‘What is it?’ She could sense his fear. ‘It’s OK, Scratch. You can tell me.’
The bell spoke softly. ‘Ivy beings a . . . a whisperer.’
‘A what?’
‘A whisperer.’ Scratch sounded terrified. ‘Whispering gift of sensing soul a part trapped inside.’
He fell silent for a moment. How strange it must be for him, she thought; after all, he was uncommon. She tried to still her hands, but she was too overwhelmed. Whispering seemed like a very dangerous gift; a gift she hadn’t asked for. ‘Do you know anything else about it? Like, can I turn it off?’
Scratch quivered. ‘Strong must beings Ivy’s whispering, voices hearing because only if strong. But . . . Scratch does understandings not enough: whispering beings impossible to children.’
Ivy tried to decipher what Scratch was saying. He was talking fast, sounding nervous, which made it more difficult for her to understand. ‘Whisperers are normally adults, then?’
‘Yes’s. Running it through family normals. Bad things to whisperers happen long ago.’
‘Bad things?’ Ivy asked uneasily.
‘Whisperers forcing to work,’ Scratch said. ‘Chased whisperers throughout history. Must be whisperers quiet.’
Ivy held her breath. Being a whisperer sounded like more of a curse than a blessing. She would have to be careful who she told. Before she could ask Scratch any more, Seb burst through the door.
‘Bathroom’s free,’ he said, swinging a towel over his shoulder. He was wearing a fresh hoodie and jeans, and his trainers had been cleaned. Ethel must have been back to Granma Sylvie’s house and picked them up last night.
‘I hope you actually washed,’ Ivy said with a frown. He never did at home. His bedroom always smelled of sweat.
Seb threw the towel at her bed. ‘I hope you can actually reach the basin, titch.’
Valian was waiting on the landing when they emerged from their room. Against the light from the second-floor window, his slim, black silhouette looked like a ninja. Ivy saw that he was scowling.
‘You’re still here?’ Seb grunted. ‘Aren’t there some other people you can go and annoy?’
Ivy headed towards the stairs. ‘He has to be here,’ she said.
‘Don’t think I don’t have better things to do with my time than babysit you losers,’ Valian muttered, following them. ‘But I shook on it with Ethel, so I have to be your bodyguard till the end of trade. Every waking moment, she said. Brilliant.’
Seb looked at him. ‘Do you see us bringing out the party poppers?’
Ivy gritted her teeth. Valian was going to get in the way of their digging, and besides, she didn’t trust him. The way his eyes had lit up yesterday when they’d been talking about the Dirge . . . Just the thought made her skin crawl.
As they went downstairs, Ivy stuffed her hands into her empty coat pockets. She’d left Granma Sylvie’s cumbersome handbag and all its contents in the bedroom, along with the uncommon alarm clock and Thaddeus Kandinsky’s useless guide. She almost put Scratch in her pocket, but in the end it seemed safer for him to stay behind.
Down in the hall, Ivy quickly remembered everything from the previous evening – the threadbare patterned carpet, the worn leather sofas, the set of sun-bleached watercolours. It looked like a crummy seaside hotel, badly in need of refurbishment.
Valian gestured around. ‘Welcome to the Cabbage Moon Inn,’ he announced sarcastically. ‘Best guestrooms in the land.’
They walked into a large dining room that echoed with the clink of glasses and laughter. Delicate paper snowflakes dangled from the ceiling and wreaths heavy with berries hung on the walls. Ivy could smell bacon and baked beans. Long wooden tables seated all manner of Hobsmatched guests, and behind a bar at the back, the doughy-faced man was busy polishing some cutlery.
‘That’s the innkeeper, Mr Littlefair,’ Valian whispered in her ear. ‘Old friend of Ethel’s.’
Ivy did a double take as she approached the bar. There were bottles and flasks of different coloured fluids, some steaming and bubbling, and above, where the pint glasses and wine glasses would have been stored in a normal pub, hung rows and rows of spectacles, sunglasses and reading glasses.
‘Why is th—?’
Her question was lost as Seb bumped into her, knocking her aside.
‘Mind out!’ he called, ducking his head and swatting at something. Ivy looked up and saw a meringue-topped pie crust bouncing through the air. ‘Don’t tell me you eat stuff that moves now,’ Seb groaned. ‘Doesn’t that give you indigestion?’
