"Isadora!" Adler shouted.

"Stay out of this, Adler," she scolded.

"But Isadora, look," Adler said. "There's your shawl. Right there."

Deacon landed on Oona's shoulder as Adler pointed to where the rack had struck the floor. The shawl was lying on top of the jacket.

"Look," Adler said, kneeling down to pick up the red-and-gold fabric. "See there, Isadora. Someone placed their jacket on top of your shawl. That's why you didn't see it. That's all." He handed the shawl to his sister before returning the coatrack to its upright position and hanging the jacket back upon its hook. "The inspector must've forgot to take his jacket with him when he left, that's all." He glanced at Oona, giving her a half smile. "He'd probably forget his own head if it weren't connected to his neck, so he would."

Oona did not return the smile, however. She was too shocked by Isadora's behavior-indeed by all the events of the evening-to do anything but blink at him confoundedly. Looking at the inspector's jacket on the hook, she could only think: Just what I need is for Inspector White to have some reason to return to the house tonight.

As the twins took their leave, stepping over the scattered parasols and umbrella on the floor, Isadora turned in the doorway, her shawl draped over her shoulders like a striped flag. For an instant it appeared she might be on the verge of apologizing for her behavior, but what she said was: "Don't forget. You're still supposed to find out who stole my mother's dresses. They must be found before tomorrow night's masquerade ball."

Oona closed the door in the girl's face.

Several hours later, Oona could still not believe that Isadora would be so ridiculous as to believe she, Oona, would put her energy into finding some silly missing dresses when the only thing that mattered was learning if her uncle was still alive ... and discovering his attacker. But churning the slim evidence over in her mind, she knew that, so far, there was very little to go on. The thing that irritated her most was that she saw no reason for any of the applicants to want to harm her uncle. She had to find out more about them.

The fact that she'd seen Grimsbee disappear in front of the Museum of Magical History-the very place where the daggers had been stolen-haunted Oona's thoughts like an insistent ghost. It didn't prove that Grimsbee had done the job, but it was a start. Deacon insisted that the power to become invisible was magic long lost. But Oona had seen Grimsbee arguing with someone who was not there.

And then there was the fact that both Isadora Iree and Adler had been inside the museum earlier that day.

When her feet tired, Oona sat with her back against the tall gla.s.s tree in the center of the garden. The tree sprouted not limbs of wood, but branches of swirling gla.s.s. Crystal leaves sparkled like diamonds in the starlight. Her dislike of magic aside, Oona had always thought the tree was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She could spend hours just staring up at its crystalline beauty, watching the light prism through its limbs like a fantastic ice sculpture.

Tonight, however, the tree could not hold her attention. She stared, instead, vacantly across the garden at the barren splotch of dirt where she had caught Isadora digging for turlock root. Oona had once asked her uncle why he did not use the root to keep himself looking younger, and he had explained that the root not only made people look young, but made their minds young as well.

"I prefer wisdom to beauty," he had told her. "And besides, I believe I grow rather more handsome the older I get."

Poor Uncle Alexander. Why would someone wish to harm him? The thought that he might be dead was overwhelming, and as she sat there, beneath the limbs of the great tree made of gla.s.s, she began to feel quite numb. Uncle Alexander's eyes seemed to hover before her, looking so disappointed in her for abandoning him. Why had she deserted him? She knew why, of course, but the guilt was like a knife in her side. She felt hollow, as if all of the blood had drained out from inside of her. Staring numbly at a naked patch of dirt, she thought of what lay beneath. It was like a mystery: always appearing one way, when beneath the surface lay something extraordinary.

And then her thoughts turned, as they so often did when she sat alone in the inner garden, to the accident-the terrible accident beneath the fig tree in Oswald Park. Both of them, her mother and her baby sister, Flora, had been gone in an instant. Oona knew that it was her own fault that it had happened, despite her uncle's insistence that she was not to blame. If she had not conjured the spell, they would still be alive. She had meant only to show them what she could do, to delight them.

"Lux lucis admiratio!"

With the use of a fallen twig, she had shot sparks of light from its tip, as if from a magic wand. The sparks flew high, circling the great fig tree like shooting stars, changing colors as they spiraled around and around, faster and faster.

