The Magician's Dream (Oona Crate Mystery: book 3) (21 page)

Oona’s own eyes narrowed. “And where is Denis Carlyle, your husband, anyway? The man you met when you were my age.”

“He is here,” said a high, irritating voice.

Oona turned just in time to find Inspector White jumping down from the passenger seat of a police carriage. The police constable sat rigidly on the driver’s seat. Through the iron bars of the carriage window, Oona glimpsed the face of a man she had seen before, but could not place from where.

“There’s that scoundrel!” called yet another voice. To Oona’s surprise, it was John David Moon, who stepped out of the surrounding crowd, along with Molly Morgana Moon.

“I beg your pardon?” asked the inspector.

Mr. Moon pointed at the man behind the bars of the police carriage. “That man, Denis Carlyle, is responsible for the riot at the rally.”

It suddenly occurred to Oona where she had seen Denis Carlyle before. He was the man who had been arguing with John David Moon just before the riot broke out.

“That scallywag came to me the night before the rally,” Mr. Moon continued. He pointed an accusing finger at Mrs. Carlyle. “Along with his wife. They tried to convince me to stage a riot at the rally. They said it would be good publicity, especially if the people who started the riot were holding signs in support of Tobias Fink. People would think Fink was behind it and vote against him.”

Molly Morgana Moon took in a sharp breath. “John! You never told me about this.”

He looked at his wife, somewhat abashed. “I didn’t want to worry you. You had too much to think about already, what with all of the fund-raising you’ve been doing. And besides, I told them such a stunt was out of the question. I knew people might get hurt, and I explained that we would never stoop to such treachery. But the next day, Denis Carlyle showed up at the rally and told me that the riot was going to happen whether we liked it or not. I argued with him to put a stop to it, but it was too late. The mob was already there.”

Oona peered hard at Mr. Moon. “So you knew who was behind it, and you said nothing afterward?”

John David Moon’s face went rose red as he realized what he had just revealed. “Well, it had already happened . . . so, yes, I remained quiet. If the newspaper found out that I had known about it, they could easily have turned the story against us, even though we did nothing wrong. Newspapers have a way of doing that. I had to think of the campaign, so I said nothing. But then I saw him there in the police wagon and . . . well, I figured I might as well come forward with what I knew.”

Deacon fluttered down to Oona shoulder and cawed disapprovingly at Mr. Moon. “You mean because you felt guilty for hiding information? Or because you were afraid of what Denis Carlyle might tell the police now that he was already arrested?”

“Or,” Oona added thoughtfully, “perhaps he knew it was too late for the papers to print a story before voting is finished.”

Mr. Moon stiffened, his words coming out sharp and clipped. “I did nothing wrong. I did my best to stop the riot.”

Oona shook her head, unsure of how she felt about this. She looked at Molly Morgana Moon, wondering what she thought. For a long moment Mrs. Moon only looked at her husband with a shocked expression on her face. At last she opened her mouth to speak, but Mrs. Carlyle cut her off.

“Well, it worked!” the maid blurted out. She pointed at the line of people who had shown up to vote before turning to Oona. “Look at this turnout. Not everything I said was a lie. I do want Molly Morgana Moon on the Dark Street Council. It’s time women’s voices are heard.”

Oona frowned at her. “But not the voice of a lying, deceitful woman like you.”

“Well said,” Molly Morgana Moon agreed.

The inspector took Mrs. Carlyle by the wrist and led her forcefully toward the back of the police carriage.

“Where did you find Denis Carlyle, Inspector?” Oona asked.

“Where they were staying, at the Nightshade Hotel,” he said before giving Oona a pompous look. “I told you we have our ways of finding people, Miss Crate.”

Oona was quite impressed.

The inspector reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small leather-bound book. “Oh, I found this in their room. It’s full of magical gibberish. Looks to be the book she stole from Pendulum House.”

“It certainly is,” said Samuligan. He put out his hand and the inspector handed the book over.

“By the way, where is the carbuncle?” the inspector asked.

“It is here,” Samuligan said. He held up the glimmering ruby.

The inspector put out his hand expectantly, but the faerie did not hand the gem over.

“We shall find a safe place for it,” the Wizard said. “Samuligan will keep it for now.”

The inspector shrugged, as if it did not matter to him. He continued to direct Mrs. Carlyle to the back of the wagon.

Oona felt a tightening in her chest as Mrs. Carlyle was shoved into the carriage and the doors were slammed shut. She could hear the husband and wife begin to argue through the bars.

“I told you not to tie up the night watchman with that bloody knot of yours,” Mr. Carlyle said in a piercing voice. “It’s always caused nothing but attention.”

“Oh, shut your mouth, Denis!” Mrs. Carlyle snapped back. “You’re the one who gambled all the money away.”

“Oh, so it’s all my fault, is it?” Mr. Carlyle said indignantly.

“Back to the station,” the inspector called as he climbed back onto the high passenger seat. “If we hurry up and book them now, I might have time to vote before the polls close. Tallyho!”

The constable snapped the reins, and Oona watched the carriage swing around in the street and head north toward police headquarters. A whirlwind of emotions collided in her as she watched them go. There was relief and satisfaction at knowing that her father’s killers were finally captured and put behind bars . . . and yet there was also a strange kind of emptiness the came over her. It was something she had not expected. The fact that the culprits were finally being brought to justice seemed to do nothing to fill the space her father’s death had left behind . . . and presently she wondered if anything would ever fill it.

Behind her, Samuligan helped the Wizard out of the carriage. A moment later the two of them joined Oona, and together they watched her father’s killers being taken to jail. Her uncle’s comforting hand rested on her shoulder.

“Well, in light of these unforeseen events,” the Wizard said, “I would say that your final battle test is unnecessary.”

