The shop was left sizzling and stinking of sulphur. The bells shook off slime to douse the small fires, and through the thick smoke Ivy saw the unmistakable outline of her brother.
In the centre of the room, Cartimore groaned as a tall figure in black loomed over him.
‘Cartimore Edward Wrench,’ Officer Smokehart announced, ‘I arrest you in the name of the four quartermasters of Lundinor. You have the right to remain silent, but anything you do say can be used against you in an uncommon court of trade.’ He bent down and used a paperclip to fasten Cartimore’s hands together.
Seb reached to help Ivy up. ‘Seb – the alarm clock,’ she whispered. ‘We have to check it.’
She got it out of her pocket. The glass was still dirty and the bells rusted, but the hands were no longer black. They had turned white now, and had moved past midnight. Ivy saw her reflection in the glass. Her face was black with soot and splattered with slime, and her hair plastered to her forehead. But she wasn’t dying, and the rotting faces of her parents were no longer visible. The countdown to their death had stopped. The Dirge had failed.
Ivy threw her arms around Seb. It’s over, she thought. It’s really over.
She spied Officer Smokehart looking right at her. ‘Charges relating to you and the wraithmoth attack are dropped,’ he said. His voice sounded detached, although there was the hint of a smile on his lips. She noticed the other underguards, gaping at the man Smokehart had just called Cartimore Wrench.
For the first time ever, Ivy thought, Smokehart actually looked happy. He had solved part of the Twelfth Night mystery, after all.
Chapter Thirty-six
Ivy stood gazing up at a pointy-roofed, two-storey building with leaded windows and fig-purple walls. Around her, uncommoners were emerging from shops and taverns into the morning hush. There was a buzz of conversation – as there had been every morning since the arrest of Cartimore Wrench. Ivy spotted a skinny boy on a flying rug zipping around the chimney tops, throwing newspapers down onto the doorsteps below. She wondered if yesterday’s trial would be on the front pages . . .
She stretched contentedly. Last night, which she had spent in her own bed at home, had been untroubled by dreams of the uncommon alarm clock. Her body was healing, even though she’d probably still have the bruises when she went back to school next week. She wondered if her friends would ask her what she’d done for New Year’s Eve.
She’d have to lie, if they did. The truth was a secret only she, Seb and Granma Sylvie could share.
Ivy climbed the steps to the front door of Mr Punch’s Curiosity Shop. The leaded windows sparkled; behind them, seashells, mirrors, teacups and other trinkets danced around at the end of silver chains. Above the door was a large wooden sign showing a black top hat – like the one Mr Punch had worn to deliver his emergency announcement. She paused as she wondered again why he had sent a featherlight to invite her here today. He was the most important man in Lundinor, after all, and she was a nobody.
The hanging objects jangled as Ivy pushed the front door open and stepped inside. Immediately she sensed that there was something different about this shop. Huge apricot-coloured ceiling lamps filled the room with warm light, and the air was perfumed with incense, which made her nose tingle. Bizarrely the floor was covered in sand, which crunched underfoot. The room was full of glass cabinets and metal trunks; the counters were crammed with the widest selection of stuff Ivy had ever seen in one place.
She carefully made her way forward, gaping at the objects on display. She could see why it was called a curiosity shop. She wondered what abilities each of the items possessed. Perhaps uncommon fountain pens were mightier than swords and uncommon pocket watches could turn back time. She doubted you wore uncommon ice-skates on your feet.
One object in particular caught Ivy’s eye. Next to a white-lace parasol was a fur-trimmed tabard. She picked it up and saw that it was embroidered with gold flowers.
She frowned. She’d seen it before – on that bony man who had helped her escape from the underguard coach.
Next to the tabard lay a wooden sign. One edge was splintered, but she could tell that it wasn’t uncommon. She read the words painted on the front:
INVISIBILITY CANDLES: 8 GRADE
Wait a sec . . .
Ivy was puzzled. The candle trader had been holding this sign, the morning she first arrived in Lundinor. Why on earth would it be here, in Mr Punch’s curiosity shop?
Her mind buzzing, she jerked as a voice broke the silence.
‘Hello there.’
