"And you would be?" asked Mr. Ravensmith.

"Lamont John-Michael Arlington Fitch the Third," the boy said. He stared at the doc.u.ment 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 doc.u.ment before you?"

Lamont gaped down at the contract as Mr. Ravensmith partially unrolled the immense doc.u.ment. 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 doc.u.ments, 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 s.p.a.ce 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 gla.s.s, 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 Gla.s.s 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 Gla.s.s 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed the pen back and handed it to the witch. She signed the paper with a shaky hand.

"Well, then," Mr. Ravensmith said, "it appears we are missing one applicant. But that is to be expected. People are always backing out at the last minute. Magic isn't as popular as it used to be." He turned to Oona. "That leaves only you, Miss Crate." He extracted a second scroll from his inside jacket pocket, this one nearly double the size of the first. He set it on the table with a heavy thump. "If you would sign here at the bottom of this doc.u.ment, thereby forfeiting all rights and privileges to said apprenticeship, wizardship, benefits, and properties, blah, blah, blah, et cetera and et cetera."

Oona's heart skipped a beat as the lawyer extended the pen and motioned her toward the table.

What a ghastly sight I must seem, Oona thought.

She brushed a string of cobweb from her sleeve and made her way across the parlor to the table.

The smell of ashes from the fireplace filled the air, and she stifled a sneeze before receiving the pen from Mr. Ravensmith, a bit clumsily, but she managed to keep from fumbling it to the floor. The realization of what she was about to disown came into full focus. One of these four strangers was going to become her replacement. She read the signatures affixed to the first doc.u.ment and a.s.sessed them one by one.

The young witch's handwriting was so absurdly small that Oona was forced to dig her magnifying gla.s.s out of her pocket in order to read the minuscule letters. Sanora Crone. She was a toothpick of a girl with a sweet face, but she looked as though she might be frightened of her own shadow.

Next there was Isadora Iree of the Academy of Fine Young Ladies, Adler Iree from the Magicians Legal Alliance, and lastly, the New Yorker, Lamont John-Michael Arlington Fitch III, a round-faced boy whom she knew absolutely nothing about.

What had Uncle Alexander been thinking to advertise such a position in the New York Times? she wondered.

Mr. Ravensmith gave her dusty appearance a disdainful look before indicating the line at the bottom of the second doc.u.ment. "Sign right there."

Oona set the magnifying gla.s.s on the table, looked at the pen in her other hand, and hesitated.

"You don't have to do it," Deacon whispered in her ear. "You can talk to your uncle, and he will be happy to have you stay. I'm sure of it."

Oona licked her lips, which suddenly felt dry and chapped. Her heart began to beat faster, and her palms felt slick.

She leaned over the table, pressing the tip of the pen to the bottom of the scroll. Everyone leaned forward with her, and suddenly her fingers felt all tingly, as if she had placed her hand too close to a fire. Her hand pulled away from the paper.

How very curious, she thought, amazed that her heart was racing. Was this the magic inside of her attempting to thwart her decision? She did not know. This was what she wanted after all, wasn't it?

Of course it is, she told herself. There's no backing out now.

"Having trouble?" said a voice, and Oona looked up. Everyone turned. It was Isadora Iree. "Can't you sign your name?"

"I beg pardon?" asked Oona.

"I asked a simple question," said Isadora, a kind of sneaky malice in her eyes. "If you are unable to sign your name, then all you need to do is make an X. Do you know what an X is? It goes like this." She drew an invisible X in the air with her finger before adding: "I hope you are better at finding my mother's dresses than you are at dressing. By the way, you might consider taking a bath and having your clothes laundered every once in a while. Looks like you just crawled out of a coffin. What is that on your head, anyway? A wig?"

Oona stiffened, her temper beginning to rise. "It is nothing of the sort!"

Deacon whispered in her ear. "Easy now."

Isadora smirked, disbelieving. "Well, your hair must grow very fast, then. Is that why it's so filthy?"

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Isadora," said Adler in his thick Irish accent. "Don't be such a witch."

Isadora gasped, as if Adler had just called her the worst name possible, and yet it was Sanora Crone, the young witch, who appeared the most hurt by the insult. She flinched in her seat.

Isadora s.n.a.t.c.hed up the magnifying gla.s.s that Oona had left on the table and held it up threateningly, as if about to smash it against Adler's head.

"You take that back," she demanded.

"I won't," said Adler.

Oona took in a sharp breath at seeing her father's magnifying gla.s.s in Isadora's hand. The gla.s.s was very delicate and was by no means meant to be used as a weapon.

"You give that back!" Oona shouted.

Isadora looked at what she was holding and either realized that it was, after all, a rather ineffective tool to threaten someone with, or she simply grew bored of the little scene, but either way the effect was the same. She rolled her eyes at Oona and said: "Catch."

