Part 12 (2/2)

Oona began looking around for other possible places where Grimsbee could have disappeared to, but after several minutes she said: ”There is nowhere else he could have gone.”

Deacon s.h.i.+fted his weight on her shoulder. ”He must have entered the museum.”

”But why did the guard not see him?” Oona asked. ”He clearly would have recognized him.”

From her elevated position she could see the street stretching out in both directions. The giant top hat hid part of the carriage from view, but she could see Samuligan waiting patiently for her near the horse, the hatbox in his hands. The sun was high overhead by now, and a cool breeze ruffled at the skirt of her dress.

Across the street stood Witch Hill, looking both barren and unremarkable, save for the single, dead tree at its peak. Next door to the hill, the Dark Street Theater rose several stories tall, with the joke-telling clock out in front on the sidewalk. A sign hung over the ticket booth: THIS FRIDAY ONLY OPEN-CALL AUDITIONS FOR OSWALD DESCENDS.

Oona took one more look around and sighed. ”I just can't understand how Grimsbee could have done it.”

She felt immensely let down for having discovered nothing to prove Grimsbee's guilt, and, seeing nothing more she could do, Oona began to descend the steps one by one. Overly preoccupied in her disappointment, and paying very little attention to what she was doing, she failed to notice how the old stone steps had broken away in several places at her feet. She stepped down, felt herself about to fall, then briefly caught her balance, only to lose it again half a second later as the stone crumbled beneath her, and she landed hard on her side.

Deacon shot into the air, landing beside her on the cold stone step.

”Are you all right?” he asked.

A fierce pain seared through Oona's hip, and she could feel it instantly begin to bruise. She clenched her teeth together, biting back the pain.

”Just my hip,” she said, sucking air through her teeth before giving Deacon a roguish smile. ”At least it's not broken,” she added. ”I hear there's no worse pain.”

Deacon scoffed.

It was then, as she stifled a laugh, that she saw something on one of the lower steps. The sight of it so surprised her that the pain quickly dulled.

”Look, Deacon. Do you see it?”

”See what?” he asked.

Oona pointed. ”Blood.”

She pushed herself up on wobbly knees, wincing slightly at the ache in her hip, but shoved the discomfort aside as she descended several steps to examine the splattered stain on the step. Oona pulled her father's magnifying gla.s.s from her dress pocket and used it to study the blotch.

It was dried blood all right. Taking a further look around, Oona spied another splatter of dried blood a few steps down, and another after that. By the time she reached the sidewalk, she saw that the trail of splatters came to a stop behind the giant top hat.

The hat loomed several feet over her head. She circled it twice, yet found nothing new. The trail of blood simply stopped there on the sidewalk.

Or started there, Oona considered.

She came to a stop beside the carriage.

”Is everything all right?” Deacon asked.

Oona did not answer him. She was afraid that if she did, then she might begin shouting that, no, everything was not all right. Her uncle was a toad, her home was going to be destroyed, and there was a possibility that the entire street might just spin off into the Drift, disconnecting them from New York and their only supply of foods and goods. The other possible scenario, where Dark Street became a giant tourist attraction for the benefit of Red Martin's new casino, was perhaps better, but the fact that this exposed the World of Man to faerie attack made it simply unacceptable. Oona's own father had been trying to bring down Red Martin's criminal empire for years, and Oona would love to finish the job. But first she would need to find out which of the applicants was in cahoots with the master criminal. Which one had a connection?

She stared thoughtfully across the street, toward the Dark Street Theater, and the sign out front: THIS FRIDAY ONLY OPEN-CALL AUDITIONS FOR OSWALD DESCENDS.

Something clicked in her head. She walked partway around the hat once again, looked down at the blood, and then back up toward the sign over the theater. It came to her in a flash.

Oswald! she thought. Of course. But it only makes sense.

”Deacon!” she called as she moved hastily toward the carriage.

”Yes?” Deacon replied.

”Tell me. What building do you know of that has a large stairway leading up to its front entrance?” she asked.

”Well, there is the museum, of course,” Deacon said, gesturing with a wing.

Oona nodded. ”Yes. Yes. We know that. Any other such steps that you can think of? Something comparable in size to those leading up to the museum?”

Deacon considered this for a moment, then said: ”The only steps I can think of would have to be the ones leading up to the Nightshade Hotel.”

”Very good, Deacon,” Oona said. She snapped her fingers. ”And it is my guess that that is precisely where we will find him.”

”Find whom?” Deacon asked.

Oona climbed back into the carriage. ”Grimsbee!”

They found Hector Grimsbee precisely where Oona had thought he would be. He stood halfway up the marble steps that led to the Nightshade Hotel. The hotel guests circled wide around Grimsbee as they made their way up and down the steps. Oona could understand why. Grimsbee looked quite angry, gesturing grandly with his arms and arguing with what appeared to be no one at all. The bandage around his head looked as if it had not been changed since the previous night, and it was drenched in sweat.

By far the most luxurious and opulent-looking building on the street, every window frame, handrail, and door handle of the hotel glistened with gold-flecked paint. At a mere four stories tall, the building was not the largest structure on Dark Street, but then again, Dark Street did not get many visitors. And besides, it was not so much the hotel that kept Red Martin in business, but the gambling and the other seedy activities that took place behind its golden doors.

With the box containing her uncle once again under Samuligan's watchful care at the curb, Oona cautiously ascended the steps, Deacon at the ready on her shoulder.

”Mr. Grimsbee!” she shouted in order to be heard over the blind man's babble.

Grimsbee stopped his gesticulating and turned to look at them ... or appeared to look at them. His solid white eyes gleamed as he sniffed the air. ”Ah. If it isn't Miss Crate, and her smelly birdie wordy. Or should I say, wordy birdie?”

”What are you doing up here on these steps?” Oona asked.

”I am rehearsing,” Grimsbee replied. ”There are open-call auditions this Friday at the Dark Street Theater, you know. I shall be in top form.”

”I see,” said Oona.

”I don't,” Grimsbee replied, and then burst into laughter, as if this were the funniest joke he had ever heard.

”What will you be performing?” Oona asked.

Grimsbee gave his mustache a twist. ”I shall be enacting the final conflict of the play, where Oswald heroically battles the Queen of Faerie, throwing spells and repelling fire, all of which takes place upon the fabled steps to Faerie.”

Grimsbee pressed his fist to his heart and bowed his head dramatically.

”Yes,” Oona said, quite unimpressed. ”I thought so.”

Grimsbee continued: ”Unfortunately, I could not remember where I put my umbrella. I was using it to represent Oswald's wand. I think I might have left it at Pendulum House last night, by mistake.”

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