Oona looked up at him, surprised. “Really?”

The Wizard winked. “This was a far more rigorous test than I would have conceived. You handled a real situation against someone with faerielike powers. And I would say you passed with all flags flying.”

Oona peered down at the feather in her hand. It was no longer white as it had been when connected with Oswald’s wand, and it had returned to its previous shade of midnight black.

“Oswald’s wand,” Oona said. “It connected with the feather and was destroyed.”

The Wizard peered thoughtfully at the feather, scratching at his beard. “Of that, I have no answers. It is magic on a grand and mysterious level.”

Oona sighed heavily. “The wand destroyed my father’s magnifying glass. It exploded . . . and this time I think it’s gone for good.”

The glass had been her dearest possession, and the loss was profound. She recalled the time Isadora Iree had carelessly tossed it across the room and the glass had shattered, and how she, Oona, had uttered the incantation to mend the glass like new. She had uttered the spell on instinct during a time when she had sworn off ever doing magic again—so important had the magnifying glass been to her. But in that event it had been only the glass that had shattered. Now the entire thing had been destroyed, blown into hundreds, maybe even thousands of pieces and particles all over the street. It was beyond magical repair.

They were all quiet for a long moment, each lost in their own thoughts, when at last the silence was broken.

“This is going to be my first published critique!”

They all turned to discover Mary Shusher standing at the edge of the sidewalk with her mother on one side and her father on the other.

“I saw the whole thing,” Mary said excitedly, “and I just can’t wait to write about it.”

She held up a writing pad and a fancy-looking fountain pen that looked to Oona as if it were made out of pearl.

“Oh, hello there,” Oona said, sounding less than enthusiastic. Realizing that both mother and daughter were there together, she asked: “Who’s tending to the library today?”

“It’s closed on the weekends,” came the lilting voice of Adler Iree.

At first Oona did not see him. She looked quickly around and found him hurrying toward her from across the street, a look of concern on his tattooed face. “I heard there was some sort of magic happening down the street, and I figured you must be involved.” He cast his gaze about the wreckage. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Oona said, and as happy as she was to see Adler, she did not feel much like explaining everything that had happened. She felt exhausted.

Luckily, Mr. Shusher took that moment to step forward and distract her.

“I owe you an apology, Miss Crate,” he said stiffly, “for how I reacted to your questions on the library steps the other day. You see, I have heard about your detective business, and I was under the impression that you and Mary were friends, and that she had asked you to find out what her birthday present was. I knew that you had overheard Mrs. Shusher and me speaking of hiding it, and I did not want to give you any more information.”

“Oh, that’s what you were talking about hiding,” Oona said, and then in order to break the highly awkward silence that followed, she asked. “And what did you get, Mary?”

“I got exactly what I wanted. This expensive new fountain pen,” Mary boasted, and held it up so that its opalescent surface glinted in the sunlight. “And I’m going to use it to write reviews. You see, Mother has finally relented, and is willing to let me try my hand as a professional reviewer. It turns out that she is a friend of the head editor at the
Dark Street Tribune
. They are going to give me a column to write my reviews, once a week to start with, but if people find my critiques helpful it could expand to a daily. I’ll be an actual staff writer.” Mary squeezed her mother’s arm.

“Congratulations,” Deacon said enthusiastically. “That makes you the first female writer the
Tribune
has ever hired.”

“Bravo!” said Molly Morgana Moon. “That is a wonderful achievement. Tell me, what will you be writing about for your first article?”

Mary was practically beaming. “Well, I wasn’t quite sure until just a few moments ago, but now I know exactly what it will be.” She turned to Oona, her eyes full of excitement. “I’m going to write about what everyone will be talking about tomorrow. Your magical battle. Isn’t that exciting?”

Adler stifled a laugh as Oona’s lips tightened peevishly.

“That’s just . . . wonderful,” Oona said through a phony smile, and then, wishing to get away from all of the attention, she turned to Adler. “I have something I want to show you.”

Taking him by the hand, she led him around the other side of the carriage. Her heart was all at once pounding in her chest like a fist against a door.

“Deacon, may we have a minute?” Oona asked.

“Certainly,” Deacon said, sounding more than happy to give them space as he took to the air and disappeared over the carriage.

“I need to ask you something,” Oona said.

Adler looked nervous, which in turn made Oona feel even more nervous than she already did. But it did not matter. She had already made up her mind to ask the question.

“Okay,” Adler said. “What is it?”

“Will you be my boyfriend?” she asked.

A long pause followed, in which the sound of Oona’s beating heart filled the entire world.

At last Adler smiled so broadly that the tattooed moons at the corners of his eyes crinkled slightly.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he said.

Oona was taken aback. “Me? But . . . I thought—”

“That it was the boy’s job?” he finished for her. “I know . . . but I told Isadora that I was going to ask you last month. But she said that the modern girl wants to ask the boy.” He looked thoughtful. “Then again, that was just after she and Roderick broke up. That might have been a bad time to take her advice.”

Oona shook her head. “Take it from me, don’t listen to Isadora when it comes to love.”

“Love?” Adler said.

Oona’s face flushed as red as a barn. “I mean to say . . . um . . .”

Adler gave her hand a squeeze. “I think I know what you mean.”

Oona cleared her throat. “Is that a yes?”

“Is
what
a yes?” Adler asked.

Oona gave him a calculating look. “You know, the whole boyfriend thing.”

“Oh,” Adler said, and then tipped his hat. “Yes, of course.”

Oona finally allowed herself to smile. She felt tired but happy, and it seemed that perhaps a tiny part of that emptiness she had felt earlier was suddenly filled up—not completely, not by a long shot, but a part of it . . . and that, she knew, was a start.