Time seemed to slow down as Isadora tossed the magnifying gla.s.s in Oona's direction. Whether on purpose or not Oona was unable to tell, but the toss had a bit too much strength behind it, and the gla.s.s sailed over Oona's head. It flipped end over end like a baton and slammed against the corner of a side table. The sound of shattering gla.s.s filled Oona's ears, and her mouth formed a perfect O as she watched the lens explode into a hundred pieces and fall to the floor.

For the briefest of moments, the room went deathly silent, and then Oona felt something snap inside of her.

"Reconcilio!"

The word seemed to come from deep within her; a place she had hoped would stay hidden forever. But the anger had somehow pulled it out of her. The shattered bits of gla.s.s began to fly off the ground in little arcs, as if time had been reversed. The shards came together, forming a swirl within the gold-plated metal ring. A flash of brilliant white light filled the room, along with a cracking sound that echoed off the giant pendulum, making it ring like a bell. It was a complex sound that might have been the bowing of a thousand violins. Lamont John-Michael Arlington Fitch III shouted in surprise, and the young witch screamed. And then the ringing sound abruptly stopped.

The magnifying gla.s.s lay whole and unblemished on the carpet, its lens flawless and glistening once more.

Oona s.n.a.t.c.hed it up from the ground, but her mouth had gone terribly dry. A sharp stab of guilt pierced her heart like a dart, and she stuffed the instrument into her pocket like a little girl afraid of getting caught with something she was not supposed to have. She blinked several times, shaking her head in disbelief, not because the magic had fixed the gla.s.s so perfectly, but because she had used magic at all. She had not meant to. It had just ... come out. On its own. The realization frightened her, and, with a quick glance at the others, it seemed that she was not alone in her surprise. Adler Iree's were the first set of eyes that she saw. They were wide with astonishment. The expressions on the faces of the other three applicants were, likewise, filled with amazement.

Oona wanted suddenly to plead with them to not say a word about what she had just done, especially not to the Wizard. He would not be angry. She was not afraid of that. Indeed, he would likely be interested to hear all about it, but all the same, she did not want him to know.

Again she looked to Adler, who continued to stare at her, his large blue eyes glued to her in a look of perpetual wonder.

It was Isadora who broke the silence. "When I'm apprentice, will I learn to do that?"

Oona turned on her, eyes slitted, suddenly seething at the careless way the girl had treated her father's magnifying gla.s.s.

Mr. Ravensmith cleared his throat. "Miss Crate, your signature please."

Oona turned her fiery gaze upon the lawyer, about to give him a piece of her mind, but then, realizing that she had nothing to say, she pressed the pen to the bottom of the rolled-up doc.u.ment, wanting nothing more than to have done with it all. Again her hand began to tingle, as if some inner part of her were fighting against her actions, but this time she gritted her teeth, hastily signed her name, and then dropped the pen to the table as if it were a hot ember.

Mr. Ravensmith signed his own name as witness to both contracts. As he finished, the parlor door opened and the Wizard strode into the room, his purple robes billowing out behind him. He glanced at the lawyer.

Mr. Ravensmith bowed slightly. "Everything is in order, sir."

I will take my leave of you," Mr. Ravensmith told the Wizard. "I do have an actual paying client awaiting me."

Oona stood apart from the applicants, all of whom had stood up from the bench upon the Wizard's entrance, and were now on their feet in a line behind the table. Oona watched the proceedings, feeling slightly dazed. She was still reeling from what she had done, trying to understand what had happened, and why she had used the magic. Something deep inside of her had stirred. And it hadn't been just anger. She had been quite angry and afraid the night before in Igregious Goodfellow's hideout. No magic had come spilling out then. No. Whatever the reason behind her spontaneous act, it had something to do with the thought of losing her father's magnifying gla.s.s.

The Wizard glanced in the lawyer's direction, but before he could give the lawyer leave to go, the door to the parlor banged open, startling everyone.

"Sorry I'm late!" cried a voice, as a tall, gangly man stepped into the room. He spoke in a loud, theatrical voice that Oona found both overbearing and highly irk-some. She did a double take, realizing that the latecomer was none other than Hector Grimsbee, the blind man whom she had seen disappear from the steps in front of the museum. He was no longer carrying his red umbrella, and Oona noticed that, for some reason, his clothing appeared quite disheveled. He looked as if he had been in some sort of scuffle. The top of his head was wrapped in a thick white bandage, and an oily bloodstain could be seen seeping through the raggedy cloth at his forehead.

"And you would be?" asked Mr. Ravensmith.

"Hector Grimsbee," said the mustached man. "I am an applicant for the position of Wizard's apprentice."