Her mother had smiled at the trick. Oona had only been ten years old at the time, but even then she had known that it was the first genuine smile she had seen upon her mother's lips since the death of Oona's father some five months before. Flora, who was not yet even one year old, began to giggle and clap in their mother's arms-mother and baby resting on the lawn beneath the broad canopy of the tree-as the sparks shooting from Oona's twig grew bigger, and brighter, and more plentiful ... though what Oona had not realized then was that the dazzling lights were growing more and more powerful. The sparks grew so bright that they challenged even the sun, causing the shadow of the fig tree to shift and dance in the bright light of day. People stopped to watch the lights in wonder.

"See what I can do?" Oona had said.

"I see, Oona," her mother had said. "It is-"

But her mother never finished her words. Whatever she was about to say Oona would never learn, for at that very moment the lights spun violently out of control, slamming into the tree with a burst of energy so strong that the tree simultaneously burst into flames and crashed over onto its side. It happened so quickly that her mother had no chance of getting out of the way. And just like that, her mother and sister were gone from her life. Gone, and never coming back.

It had been Uncle Alexander who had consoled her. It had been he who had a.s.sured her that they had not suffered. The tree had been enormous, as fig trees were likely to become. And when Inspector White had asked to question Oona, it had been the Wizard who had refused him, claiming that the act had been a magical one, which fell under his own authority. No one else had been injured-there was that much to be thankful for, at least-and the force from the blast against the tree had sent Oona flying several yards away, where she'd landed hard but unharmed on the open lawn.

Presently, as she leaned against the trunk of the tree of gla.s.s in the inner garden, the tears began to roll down Oona's cheeks. The sadness she usually managed to keep at bay began to fill her chest, and as she stared upward into the night sky, she realized that the crystal leaves of the gla.s.s tree did not sparkle so much like diamonds as they did like tears. When the feeling finally pa.s.sed, and she was done crying, Oona at last felt the tug of sleep, and forced herself to slump up the stairs to her room, where she fell fast asleep.

Oona sat up in bed, blinking against the early-morning light.

There was a knock at her door.

"Who's there?" she asked in a groggy voice.

"It is I," Samuligan replied from the other side of the door.

It was Samuligan's voice rather than the knocking that startled Deacon into wakefulness. He spread his wings, rustling his feathers in a sumptuous morning stretch.

Oona groaned, wrestling her way back to consciousness. Untangling herself from her blankets, she quickly glanced down to make sure her nightgown was b.u.t.toned properly.

"You may come in," she said, rubbing at her eyes.

The faerie servant entered the room, looking as tall and imposing as ever. His cowboy hat sat forward on his brow so that it was nearly impossible to see his eyes, and his boots clicked against the floor, an eerie, hollow sound, like someone knocking from inside a coffin. He held a red envelope in his long faerie fingers.

"I found this tied to the front gate," he said.

Oona pushed herself up to receive it. The letter was simply addressed to: Occupants of Pendulum House, Number 19.

She slid the letter from the envelope. It felt crisp and expensive. Printed in bold, black letters at the top of the red paper were the words eviction notice.

Deacon dropped down from the bedpost to Oona's shoulder and began to read aloud. "You have been served. All occupants of Pendulum House shall vacate the premises, along with their possessions. They have until 11:59 tonight, May 15, 1877, after which time, at precisely midnight, the pendulum will be stopped and the demolition of the house will begin. This in accordance with the new owner, the Nightshade Corporation." Deacon paused before adding: "It is signed: Red Martin. President and Owner of the Nightshade Corporation."

"An eviction notice?" Oona asked. "Is this some sort of awful joke?"

"I'm afraid not," Samuligan said. He pointed to the top of the paper. "That is the official stamp and seal of the Dark Street Council. It appears to be a fully legal doc.u.ment."

"How is this possible?" Oona asked. "Red Martin owns Pendulum House? I don't understand."

"Not only that," Samuligan continued, "but he apparently intends to tear it down to make way for his new hotel and casino. Just have a look."