Ivy turned round, the tabard flapping in her hand. She squinted into the shadows at the back of the shop. ‘Hello?’ she called uncertainly. ‘Uh, my name’s—’
‘I know who you are.’ It was a voice Ivy had never heard before: well-spoken but warm, like that of your favourite teacher.
She coughed and slowly slid the tabard back onto the shelf. ‘Um, Mr Punch asked me to stop by—’
‘Indeed he did,’ the voice agreed, a little louder. Slowly a face appeared out of the darkness. Ivy inhaled with surprise. A middle-aged man with spectacles and a wiry white beard stepped forward. He was wearing a smart blue shirt with a black waistcoat and matching trousers. It was the kind of thing Ivy’s dad might wear; definitely not the Hobsmatch of someone who traded in Lundinor. She looked at the man carefully. She didn’t recognize him. Maybe he was Mr Punch’s assistant.
‘Happy New Year, Ivy Sparrow,’ he said, smiling. ‘I didn’t get a chance to tell you yesterday, when I met you in court.’
Ivy frowned. She could swear she’d never seen this man before. ‘Uh – are you sure we met yesterday? I don’t—’
Just then, she saw his face change. His white beard shortened, his spectacles disappeared and his skin turned the colour of milky tea.
‘Oh yes, I’m sure. I’m the one who thanked you, remember? For saving the citizens of Lundinor? For unmasking one of the members of the Dirge? It was a clever and brave thing that you and your brother did – and under so much pressure from that uncommon alarm clock.’
Ivy narrowed her eyes. It was Mr Punch who had said all those things to her yesterday . . .
She thought back to Cartimore’s trial. It had been their evidence – hers and Seb’s, along with the incriminating map and door that Smokehart had found in the featherlight mailhouse – that had helped convict Cartimore of organizing the wraithmoth attack and paying the selkies to sabotage the air filters. However, Cartimore had refused to answer any of the underguard’s questions about his motives, so everyone in Lundinor was none the wiser about the Great Uncommon Good and the true reason for Granma Sylvie’s disappearance.
At the end of Ivy’s statement Smokehart had asked her if there was anything she wished to add, but she had shaken her head. Nobody would have believed her about Selena Grimes, least of all Smokehart. Ethel had agreed that she and Seb should keep the information secret until they could all find proper evidence. Still, Ivy couldn’t help feeling that somewhere out there, Selena and the three remaining members of the Dirge were plotting to find the other four Great Uncommon Good.
The bearded man tilted his head. ‘Do you wish things had turned out differently?’
Ivy frowned. She didn’t want to consider the what ifs; it would only make her frustrated and bitter – like Cartimore had become after all those years. The truth was, Selena Grimes couldn’t hide any more. Wherever and whenever she and the Dirge made their next move, Ivy, Seb, Valian and the others would be there, waiting for them. For all the death threats and danger, it seemed like everything had happened for a reason. Granma Sylvie now knew the truth about her past – which meant that Ivy and Seb had discovered their heritage as uncommoners, as part of Lundinor. Ivy wouldn’t change that for the world.
‘No,’ she answered finally. ‘Cartimore’s gone now, that’s what counts.’ Gone to a ghoul hole for life, she reminded herself.
The man smiled. ‘Good. Now I have a gift for you.’ He turned round and retrieved so
mething from the counter behind him, then beckoned her over.
Ivy stepped forward nervously. She wasn’t sure why he would be giving her anything – no one gave anything for free in Lundinor.
He handed her a pair of small white gloves.
‘These are for me?’ On an impulse, she put them on. They were made of soft cotton with tucks over the knuckles, like smart dress gloves. A brown paper tag had been tied to one of the fingers. When Ivy held it up she discovered neat handwriting on the back:
Awarded to Miss Ivy Sparrow in gratitude for her highly commendable efforts in the fight against the Dirge.
Ivy smiled. She could feel the uncommon nature of the gloves – a gentle warmth – soaking through her fingertips and igniting her whispering. ‘But . . . these are uncommon,’ she said. ‘Does this mean that I can take the glove?’
The man chuckled and looked at the gloves approvingly. ‘It means you have just taken it.’
Ivy stared down at her hands. The gloves were whispering in a way no other object had before. Her skin tingled and even her feet grew warm, as if she was standing in a hot bath. In her ears she could hear singing – not just one voice, but a whole choir, haunting and beautiful. She felt like she was being welcomed home.