‘That is Lemon Meringue Sky,’ Valian corrected him. ‘A speciality in Lundinor. You should try some.’ He nodded at the nearest table, which had been taken by a large family wearing matching zookeeper uniforms. In the middle were bowls of cinnamon porridge and cereal, racks of toast and tiny jars of jam. ‘Breakfast comes with the room so you might as well eat.’ He pointed to a table at the back. ‘There’s space over there.’
Ivy flashed a look at Seb. She wondered if he had any appetite; she certainly didn’t. Still, they could try asking the diners about Granma Sylvie.
She glanced back at the family in zookeeper uniforms. The youngest, a toddler with an Elizabethan ruff around his neck (which also doubled as a bib), was throwing something lumpy and glittery at his siblings. Ivy couldn’t believe that this – that Lundinor – was part of normal life for some families.
As they headed across the room, a few dishes caught Ivy’s eye. There were pies with jumping crusts, muffins that sprouted fresh strawberries and even pots of honey that buzzed like a hive itself. ‘I didn’t expect food to be uncommon,’ she admitted.
‘It isn’t,’ Valian told her. ‘What they prepare it with is – ladles, terrines, ovens, hot plates – they make normal recipes turn out crazy.’ He whipped a paper napkin off a table and laid it out on his other hand. ‘Special Branch are always arresting uncommoners for cooking with uncommon objects outside undermarts. It’s illegal, but so tempting.’
Ivy frowned as she watched him take item after item off people’s tables, laying them delicately on his serviette, as if it was some kind of buffet.
She looked at the other customers. By the far door a group of men in football shirts, fishing waders and feathered hats were toasting each other with champagne glasses full of something green and sparkling. On the benches opposite them, a couple of traders in baseball caps and choirboy robes shared a dark bottle of something that appeared to be smoking. Ivy wondered what uncommoners’ lives were like when they weren’t in Lundinor. ‘Where do uncommoners live the rest of the year?’ she asked.
Valian pinched a slice of toast and deposited it on his napkin. ‘Same places muckers do. Your neighbour could be an uncommoner – you’d never know. Uncommoners learn to live secret lives, keeping their collections hidden. Special Branch monitor the use of uncommon objects outside undermarts. Lundinor’s only open three times a year; most uncommoners have regular jobs the rest of the time. The big traders spend months building up their collection or getting someone to do it for them.’ He pointed to his chest with his thumb, carefully balancing his mountain of food. ‘That’s my job. I’m a scout. People pay me to find stuff for them.’
Seb smiled. ‘Oh, of course. I should’ve guessed you were the lynchpin that holds everything together.’
Valian gritted his teeth. ‘You don’t understand anything. Uncommoners have a vital role in the world. It’s their responsibility to keep commoners safe from uncommon objects. Sometimes Special Branch have to interfere and then wipe everyone’s memories afterwards; sometimes it’s just a simple case of covering something up. It’s a fine balance.’
Seb sighed. ‘Come on, Ivy. Let’s sit down.’ He stretched his leg over the bench and took a seat. At the far end of the table sat an old lady with white hair. Valian muttered something before slinking over to the bar with his stolen breakfast.
The old lady shuffled up as Ivy took a seat next to Seb. Ivy liked the look of her immediately.
She wore spectacles and a voluminous powder-blue dress that, along with her straw bonnet, made her look like Little Bo-Peep’s grandmother.
‘Morning, dears,’ she cooed. She reached for the handle of her teacup but missed.
Seb chuckled. Ivy elbowed him in the side. ‘Morning,’ she said, giving her brother a stern look.
‘I think I saw you two come in last night,’ the lady twittered. ‘You’re staying in the room next to me. I’m Violet.’
Ivy looked into her cornflower-blue eyes, which appeared cloudy behind her thick glasses. She doubted she could see anything at all.
‘Not many people arrive after the start of Trade these days,’ she continued. ‘Heard there’s going to be some sort of flash sale today at the Wanderer’s Warehouse on Makeshift Avenue. I expect you’re here for that.’
Ivy gave an awkward cough and looked at Seb. It wasn’t as if they could tell anyone what they were really there for.