He pointed out the window. Oona slid off the bed and peered through the gla.s.s, which overlooked the front yard. A man wearing a shabby bowler hat was pounding a large wooden sign into the overgrown rose beds.

The man's broad shoulders blocked Oona's view of what the sign said, but a moment later, when he stood back to survey his work, she was able to see it very clearly. Two palm trees had been painted on either side of the sign, and stretching between the trees hung a comfortable-looking hammock filled with gold coins; in the background stood an enormous hula hut silhouetted against the orange glow of the setting sun.

In bright red letters, it read: FUTURE SITE OF INDULGENCE ISLAND HOTEL AND CASINO.

In smaller letters below, it said: BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE NIGHTSHADE CORPORATION A FRIEND TO THE COMMUNITY.

Oona was aghast. She returned her attention to the letter. "How can this be? I thought only the Wizard could own Pendulum House. What will happen if the pendulum is stopped?"

Samuligan only shrugged.

Deacon answered: "I do not believe it has ever been done."

Oona shook her head, trying to comprehend the implications. "Well, this must be stopped." She looked absently around the room, gathering her thoughts. Finally, she said: "First thing we must do is find out if Uncle Alexander is in that tower."

"And how do you plan on doing that?" Deacon asked. "According to the Encyclopedia Arcanna, the only person with any knowledge of the Black Tower's secrets is the presiding Wizard. Only he or she knows how to get inside. But if your uncle is truly inside the tower, then there is no way to ask him."

"Ah, but you forget," Oona said to Deacon. "Only the Wizard and his apprentice have the knowledge. And I was my uncle's apprentice for nearly five years."

Deacon squawked in surprise. "You mean that you know how to get inside the tower?"

Oona twisted her mouth to one side. "Well ... no. Not exactly. I mean, that was one subject we hadn't gotten around to yet."

"Oh, I see," Deacon said, sounding much disappointed.

Oona pinched at her bottom lip, considering something. "But he did show me the book in which such secrets are kept."

"Book?" asked Deacon, clearly surprised.

"Indeed," said Oona. "It is a book with no name. A secret book handed down from one Wizard to the next. I'm sure you must have seen it before, Samuligan, in all of your years of service."

The faerie servant nodded slowly, almost reverently. "I have never been allowed to read it. There is a magical binding on the book, much like the curse on the mind daggers, which prevents any faerie from opening its cover."

Oona nodded. Her uncle had told her as much when he had first shown her the book.

A sudden thought occurred to Oona. What if it is true, and the reason I am a Natural Magician is because I have faerie blood in me? Would I be able to open the book?

Her uncle had shown her the book only a handful of times in her five years as apprentice ... but he had never allowed her to handle it. When he was not using it, the book remained safely hidden away.

"But yes, to answer your question," Samuligan added in a dreamy sort of voice, "I have seen the book, to be certain. And what interesting secrets it must hold." His eyes seemed almost to shimmer beneath the shadow of his hat, as if perhaps the counterspell to the enchantment that kept him bound to a life of service were somewhere in its pages.

Oona could not know for certain that this was what Samuligan was thinking, but she did know that the counterspell to release the faerie servant was not in the book. She had once asked her uncle about that very subject, and he had told her that, so far as he knew, there was no counterspell, and that if there ever had been one, then it was lost long ago. But the Wizard had asked Oona not to give this information to Samuligan.

"But why?" she had asked as the two of them sat together in his study.

The Wizard had replied: "Because it will destroy any hope that Samuligan might have of ever being free. And neither man nor faerie can live for long without hope. To take that away would be cruel. After all, just because I do not know how to break the curse does not mean a way does not exist."

"Would you release him if you could?" Oona had asked.

"In a heartbeat," the Wizard had replied. "If there was a way to send him back to Faerie as well. But those are two things I cannot do."

Afterward, Oona had sought Samuligan out and found him polishing a set of silver teapots by magic in the parlor. As her uncle had requested, she did not mention the knowledge that there was no known counterspell to his predicament. But she had asked Samuligan if he liked his job.