Her eyes gleamed. ‘Thank you.’ She watched the man curiously as his face changed again. His beard disappeared and a sprinkling of freckles spread across his forehead. ‘Um – are you . . . Mr Punch?’ she asked.
‘Most know me by that name, yes.’ His blue-green eyes twinkled. Ivy now knew why they seemed so familiar.
‘I’ve met you before . . . You gave me that invisibility candle in the arrivals chamber . . . and helped us escape from the underguard coach. That was you both times, wasn’t it?’ There had indeed been something a bit too convenient about their lucky escape. ‘Why do you look different every time I see you?’
Mr Punch leaned back against the counter. ‘I’m a hob, Ivy,’ he said. ‘One of the rarest races of the dead. Hobs are made from more than one soul, and our appearance can change.’ His face blurred and shifted – first he was Mr Punch, then the shop assistant, the bony man and the old candle trader. ‘Not everyone is able to see us changing, however. Only whisperers.’
Ivy blushed, realizing that Mr Punch must know her secret. ‘You’ve been helping me all along,’ she said. ‘Why?’
His turquoise eyes looked at her kindly. ‘I’ve been watching over you and your family for a long time, Ivy Sparrow. Your granma came to me on Twelfth Night 1969 asking for help; asking for something to keep her and the Great Uncommon Good safe. I had been fighting the Dirge for years; I was aware that if they got hold of the object, the consequences would be unthinkable. It was I who gave your granma the uncommon bracelet. I understood that if she ever reappeared, it meant that the bracelet had come off.’
Ivy realized then why people called Mr Punch the Guardian of Lundinor. She wondered in how many other ways he had protected people from the Dirge. ‘Do you know where my granma hid the Great Uncommon Good? Did she tell you?’
Mr Punch’s face changed once more. His nose got bigger, his skin blanched and his hair grew ginger and curly. A black top hat appeared on his head. ‘Your granma made sure that only she knew where the object was hidden. That way, it was only her memory that had to be erased.’
Ivy couldn’t imagine how Granma Sylvie had made such a decision. She wondered where she’d have hidden something as dangerous as one of the Great Uncommon Good. Her granma must have felt so much pressure to get it right. She might even have been heading for the hiding place when she had her car accident.
Ivy shivered. The accident in the snow. Granma Sylvie had never meant for that to happen; it wasn’t part of the plan. It must have been caused by her memory loss – maybe it all started while she was driving, throwing her off course . . .
Which meant she wouldn’t have had time to hide the Great Uncommon Good.
Which meant she must have kept it with her all this time, not knowing what it was . . .
Ivy remembered Cartimore telling Selena that the object was an old sack, easy to miss.
Oh . . . my . . .
Ivy went very still.
Mr Punch’s white beard returned. He nodded towards the door. ‘It is time to leave now, I think.’
Ivy wandered over to the door in a trance. It had been there the whole time . . . The whole time!
‘I’ll see you again next trading season,’ Mr Punch said as he held the door open for her. ‘You’ll enjoy Lundinor in the spring. It’s very . . . different.’
Ivy skidded to a halt in front of the Great Gates. Valian and Seb were waiting for her beneath the stone feet of Sir Clement.
‘Well?’ Seb asked. ‘What did Mr Punch want?’
Ivy shook her head, too out of breath to speak. Still panting, she held up her newly gloved hands.
‘You took the glove?’ Seb realized. ‘Cool. Do you think they’ll let me do that? Next time, maybe.’
Ivy was glad that he wanted to visit Lundinor again, like she did.
Valian nudged her shoulder. ‘Well done, kid. Welcome to the family. And look – they’ve made it official.’ He slid a copy of the Barrow Post in front of her. ‘This was printed this morning.’
Ivy scanned the headlines:
NEW YEAR’S EVE CLOSES WITH A BANG!
SON OF OCTAVIUS WRENCH DISCOVERED POSING AS MAILMASTER FOR OVER FORTY YEARS
She followed Valian’s finger down to the small paragraph at the bottom of the page.
