The Magician's Tower Read Online Free PDF Page B

not solve the mystery, then no one else would. And while it was true that the gypsy woman had not specifically asked for Oona’s help, she had not asked her
not
to help either. And the truth of it was, if Madame Romania from Romania was correct, then the Punchbowl Oracle—a crystal bowl precisely seven inches deep and thirteen inches in diameter—was the only fortune-telling device capable of not only showing the future, but also showing the past. It could answer any question, and indeed held the power to show Oona exactly what had happened the day of her mother’s death.
    One pestering bit of information continued to needle at Oona’s thoughts: Madame Romania from Romania’s insistence that the door to the caravan had been locked tight while she was away. No one could have gotten in. And yet with the punchbowl missing, Oona believed this impossible. She yearned to have a good look around the wagon for some clue—a sign of forced entry, or perhaps a loose floorboard—but in her grief over the missing punchbowl, the ragged gypsy woman had given Oona very few details before hurrying her out the caravan door and locking herself inside.
    Today, during daylight
, Oona thought,
would be the perfect time to investigate, and yet …
    As if reading her thoughts, the Wizard said: “You should put the punchbowl out of your mind, Oona. Concentrate your efforts on the contest.”
    Put a mystery out of her mind? Before it was solved?
Ridiculous
, she thought. She had a good mind to tell her uncle just that, but instead she simply nodded, and said: “Yes, Uncle. I’ll do my best.”
    The response seemed to satisfy the Wizard, who rammed another piping-hot glob of pie into his mouth. Deacon, who knew better than to trust a response like that from Oona, tutted, and Oona threw him a warning glance. But Deacon couldn’t seem to help himself.
    â€œAccording to the
Encyclopedia Arcanna
,” he recited, “fortune-telling is a capricious art at best—meaning that predicting the future is … well … unpredictable.” Deacon paused, as if waiting for a laugh. When none came, he cleared his throat. “There is no mention of a Punchbowl Oracle in the encyclopedia whatsoever, nor any object with such prophetic powers. None in this world, that is.”
    â€œAn Orb of Cathesis could do as much,” Samuligan interjected.
    â€œYes, Samuligan,” said the Wizard. “But Orbs of Cathesis existed only in Faerie.”
    Deacon fluttered to Oona’s shoulder. “There is no record of an orb ever having crossed from one world tothe other. Even if one had, the orbs, of which there were only ten, were created to answer only one question each. They would most likely have all been used up by now.”
    â€œWill it be difficult?” Oona asked in order to change the subject. “The contest, I mean. The Magician’s Tower Contest.”
    As the Wizard had just taken another bite of pie, it was Samuligan who answered. “The Magician’s Tower Contest has been taking place for nearly as long as I have been serving the occupants of Pendulum House. It takes place every five years, and I have seen nearly one hundred of them. They are always amusing to watch …” The mop Samuligan was holding all at once turned into a sword, which he pointed at Deacon: “And often deadly.”
    Deacon made a loud squawk, hopping from his perch on the candelabrum to the table.
    â€œIt is true,” said the Wizard. “People have died, in the past, but only because they were foolhardy and did not take the challenges seriously.”
    Samuligan shrugged, as if death were nothing to fear. His sword changed into a trumpet, which he blew forcefully into the air before adding: “But mostly the applicants suffer only superficial wounds.”
    Oona knew all of this, of course. She had been preparing for the contest for the past month,