The Magician's Tower by Shawn Thomas Odyssey Page A

way to New York City.”
    â€œVery funny,” Oona said, looking herself over in the mirror. “A real trendsetter.”
    She took in the reflection of her room, which she decided would never have passed the inspection of Headmistress Duvet’s severe scrutiny. Glass vials and laboratory beakers lay messily across the dressing table, along with various untidy piles of paper.
    She pulled the ribbon containing the contest clue from her pocket, and mimicked Isadora’s smug tone. “Easy as one, two, three!” She tossed the ribbon to the table. “So now it seems that Madame Iree is the most likely suspect for the punchbowl thief.”
    â€œHow so?” Deacon asked.
    â€œWell, as I told you on the ride home, it was not Isadora’s ring that you found beneath the caravan’s trapdoor after all. It was her mother’s.”
    â€œBut you said Madame Iree claims to have lost the ring when she and the architect fell to the ground during the soup-spilling incident at the party,” Deacon reasoned.
    â€œAnd what then?” Oona asked. “The ring just got up and walked beneath the caravan on its own?”
    â€œPerhaps it’s an enchanted ring,” Samuligan suggested.
    â€œThat is always a possibility,” Oona admitted. “But that still gives no explanation as to why it fell from her hand in front of the stage, and then ended up beneath thecaravan. Unless, of course, she is lying. It could be that she ran into the architect on purpose.”
    â€œWhy would she do that?” Deacon asked.
    â€œWell, consider this possibility,” Oona said. “Madame Iree crawls beneath the caravan in order to sneak inside and steal the punchbowl. The ring slips from her finger, and she gets mud all over her dress. After stealing the punchbowl, she then returns to the party and collides with the architect. The soup spills on her dress, and the two of them fall to the ground. Madame Iree uses this as an excuse to return home to change her sullied dress. She then uses the punchbowl to give Isadora the answers to the clues.”
    â€œBut where does she hide the punchbowl?” Deacon asked. “Before she leaves the party, how dose she smuggle it out of the park without anyone seeing?”
    â€œGood question,” Oona said. “Perhaps … she has it beneath her dress?”
    Samuligan threw back his head and howled with laughter, causing Oona’s mirror to crack down the middle. Deacon leapt from the mirror, shrieking in surprise before settling on the bedpost.
    â€œSamuligan!” Oona said. “Look what you’ve done.”
    The faerie servant cleared his throat. “Forgive me,” he said, and then spit onto his finger. The saliva blobbed at the end of his long, bony fingertip, which he used to run down the crack in the mirror. When he was done, the crackhad disappeared and the glass appeared as good as new.
    â€œWell, you just saved yourself seven years bad luck,” Oona said.
    â€œOnly seven?” Samuligan said. “That’s nothing. I once had a cousin in Faerie who had a three-hundred-year stretch of bad luck.”
    Oona smiled. It wasn’t often that Samuligan spoke of his life before Pendulum House. It intrigued her. However, she did not wish to get sidetracked.
    â€œWell,” she said, “what do you think of my theory of Madame Iree?”
    â€œRather dreary,” said Samuligan.
    Deacon fluttered his wings irritably. “Don’t you think you should put your full concentration into figuring out that clue?” He pointed his beak at the ribbon on the table. “Or are you already forgetting what happened earlier today when you dillydallied?”
    Oona sighed, shifting in her seat. Her backside suddenly stung from where Headmistress Duvet’s paddle had smacked home. She picked up the ribbon. “Deacon is right. Let’s get to the bottom of this, right now.”

    By the following