.p.a.ce, such as a room. The dagger must be carried into the room by the attacker, who in turn must visually see the victim from a distance of no more than ten paces away.' There is no way around it. The Magicians of Old were very specific."

Deacon shrugged his wings as if to say, You asked.

Oona, however, appeared unconcerned and even braved a thin smile. "From my understanding of it, Deacon, nowhere does it state that the attacker must be in the room in order to strike the victim."

Adler Iree took in a sharp breath, his tattoos stretching as his face flushed with excitement. And then just as quickly he frowned. "For sure, you've spotted a loophole in the enchantment, Miss Crate," he said in his lilting Irish accent. "Or, what I mean to say is, you've spotted a flaw ... and yet I still can't see how someone could've seen the Wizard and not have been inside the room. There's nary a window to be found in here."

"Yes!" the inspector shouted, startling everyone in the room. "No windows, Miss Crate. Let's see you explain your way out of this one."

Oona decided that a more comprehensive explanation was needed. "I believe that everyone can testify to the fact that Ravensmith was wearing his jacket during the signing of the contracts. So why would he remove the jacket and hang it on the coatrack before leaving the house? It makes very little sense ... that is, unless he was attempting to squeeze into a very tight and dusty s.p.a.ce and did not wish to get the jacket dirty. If there is one thing we learned from Ravensmith's secretary, Mr. Quick, it is that the lawyer despises dust. I myself observed the lawyer repeatedly brushing away some invisible bit of dust from his sleeve or lapel."

Oona pointed to Oswald's portrait.

"You see, Inspector, behind that portrait is a very small and seldom-used broom closet. A very dirty closet, which I learned for myself only yesterday. The eyes of both Oswald and his companion, Lulu, may be slid aside, and whoever stands in the closet can see everything that happens inside this room. I, myself, used it just yesterday ... but since I am not very tall, I needed to stand on a footstool in order to see through the holes. But last night, when everyone was leaving the house, there was a footstool sitting beside the closet door. I would not have noticed it if Isadora hadn't lost her temper and kicked it at me. And even then it did not occur to me that it was the same stool that I had stood upon in the closet."

"Well, if someone hadn't placed their jacket on top of my shawl," Isadora said reasonably, "then I wouldn't have been so upset, and I wouldn't have needed to kick it."

Adler squinched up his face, giving his sister a reproachful look, and then turned to Oona. "But why was the stool outside of the closet?"

The pendulum swung silently through the room behind Oona as she steepled her hands together. "Here is how it happened. Once the contract was signed, and all of us were in the room with the Wizard, Mr. Ravensmith made his way to the broom closet in the entryway. But upon seeing the deplorable condition of the confined s.p.a.ce, he removed his jacket and hung it on the coatrack that stood conveniently beside the closet. Since Ravensmith is taller than I am, he then set the stool outside the door before squeezing himself inside. And this is where the loophole came into effect ... one that only a clever lawyer could ever have thought up. He left the dagger inside the room while he himself made visual contact with the Wizard through the eyes of Oswald the Great."

"But how did Mr. Ravensmith know of the spy holes in the closet in the first place?" Deacon asked.

Oona c.o.c.ked her head conspiratorially to one side. "Tell me, Deacon. Do you remember the lawyer's chiding remark to my uncle about the condition of Pendulum House? How Ravensmith himself had hired our old thief of a cleaning maid, Miss Colbert, and how wonderfully she had been keeping his own office and household?"

"Certainly," Deacon said. "I remember thinking the remark rather unprofessional."

"Yes, as did I, Deacon," Oona said. "And let me ask you this. Of all the people who live on Dark Street, how many can you name that would have knowledge of the broom closet in the entryway ... and its spy holes?"

Deacon began to nod more decisively. "You believe that Miss Colbert told him about it?"

Oona rubbed thoughtfully at one cheek. "Perhaps he overheard her telling one of his other servants about it, or maybe she told him directly. Whether the cleaning maid was knowingly involved in his scheme is something we will need to ask the lawyer himself."

She fell silent for a very long moment, the swing of the pendulum keeping soundless time as it sliced through the room.

After a while the inspector thrust one gangly finger into the air. "But if this jacket was so important to Ravensmith that he would take it off to keep it clean, then why would he leave it behind after he had committed the crime?"

Oona blinked in surprise. "Very good, Inspector. Very, very good! I believe that deserves a bit of candy."

She reached into the pocket of her dress and extracted the piece of candy she had rescued from beneath the street. She tossed it at the inspector, who s.n.a.t.c.hed it out of the air, beaming at her.

"The reason for the jacket remaining on the coatrack," Oona explained, "is the same reason that he failed to show up at his office today. His secretary informed us that Ravensmith is always at his office by nine o'clock sharp, without fail. But he was not there when we arrived today at nine thirty. And that is because Mr. Ravensmith never left Pendulum House."

"He what?" The inspector nearly dropped the candy as he fumbled with the wrapper.

"He is still there," Oona said. "Inside the closet."

Lamont John-Michael Arlington Fitch III took in a sharp breath. "Preposterous! Why would he remain in the closet?"

Oona strode nine paces across the room and stood beside Oswald the Great's painting. The inspector stepped aside as she stood on her tiptoes, raising her hand to Oswald's face, and snapped her fingers. The eyes blinked.

Several gasps filled the room.

"Is that you, Mr. Ravensmith?" Oona asked.

A voice emanated from the portrait. "I don't know what you are talking ... ah ... um ..."

"Ravensmith?" the inspector said through a mouthful of candy. "What are you still doing in there?"

"It's simple," Oona said. "The latch on the inside of the door is old and rusted. It sticks. The closet is far too small for a full-grown man such as Mr. Ravensmith to be able to turn around and work it open, such as I was forced to do yesterday."

"Yes, yes, I did it!" Ravensmith called from behind the portrait. "I'll admit to all of it. Just someone get me out of here!"

"First you must speak the magical phrase," Oona said.

"Please!" cried Ravensmith.

"No, no, no," Oona said. "The other magical phrase, Mr. Ravensmith. The one that will return my uncle to his human form."

"Just let me go. You don't understand!" Mr. Ravensmith cried.

"No," Oona said calmly. "It's you who do not understand. First recite the phrase that will reverse the dagger's spell, or you can stay in there until the Gla.s.s Gates reopen."

Ravensmith gave a shuddering moan, and then uttered: "All right. The phrase is ... is ... *Toadstool Pie.'"