Just then, a girl wearing a pale pink ballet tutu and a tattered waistcoat approached the table. ‘What’ll it be then?’ she asked, a feather poised in her hand.
Ivy looked at Seb.
‘Um, can we just have a drink?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ the girl said. ‘Hundred Punch OK?’
Ivy shrugged. ‘Sure.’
The girl winked and laid two pairs of spectacles down in front of them before heading back to the bar.
Ivy stared at them, puzzled, while Seb rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘This day is only going to get weirder, isn’t it?’ he muttered.
Violet smiled kindly. ‘First time drinking from glasses, eh?’ she guessed. ‘Just open them up – they’ll do the rest.’
Frowning, Seb carefully opened out his spectacles – half moon, with golden frames. Once the second arm had been fully extended, the glasses leaped up off the table and transformed into a drinking goblet – the lenses spiralled into a tall glass trumpet, while the frames formed a handle. Seb almost fell off the bench. ‘Whoa!’
Ivy studied the sunglasses in front of her. She opened them carefully and watched, astonished, as they morphed into a smoked-glass goblet.
The girl in the tutu came over with a large porcelain jug, poured a fizzing transparent liquid into both glasses and left.
Ivy looked at it nervously. ‘Bottoms up, I guess,’ she said before taking a sip. The Hundred Punch was the strangest, most amazing thing she had ever tasted. At first it was cool and sweet and fizzy like apple-ade; then it became thick and foamy and tasted of buttery shortbread; then it went warm and gooey and filled Ivy’s mouth with the sharp tang of rhubarb. ‘It’s like three flavours in one,’ she exclaimed.
Seb nodded, his mouth twitching into a smile.
‘Actually there’s a hundred,’ Violet explained. ‘That’s where it gets its name from. A hundred different tastes, a hundred different ways to make you feel better.’
Seb smacked his lips. ‘Mine’s super sweet, like liquid candyfloss.’
Grinning, Ivy took another mouthful and let the tastes roll around her tongue. ‘I think my one might be apple pie – or maybe apple and rhubarb crumble . . .’ She felt light and happy, as if she was about to fly away on one of the bubbles. Seb laughed at her, making her snort into her goblet.
Her exhilaration was short-lived. All at once she remembered why they were there: Mum and Dad. How could she enjoy herself while they were in mortal danger? Just thinking about her parents locked away somewhere made her want to cry. They might not even be together.
She looked over at Violet. Maybe this was a good time to start investigating. ‘Er – what is it you sell?’ she asked.
‘Me?’ The old lady’s cheeks turned pink. ‘You really want to know?’
Seb stared at Ivy and shook his head, but she ignored him.
‘Yeah, really.’
Violet beamed. ‘I’m a button trader,’ she said. ‘Violet Eyelet’s Button Apothecary – you’ll find me on the Gauntlet, just past Dragon Lane.
‘Buttons do all kinds of things,’ she continued. ‘I love buttons – always have. I’d rather have a button than anything.’ She reached into a pocket and brought out an avocado-green plastic button with ridges around the edge. ‘They treat ailments, mostly. There’s a button for everything these days. All you have to do is put it in your top pocket and the problem goes away. I’ve been using this one for a few days now to treat a little twinge in my left knee.’
Seb fought to keep his face expressionless. Ivy couldn’t tell whether he was about to laugh or gasp with shock.
‘Not many uncommoners use them any more,’ Violet went on. ‘I guess people think they’re old fashioned, or . . . what is it they say? Alternative?’ She fished around in another pocket and brought out a second button. This one was ivory-coloured, with three holes and an old trail of pink thread. ‘This one works a treat for restoring health. The number of holes equates to the number of times you can use it, so this has three good uses. Here you go.’
Ivy stuttered, ‘Oh – oh no, you don’t have to . . .’
Violet Eyelet shook her head. ‘No, no, don’t be silly. You keep it. Payment for listening to me go on.’
Ivy smiled and took the button gratefully, stowing it away in her jeans pocket. She looked at the soft creases in Violet’s face and wondered how old she was.
‘I’m Ivy, by the way,’ she said. ‘This is my brother, Seb. We’re not here for that sale thing you were talking about. We’re here to find out more about our granma. She used to be a trader here, years ago.’