"I have been a warrior and a champion," he had replied. "A general in the Queen of Faerie's Royal Army. I have been present at great victories, and even greater loss. I fought against the most powerful of the Magicians of Old." He paused to gaze admiringly up at the portrait of Oswald the Great. "I have dueled spells against the greatest of them all, and lived to fight another day." Samuligan lowered his gaze to the silver teapot and looked into his own distorted reflection. "And yet in the end, it seems that I have found nothing more satisfying than being a simple servant, in spite of the fact that so many of these Wizards have been such buffoons." He had grinned at her-that perfectly mischievous grin that seemed to be such a part of his faerie nature. "I hope you are not a buffoon, Miss Crate, when you become Wizard."

That had been the most personal conversation Oona had ever had with Samuligan, and she thought now that it had been the most vulnerable he had ever appeared.

At present, Oona looked up from her bed at the faerie servant. The brim of his hat cast the top of his face into complete shadow.

"Could you use your faerie powers to open the tower, Samuligan?" Oona asked.

"The tower is immune to Faerie Magic. It is coated in gla.s.s, and the spells guarding it are too strong by far. It was made to hold faeries inside, remember. I cannot help you here."

Oona nodded. "All right then, we have no choice but to use the Wizard's book."

"You know where it is?" Deacon asked.

A memory drifted through Oona's head like a dream: of peering through the crack of a door ... and her uncle making some motion with his hand, and a bookshelf swinging open.

Oona rose from the bed. "I need to dress," she said. "Both of you, meet me in the study in ten minutes."

Ten minutes later the three of them stood in the quiet of the Wizard's study. The slumbering dragon-bone desk could be heard breathing beneath the silence. The room smelled of books and ash from the fireplace, and the loan tea saucer continued to hover above the fireside table, endlessly in search of its missing cup. Oona stood in front of the bookcase where she had seen her uncle open the compartment.

"He stood right here," she said aloud. "And then he made a motion with his hand."

"A magical motion?" Deacon asked from atop the desk.

Oona scratched at her head. It was possible, yes. And if that were the case, then they would surely be out of luck. She turned to Samuligan.

"If there is a magical hiding spot, then can you open it, Samuligan?"

He shook his head. "Not if it is well constructed. Though I can try. First, I will need to determine exactly where the hiding spot is."

"It is right here," Oona said, pointing at the row of books in front of her.

Samuligan placed his hand on the shelf and closed his eyes, concentrating. He stood frozen for nearly a minute before at last stepping away from the shelf and shaking his head. "There is no magical hiding spot there. At least, none that I can detect."

"But I saw him open it," Oona said.

"Perhaps the magic is too well constructed for Samuligan to detect," Deacon suggested.

The faerie nodded that this was possible.

"Or perhaps," Oona said, running a finger along the spines of the books, "just perhaps ... the compartment is not magical at all. Perhaps it is ... mechanical."

Her finger stopped on the spine of a large book ent.i.tled: The Tale of the Really, Really Long Sleep and Ten Other Miserably Dull Tales for Bedtime. Edited by Milford T. Tedium.

"Well, now," she said, amused. "Here is a book that no one is likely to attempt taking off the shelf."

She took hold of the book along the spine and pulled.

Something clinked, followed by several clonks, and a single satisfying creak as the entire shelf swung outward to reveal the hidden compartment behind.

"Ingenious," said Deacon.

"Bravo," said Samuligan.

A quick little smile stole across Oona's face, and she peered inside the compartment. The drinking gla.s.s and bottle of scotch were just inside, beside which sat a large black ball. Intrigued, Oona picked the ball up and examined it. It had been painted to resemble an oversize billiard ball. A large figure 8 was printed on it, and beneath the 8 were the words: ASK ANY QUESTION, AND TURN OVER TO DISCOVER THE ANSWER.

"What is it?" Deacon asked.

Oona showed them the large 8 ball, and what was written on it. "It appears to be some new novelty product my uncle was working on."

"Ask it a question," Deacon urged.

Samuligan appeared eager to see the device work as well.

Oona's heart began to pound. Perhaps this magic billiard ball of her uncle's could actually solve the mystery for them. Oona held the ball in both hands and asked: "Is my uncle alive or dead?"