The Smoking Hourglass

by Jennifer Bell

  Granma Sylvie sighed. ‘I keep thinking of Selena Grimes’s deception. What if I was lying to you all those years, like she was?’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ Ethel snorted. ‘You’ve got to trust in who you are. You’re scared, is all.’

  There was a long vrrrp as someone unzipped the tent opening. Ivy eyes shot to the chair. Johnny Hands had vanished … and there was so much more she wanted to ask. ‘Ivy?’ Granma Sylvie smiled. ‘You’re awake!’ She came hurrying over and hugged Ivy tightly, then ran a hand across her forehead. ‘How are you feeling?’

  Ivy shrugged, sending pain shooting between her shoulder blades. Her body ached, but she had no idea how bad anything was. She hadn’t felt this awful inside the Skaptikon – but that place had completely messed with her senses.

  ‘Here – this should help,’ Ethel handed Ivy a pewter flask filled with warm liquid.

  Ivy held it under her nose. It smelled like ladies’ perfume.

  ‘Raider’s Tonic,’ Ethel said. ‘Mr Littlefair mixed it. Takes its name from the scouts ’oo drank it after storming ancient sites looking for uncommon objects ’undreds of years ago.’ The corners of her eyes crinkled. ‘It’ll have you feeling better in no time.’ She covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Much better than the stuff they give you in ’ere.’

  Ivy took a sip. The tonic was honey-sweet with a spicy kick. As it warmed her insides, she felt her senses sharpening.

  ‘Granma?’ rasped a voice. Seb sat up, blinking. ‘That you?’ He gave Ivy a quizzical expression, then turned to Valian. ‘Valian!’ He shook him gently by the shoulder.

  ‘Careful,’ Granma Sylvie warned.

  Ethel handed Seb a flask of Raider’s Tonic as Valian eased himself up, rubbing his head.

  ‘Argh – I feel like I’ve been punched in the guts,’ he groaned.

  ‘What happened to you three?’ Granma Sylvie asked. ‘The infirmary staff couldn’t tell me where you’d been or how you got here. They said they just found you in a tent, passed out.’

  Thank goodness, Ivy thought. The Raider’s Tonic gave her an idea. ‘Hundred Punch,’ she said. ‘We accidentally drank a bit too much of it, and then we rode an uncommon rug and started feeling sick, and then … I think Valian fell off into some bushes.’

  Ethel raised her thin eyebrows. ‘Must’ve been very thorny bushes.’

  Valian winced. ‘They were.’

  Granma Sylvie put her arm round Ivy and kissed her forehead. ‘I’m just glad that’s all it was.’ She looked at Ethel. ‘Let’s take them back to the inn – get them into a proper bed.’

  Ethel nodded. ‘Right you are.’

  Ivy figured the Raider’s Tonic had done its job because, by the time they reached the street outside the Cabbage Moon, her head was clear, the ground had stopped moving and she felt in control of her senses again. The evening light was dim and the Gauntlet had quietened. There were a few last-minute shoppers picking up bargains, but most of the stalls were vacant.

  ‘Ivy!’ Alexander Brewster raised his hand in greeting. Ivy glanced at Seb and Valian, who were wearily trudging through the front door of the Cabbage Moon. She desperately needed to talk to them about what had happened in the Skaptikon, but she didn’t have the heart to ignore Alexander. ‘I’ll be two minutes,’ she told Granma Sylvie. ‘I’m just going to say hi.’

  ‘One minute,’ Granma Sylvie said. ‘I want you in bed ASAP.’

  ‘Hey,’ Ivy called to Alexander, hurrying over. ‘How’re you doing?’ The walls of the alehouse shook with noise.

  Alexander shrugged. ‘All right. Have you had a good day?’

  Ivy wasn’t sure what to say. ‘Er … I was at the infirmary. I haven’t been feeling well.’ She rubbed her belly.

  Alexander winced. ‘Won’t offer you any Dragon’s Breath then – not a good idea if you’ve got an upset stomach.’ He cocked his head towards the alehouse. ‘Great for singing though.’

  Ivy smiled, hearing the laughter and out-of-tune voices coming from the revellers within. She caught the distinctive bass of Drummond Brewster, and the patrons quietened as he started singing on his own. Ivy couldn’t catch all the words, but the tune and the rhythm were familiar.

