Part 4 (1/2)

”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, brus.h.i.+ng 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 apprentices.h.i.+p, wizards.h.i.+p, 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.