Lundinor welcomes to the Trade the great-grandchildren of Octavius Wrench, fourteen-year-old Sebastian and eleven-year-old Ivy Sparrow, who have lived their whole lives as commoners. Their bloodline will be of some concern to many traders in Lundinor and around the world, especially in light of the dramatic revelations of New Year’s Eve. Mr Punch himself, however, has vouched for their innocence; it seems they knew nothing of the Trade. It has been revealed that their grandmother, Sylvie Sparrow (formerly Wrench), has been living the past four decades as a victim of an uncommon memory-loss bracelet. The International Uncommon Council has decreed that all former charges against her be dropped, following her cooperation and assistance in the arrest of her brother, Cartimore. Ms Sparrow arrives in Lundinor with a considerable uncommon inheritance, as the sole owner of the Wrench estate. Underguards of the First Cohort have confirmed that her two grandchildren were in fact arrested for engineering a wraithmoth attack on 31 December, but have since been cleared. Officer Smokehart, who made the arrest, was unavailable for comment. After solving part of the Twelfth Night mystery, he will no doubt be in line for promotion in time for the reopening of Lundinor in the spring.
Ivy felt Seb’s hand on her shoulder. ‘Uh, Ivy, when you’ve finished reading that, do you wanna tell me why you made me get this dirty old thing from Granma Sylvie’s back garden? I didn’t really understand your featherlight.’
Ivy looked up from the newspaper. ‘Did you bring it?’
Seb eyed her strangely and passed across the tattered old hessian sack that Granma Sylvie grew potatoes in. Ivy removed her gloves and held out her hands. As soon as her fingers brushed the rough material, fire shot through them, into her hand and then along her forearm. She heard a voice mumbling incoherently. Ivy’s stomach turned over, and she dropped the sack immediately.
‘Ivy?’ Seb asked. ‘What’s wrong?’
She blinked back tears of pain as her body returned to normal. She straightened up again. ‘I remember tripping over this before,’ she croaked. ‘Only I didn’t touch it. Actually I’ve never touched it.’
Seb nodded. ‘Yeah, so what . . . ?’ His voice died in his throat.
Valian stared down at the bag in shock. ‘No. Way.’
Ivy put her gloves back on, reached down and picked up the bag. ‘It’s the most powerful uncommon bag in existence,’ she said simply. ‘One of the Great Uncommon Good. Who knows where it could transport you?’
Valian gawped at it, while Seb peered around, ch
ecking that there was no one close by.
Ivy looked at Valian. She thought of his tiny room and wondered what his life was like in the common world. His sole concern was finding Rosie – Ivy knew that. She imagined what it would be like to lose Seb.
‘I’m giving it to you,’ she told Valian decisively. ‘I don’t want it.’ She had no desire to use one of the Great Uncommon Good. Why did she need that much power? And anyway, the bag might be able to help Valian find his sister.
Very slowly he took the bag and said, ‘You know, my deal with Ethel is over. I don’t have to be your bodyguard any more.’
Ivy smiled sadly and nodded. She would miss him. She’d fought alongside him; he’d put everything on the line to help save her and Seb and their parents. They were now friends for life.
‘I’ve been looking for Rosie on my own for ever,’ Valian added. ‘I thought that working with other people would slow me down, but over the last few days I’ve realized that I could use a whisperer and an uncommon drummer.’
Ivy smiled. ‘We could use a scout too.’
‘I can’t promise it won’t be dangerous,’ Valian warned.
Seb shrugged. ‘Danger isn’t my issue. I’m more concerned about this . . .’ He fished around in the pocket of his hoodie and brought out a USB stick. ‘No decent drummer would be seen dead with someone who doesn’t listen to The Ripz. This has their first two albums on it.’ He handed the memory stick over to Valian. ‘It’s my only condition.’
‘If you insist.’ Valian smiled. ‘Actually that reminds me: Ethel told me to give you this, Ivy.’ He pulled a familiar tarnished silver bell out of his pocket and handed it over.
‘Scratch!’ Ivy cried, taking him gratefully.
Scratch whirred. ‘Ivy! Asked Scratch Ethel if staying with you and didn’t Ethel no say.’
Ivy saw that there was a note attached and turned him over to read it:
Just remember: he’s on loan. If you want to pay for him, he’s four and a half grade. Non-negotiable.
She laughed. Valian cocked his head, reading the note over her shoulder. ‘Typical. She never bargains.’
The Crooked Sixpence Page 23