  The ’vatum men nursery rhyme … Ivy was sure of it. ‘That song your father’s singing …’

  Before she could finish there was a loud smash, the singing ended and the rear door of the alehouse burst open. Out stormed Drummond.

  ‘Boy, get back in here!’ he raged, arms in the air. ‘I can’t do everything!’

  Ivy edged away as he came towards them.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he demanded, pointing at Ivy.

  ‘She …’ Alexander didn’t finish.

  Drummond studied Ivy more closely. ‘I’ve seen you at the Cabbage Moon. Asking questions, are you?’ He poked a huge sausage-like finger into Ivy’s chest, knocking her satchel off her arm. ‘Well, you can keep them to yourself!’

  He stared down his nose at his son. ‘Inside. Now.’ As he returned to the alehouse, Alexander rushed to help Ivy gather up her belongings, which had spilled out onto the road.

  ‘I’m … sorry,’ he managed.

  Ivy reached for Amos’s journal, but Alexander grabbed it first.

  His eyebrows twitched as he saw the smoking hourglass on the front. ‘Sorry – you’d better put this away.’

  As he handed the journal back to Ivy, a huge whooshing sound filled the air like wind filling a sail. Someone screamed in alarm behind them.

  ‘Fire! FIRE! BLACKFIRE!’

  A smoking hourglass was lit up in fire across the front of the alehouse. The building was engulfed in seconds. People started running away, shouting.

  ‘Ivy, help me with these!’

  She turned to find Mr Littlefair staggering through the front doors of the Cabbage Moon carrying four buckets of water. Ivy hurried over and grabbed two. Alexander followed, with more buckets.

  ‘Hurry!’ Mr Littlefair shouted. ‘We need to douse the flames!’

  ‘What kind of fire is that?’ Ivy asked. The flames weren’t orange; they were plum and crimson coloured, with licks of black. They seemed to be consuming the place more quickly than regular fire could.

  ‘Blackfire,’ Mr Littlefair said. ‘Deadly. It can only be made using mixology.’

  Ivy placed one bucket at her feet and swung the other towards the fire. Customers were still running out of the building as the water hit.

  ‘It’s no use,’ Alexander shouted. ‘Look!’ He pointed to the roof, where the fire was rapidly eating through the thatch.

  Ivy grabbed the second bucket and swung it towards the alehouse just as a red-faced Drummond Brewster came barrelling through the front door. He was clutching to his chest the charred framed photo of him inventing Dragon’s Breath Ale.

  ‘SOMEBODY DO SOMETHING!’ he boomed, charging into the fleeing crowd. He grabbed a man by his lapels and began shaking him. ‘My alehouse is burning down! The Dragon’s Breath is fuelling the flames; it’ll be ashes in a matter of minutes!’

  Alexander hurried to his side, tugging on his apron. ‘I’m here, Pa. I’m OK.’

  ‘Do something useful!’ his father snapped, eyes still fixed on the alehouse. Ivy couldn’t help but notice the look of disappointment on Alexander’s face.

  Suddenly she heard a siren. The underguard. About time.

  Two black 4x4s came rumbling into the street and the remaining traders formed large circles around them. The passenger door of one opened and Inspector Smokehart stormed out and began shouting.

  ‘Castleguards – get control of this blaze!’ he commanded, pointing to the team who had just emerged from the other vehicle. Ivy noticed they had slightly different uniforms to normal underguards – a castle design was embroidered on the backs of their cloaks. ‘You three,’ he called to the trio of constables from his own car. ‘Cordon off the area, get everyone inside. We need to have this blaze under control before any pyroaches arrive.’

  ‘Pyroaches?’ Ivy said.


  ‘A race of the dead,’ Mr Littlefair mumbled, fetching more water from the tap outside the Cabbage Moon. ‘They can only exist in extremely high temperatures, so they live in volcanoes, incinerators, power plants – those kinds of places. You only find them in undermarts when something’s burning.’

  ‘Are they dangerous?’ she asked, filling one of her buckets.

  ‘They eat living flesh.’ Mr Littlefair strained under the weight of two sloshing pails. ‘You don’t want to meet one.’

  Johnny Hands had once told Ivy that smoke in an undermart was a bad omen. It made sense now.

  The castleguards opened the boot of their vehicle and each picked up something brightly coloured, carrying it towards the alehouse.