Oona gaped at him. Though there was no age limit for applicants, the man appeared to be at least forty years old, which in Oona's opinion was far too old to be applying for the position of apprentice. Grimsbee turned his head, sniffing in her direction, and Oona saw that the man's eyes were completely white, devoid of any pupils at all. Like two bottomless pools of milk, they appeared to look right at her. Oona stepped back as Grimsbee grinned, tweezing the end of his bullhorn mustache between his fingers.

"You are late," said the Wizard, sounding very displeased.

"And you need to sign the contract to be eligible for the position," Mr. Ravensmith said, sighing. "It's on the table." He took hold of Grimsbee's arm, as if to guide the blind man to the table, but Grimsbee jerked his arm away.

"I do not need a.s.sistance. I can smell my way." His nostrils swelled, nearly doubling in size, so that they resembled nothing less than two enormous tunnels in the center of his face. He stepped forward, moving quite confidently around an unoccupied chair, stepping over a footstool in the process, and then proceeded to march directly toward the enormous swinging pendulum. Everyone gasped, but before anyone could say anything, Grimsbee abruptly changed directions and walked to the table with the contracts on it. Leaning down, he sniffed inquisitively at the large book that Adler Iree had left on the tabletop, and then promptly followed his nose to the two rolled-up contracts. He straightened. "There are two doc.u.ments here, each with very distinctive smells. Which do I sign?"

Mr. Ravensmith moved quickly to his side, appearing quite astounded at Grimsbee's extraordinary sense of smell. The lawyer slid the proper contract in front of the blind man and handed him the fountain pen. Grimsbee signed his name ... and then pocketed the pen. With a twist of his mustache, Grimsbee fixed the lawyer with his sightless eyes, as if daring Mr. Ravensmith to ask for the pen back. Mr. Ravensmith, who seemed all at once quite anxious to get as far away from Grimsbee as possible, only said: "I believe my work is done here." He brushed nervously at the sleeve of his jacket and turned to the Wizard. "With your leave, sir."

"Of course," said the Wizard, and the lawyer hurried out of the room, closing the door behind him. The Wizard looked Grimsbee over. "Haven't I seen you somewhere before?"

Grimsbee cleared his throat, and, utilizing the full volume of his theatrical voice, said: "Most likely you saw me upon the grand stage at the Dark Street Theater, and were wowed by my incredible thespian skills."

He gave a little bow.

The Wizard snapped his fingers. "Oh, yes, that's it. You are an actor. There was an artist's sketch of your face in the Dark Street Tribune about a year ago. I believe you were accused of dropping a sandbag on a director's head."

Grimsbee's face flushed red. "That was never proven."

"I see," the Wizard said. He peered suspiciously at the b.l.o.o.d.y bandage around Grimsbee's head, but made no mention of it. "Well, please, Mr. Grimsbee. Take your place next to the others."

Grimsbee sniffed the air and took his place beside Sanora Crone. He turned his ghoulish face down toward the young witch. "You smell awful."

Sanora looked ready to cry, and Oona had a good mind to tell the blind man to keep his horrible mouth shut, but before she could do so, Isadora pointed at Grimsbee and said: "Hey, I know you. You live in one of the apartments above my mother's dress shop."

Grimsbee nodded, tweezing his mustache between his fingers before adding, rather defensively: "I live on the third floor, right above Mr. and Mrs. Bop. What's it to you?"

"I was only saying ..." Isadora trailed off, clearly disliking the blind man's haunting stare.

The Wizard clapped his hands together, catching everyone's attention.

"Here is how the Choosing will go." He walked to the center of the room and stood just in front of the pendulum, watching it swing back and forth several times before turning to face the applicants. "I am now going to ask each of you to-"

But the Wizard suddenly staggered, his eyes round with surprise. He took in a sharp breath and then buckled forward, dropping to the floor. Oona gasped.

Someone shouted: "What's wrong with him?"

Someone else screamed.

Samuligan darted forward, dropping down beside the fallen Wizard, the sound of his bony knees echoing against the floor. Oona rushed to his side, a thousand frantic thoughts racing through her head. What was the matter with her uncle? A stroke? A heart attack?

But even as Oona prepared for the worst, she quickly found that her mind was in no way equipped to understand the sight before her. Her breath hitched in her throat as she peered over Samuligan's shoulder at her uncle's body, only to discover that there was no body there at all, just the Wizard's empty robes sprawled out flat, like a deflated balloon on the floor.

She stared in disbelief. A long metal dagger protruded from the empty robes, sticking straight through the fabric and pinning it to the floor. The hilt twinkled in the sconce light, the double-edged blade protruding from the very place where her uncle's chest should have been.

Deacon let out a sharp cry.

"What has happened?" asked Hector Grimsbee, though oddly enough, his blank eyes appeared to be looking directly at the spot where the empty robes lay. "Who screamed?"