Violet managed to get a grip on her cup and took a sip of tea. ‘Anything I can do to help?’
Seb leaned forward. ‘Yeah, actually. Her name was Sylvie Wrench. Do you know anything about her?’
Violet’s face lit up. ‘Sylvie! Well, knot my cottons! She’s back? Is she OK?’
Ivy winced. ‘Yeah, sort of.’
‘We were never meant to be friends, Sylv and I,’ the old lady said. ‘Octavius Wrench – Sylvie’s father – he didn’t like his workers mixing with his children. It wasn’t seen as proper.’
Ivy straightened. ‘Wait . . . You worked for our great-grandfather? Is that what the Wrenches sold? Buttons?’
Violet chuckled. ‘Octavius Wrench interested in buttons? No, no. I was only able to sell buttons later. When I first took the glove, I became a scout; it was the easiest way to build a career in those days. Most people scouted for one of the big companies; I chose the Wrenches because they paid well and let you keep anything they didn’t want. Octavius never wanted buttons – he thought they were useless.’
Seb asked, ‘Do you remember when you last saw our granma?’ Ivy could see him trying to connect the dots.
‘Of course I do. I had to give enough underguard statements on the subject. It was back in sixty-nine; Twelfth Night . . . a few hours before the Great Battle. I’d just dropped off my last haul of scouted objects at the Wrench Mansion. Sylvie and I crossed paths as I was leaving.’ She shivered, sending her glasses slipping to the end of her nose. ‘Creepy place, their house; always used to turn my stitches wonky, if you know what I mean. I’m quite glad it’s disappeared really.’
Ivy thought she’d misheard. ‘Sorry – disappeared?’
‘Oh yes. The Wrenches were incredibly secretive. They didn’t trust anyone; that’s why they built their mansion with uncommon bricks so no one outside the family would ever find it. Uncommon bricks like to move, you see, so the house never stayed in the same place.’ Violet took another sip of tea. ‘Only members of the Wrench family knew how to find the secret entrance. I had to be escorted blindfold every time I went to drop off my scout haul. Sylvie did it occasionally – that’s how we became friends.’
‘Do you know why our granma disappeared that night?’ Ivy asked hurriedly.
Violet shook her head, glancing around warily. ‘It’s not for me to speculate,’ she whispered. ‘I’m just glad she’s OK.’
Ivy turned to Seb, her eyes wide. ‘What about the mansion? There m
ight be answers there.’
‘No one has seen it since Twelfth Night 1969,’ Violet told her. ‘The underguard looked for years but even they had to give up.’
Ivy had a pretty good idea who’d been involved in that search. Smokehart.
‘The house was designed so that any member of the family could find it easily,’ Violet said. ‘Theoretically it should still work for you two. Why don’t you ask Sylvie?’
‘She’s forgotten everything,’ Seb explained. He propped his chin on his hand.
Not everything, Ivy remembered. Granma Sylvie did have memories returning – they were just very vague. She tried to remember what her granma had said. A woman with sad blue eyes, the sound of water . . .
‘Is there a map of Lundinor we could look at?’ she asked. ‘I think I’ve got an idea.’
Violet brightened. ‘There’s a street map on the side of the featherlight mailhouse in the centre of town, though I don’t know how up to date it is.’
Ivy got to her feet and turned to Seb. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘There’s no time to lose.’
‘Wait. Before you go . . .’ Violet lowered her voice. ‘Sylvie was a good friend of mine, but not many people around here will tell you the same. Especially now. Something’s got the underguard riled and there have been whispers about the Fallen—’ She broke off and shook her head. ‘Well, let’s just call them whispers about terrible things; things that would make the toughest of traders wish to stay silent.’
Chapter Eighteen
‘The street bell said to take a left here,’ Ivy reminded the others as she turned the corner. Seb was striding beside her, with Valian plodding along behind them like an unwanted smell.
They came to a paved square dotted with café tables and traders leisurely sipping fizzing drinks – Hundred Punch, Ivy guessed. In the middle was a spindly redbrick tower that stood over thirty metres tall. There were holes in the walls that looked like small dark windows.
‘That must be it,’ Ivy figured; ‘the featherlight mailhouse.’
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