  ‘Are those buckets and spades?’ Ivy exclaimed. The plastic shovels were luminous shades of pink, blue and yellow and the buckets were just like those used by children to build sandcastles at the seaside. When the castleguards were in position, some aimed their spades at the alehouse, holding them to their shoulders like rifles, while others turned their buckets upside down on the dusty road: an unending stream of sand and water spouted from the spades towards the flames.

  A hand gripped Ivy’s shoulder.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Seb asked. The others came rushing through the doors of the Cabbage Moon behind him.

  Granma Sylvie put a hand to her chest. ‘Ivy – you’re OK.’ She clasped her in a hug.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Ivy said, pulling back. ‘I was just talking to Alexander when the alehouse burst into flames. The smoking hourglass materialized out of thin air like it had been lit on a timer.’

  The underguards started retreating, and Inspector Smokehart appeared in the space. ‘We will be taking witness statements from anyone who may have seen something,’ he announced. ‘Whether you think you did or not, it could all be important. A murderer is on the loose, and I suspect we will be adding arson to the list of charges against them.’

  He caught sight of Ivy and Seb and curled his lip. ‘You two. Again. I saw you at the memorial; you’re making quite a habit of appearing at crime scenes. Do you expect me to believe that it is just a coincidence?’

  Seb shifted his weight, eyes down. Ivy didn’t bother offering a defence; Smokehart wasn’t going to believe her.

  Remembering something, she felt for her satchel and clicked the clasp shut … Amos’s journal was inside.

  One of the castleguards approached the inspector, clearing his throat. ‘We think it’s some kind of time-delay-blackfire concoction, sir. Never seen the formula before; must be the work of a highly skilled mixologist. It’ll take a good ten minutes to get those flames under control with our buckets and spades.’

  The alehouse thatch was still smoking and the walls were charred, but the majority of the strange purple flames had disappeared.

  Drummond and Alexander appeared in front of Brewster’s. ‘Well?’ Drummond cried, charging up to Smokehart. ‘Have you discovered who did this?’

  The inspector stiffened. ‘We are just beginning our investigation, sir,’ he said tightly. ‘You need to step aside and let us continue.’

  ‘Step aside?!’ Drummond thrust his charred photo in front of Smokehart. ‘Have you seen what has happened here? My reputation, my livelihood! I will not step aside! What are you doing just standing there?’

  Ivy noticed that Smokehart’s neck was now speckled with blood-red dots, which only happened when he was seriously angry. She shuffled back.

  The sound alerted Smokehart. ‘You!’ His head shot round. ‘Don’t think you’re getting away. I want you searched.’ He pointed to one of his constables, who promptly strode up to Ivy and patted her down before lifting her satchel over her head.

  ‘Wait!’ she said, pulling at it. ‘That’s mine! You have no right to do this!’

  Seb tugged on the strap. ‘Oi! Leave it alone!’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Granma Sylvie said in a firm voice, stepping forward.

  The constable scowled and swept aside his black cloak, giving a glimpse of his uncommon toilet brush. Ivy hadn’t forgotten the horrific pain she’d felt when she was attacked with one before. She hesitated before laying a hand on Seb’s elbow.

  ‘Let him have it,’ she said softly. ‘It’s not worth it.’

  Smokehart snatched Ivy’s satchel, ripped it open and yanked the uncommon photo frame out first.

  ‘Hold this, boy,’ he barked, shoving the satchel into the arms of the closest bystander, Alexander Brewster. Ivy tried to attract the boy’s attention, but he was looking at his father. She tensed as Smokehart inspected the photo frame.

  ‘Really, Inspector! Is this all you can think of?’ Drummond protested. ‘Examining the contents of a little girl’s bag? You should be hunting for the real culprit. This is the work of a master criminal, not a child.’

  The insult bounced off Ivy; she was much more concerned about Smokehart finding Amos’s journal. He took the satchel back from Alexander and rooted through it, dropping Ivy’s belongings on the ground one by one. She flinched when Scratch hit the dirt; she could see him trembling. Finally Smokehart turned the bag upside down and shook it. Ivy studied the pile at his feet. The journal wasn’t there.

  Had she lost it? If Smokehart had found it, the smoking hourglass would be all the evidence he needed to connect her with the memorial murders. More worryingly, in the wrong hands the journal could be dangerous. Amos might have recorded any number of powerful secrets inside.

  Ivy tried to think back. The last time she’d seen it was when Alexander had returned it to her after it had fallen out of her satchel, but in all the commotion she could have dropped it again. She scrutinized the closest bystanders; perhaps one of them had picked it up.

  Seb nudged her in the ribs and nodded at Alexander. Ivy spotted the corner of Amos’s journal protruding from the pocket of his dirty apron. She relaxed and tried in vain to catch his eye. She couldn’t understand why he’d helped her, but she was thankful that he had.

  Smokehart clenched his teeth, his dark glasses fixed on Ivy.

  Drummond Brewster gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Well, I could have told you you’d find no evidence in there. Whoever’s behind this has obviously been plotting my downfall for some time.’ He waved the framed clipping in Smokehart’s face. ‘They’re jealous of my success! See!’

  The inspector looked at the uncommon photo frame in his hands. ‘I have a suggestion,’ he said, snatching the burned newspaper cutting out of Drummond’s grasp. ‘Why don’t we put your special picture in this, if your frame is too damaged?’

  Ivy could only watch in stunned silence as he inserted the clipping into the uncommon frame.

  Instantly the dusty street was covered with an image of a stainless-steel kitchen. The crowd hushed, and Smokehart’s eyebrows disappeared below the top of his dark glasses.

  The ghostly image of a fresher, thinner Drummond Brewster popped up from behind a counter top. He was carrying three bottles of different coloured liquid.

  ‘What else do you need, son?’ he called. ‘How about some of this silver stuff?’

  Alexander walked into the room, carefully balancing a cauldron in his arms. He put it down on the stove. ‘No thanks, Pa,’ he said. ‘That will dull the effect of the fire. You need just the right balance of ingredients for it to work. I’ve been experimenting with this formula. We need it to be fiery but not to burn the drinker’s throat.’ He added two drops of a fizzy black liquid. The cauldron started to emit steam. ‘Almost there.’

  Drummond peered in and rubbed his hands together. ‘If this works, I’ll be famous. We could take the alehouse round the world. Quick – let’s get a picture of the moment I invent it.’

  Alexander kept his eyes on the contents of the cauldron, but Ivy noticed a line appear on his brow. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Drummond hadn’t invented the ale at all. Alexander had!

  Drummond left the scene and returned carrying an uncommon snow globe while Alexander stirred the mixture with a s
patula. Ivy gathered it was uncommon because the cauldron started floating.

  ‘OK, it’s done,’ Alexander said with a sigh.

  Drummond grinned. ‘Move out of the way then – let’s get this picture.’

  Alexander stepped back, head down, and aimed the snow globe at his dad.

  At that moment the scene evaporated and there was only the road before them. ‘That is PRIVATE!’ Drummond raged, snatching the frame from Smokehart and pulling out the newspaper clipping. ‘How dare you!’

  There was a smirk on Smokehart’s face. ‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘Though I must say, that was illuminating.’

  Granma Sylvie stood in the doorway, the amber light from the landing spilling over her shoulders. She tapped her slipper against the floor. ‘I understand that you want to stay up, but you’re both getting an early night. No arguments.’ A loud scratch reverberated around the room. Granma Sylvie’s gaze flicked to the chimney breast. The uncommon wallpaper was busy rearranging itself into an elaborate recreation of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers. ‘The rest will do you good,’ she continued in a taut voice. ‘You’ve had a long couple of days. I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight.’ She blew them each a kiss before shutting the door.

  Ivy heard Seb moving in the bunk above. ‘Hang on. Give it a few seconds.’

  She waited for Granma Sylvie’s footsteps to fade away before pulling back her covers and tiptoeing across to the window. She drew back the curtain and looked out. It was dark outside; Brewster’s Alehouse had stopped smoking. A quiet stream of people flowed down the Gauntlet.

  There was a dull thud and the Great Uncommon Bag appeared in the middle of the bedroom floor. It rustled as a shape appeared within it.

  ‘All clear?’ Valian asked, poking his head out.

  Ivy raised a finger to her lips. ‘Keep your voice down.’ His straggly dark locks hung in front of his face as he padded out softly on hands and knees. Behind him, a head of shiny dark hair emerged, followed by a pair of almond-shaped eyes.

  ‘That bag is unbelievable!’ Judy whispered, smiling broadly. Her tutu sprang up as she got to her feet. She was wearing bright purple leggings and a grey T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The wheels of her roller skates thrummed as she glided into the centre of the room and plonked herself down on the rug. ‘Thanks for the invite. I love a good emergency meeting.’