by Caleb Krisp
I heard the jangle of keys just moments before the door flew open. Acting with lightning speed, I quickly blew out the candle and rolled under the bed. A set of black boots stalked into the shadowy chamber and crossed to the window.
‘Justice Hallow must be awful fond of you, Mr Blackhorn.’ The woman had a voice of the deep and booming variety. ‘None of the others get their room aired out every night.’
I heard the window being closed and took the opportunity to slide out and hide behind the door. From there I got a good look at the intruder. Her hair was dark and shorn close to her skull. Her face battle-scarred and boorish. She wore a stiff white dress with a high neck and the same revolting orange coat I had seen on those two men during my first visit. A dagger hung from her belt.
‘Bed for you,’ she said, crossing the room. When the frail man stumbled as he tried to stand, she lifted him as if he were an infant and carried him to the bed. ‘You’ve got work again tomorrow, so rest up.’
Mr Blackhorn began to whimper and sob. Which was heartbreaking. But I could not forget my mission. Nor could I forget number eight of Ambrose Crabtree’s rules – do not stay longer than thirty minutes. Time was against me.
With the bald barracuda occupied tucking Mr Blackhorn into bed, I shot out from behind the door and tiptoed from the room. Well, that was the plan. Alas, the unsightly creature seemed to have the instincts of a jungle cat. She spun around and was charging at me before I crossed the threshold.
Luckily, she had left her keys in the lock. So I slammed the door shut and locked it. Naturally, she did a great deal of thunderous banging. Quite a bit of yelling. Something about pulling me limb from limb and roasting me slowly on a spit.
By then I was already charging down the vast hall, her set of heavy copper keys clutched in my hand (it was my firm belief that one of them would unlock the door of Rebecca’s room). All I had to do was find it.
As I ran, I noticed something remarkable about the wide hallway – while its walls, ceilings and floors were white, each unmarked door was a different shade of purple – from the deepest, darkest hue at one end, to the faintest of lilacs at the other.
At the far end of the corridor, I found a grand staircase. As the building was seven or eight storeys high, I decided to head up not down, taking two steps at a time. The next level was another enormous hallway, dotted with unmarked doors. All in shades of blue. The floor above that, green.
Despite the tightness in my chest, I tore up the stairs again to the next floor. And stopped. Panting. Relieved. For it was another hall, filled with a great bank of doors on either side – in every shade of yellow. At last! Now all I had to do was try and recall the exact hue I had seen in the vision of Rebecca’s room. Then I would find my friend.
I ran down the hall, past the deeper shades, only stopping when the golds began to soften. From there, I felt the safest thing to do was bang on all the doors calling Rebecca’s name. And I would have too (it was a perfectly good plan), if not for the Clock Diamond. It began to flare under my nightdress. I scooped it out and when I looked within the stone it was wondrously, marvellously yellow. Surely it must be the shade I had seen in Rebecca’s room?
I ran past the last two dozen doors holding the clock diamond against each one. Found a perfect match in mere seconds. Tucked the Clock Diamond away and tried to open the door. Of course, it was locked.
‘Rebecca,’ I called, banging on the door, ‘are you in there, dear?’
I didn’t wait for a reply. Just lifted the great bundle of keys and began trying each one, praying every time that it would unlock the door.
‘You are no doubt stunned that I have found you,’ I went on. ‘Much of the credit must go to a kindly wizard I met at Covent Garden Market by the name of Ambrose Crabtree. For the princely sum of three lemon tarts and a poodle, he taught me a frightfully mystical technique called “Lifting the Veil” – and it would seem I’m rather good at it.’
‘Ivy –’
‘And I had little trouble breaking into this beastly house thanks to an open window and a handy tree – the Pockets are prone to such timely strokes of good fortune. I have a distant cousin by the name of Jack who had the most thrilling luck with a handful of beans.’
‘I knew you would come, Ivy.’
Rebecca! I heard movement from the other side of the door and I was certain that my friend was pressed against it. Only a piece of wood separated us now.
‘Of course I have come,’ I said, trying another three keys with rapid speed. ‘I know you have been suffering horribly, dear, but that is over now. We will be back in London in no time.’
‘You have done just as they hoped,’ said Rebecca, her voice so faint I had to strain to hear it. ‘They wanted me to draw you here … but I tried to warn you, Ivy. Why did you not listen?’
‘Was I supposed to leave you in this place?’ I said, pulling out another key and replacing it with the next.
‘Yes, that is just what you must do.’ Rebecca’s voice found new strength. ‘Oh, Ivy, you must go – no good can come of this.’
‘Every good can come of this. You belong at home with your family – they will be beside themselves with joy at Butterfield Park when you return.’
‘Stop it!’ The harshness in her words stung me. ‘You don’t understand, it is too late for any of that.’
Silence. I could hear her breathing through the door. Or perhaps I imagined it.
‘Rebecca, what are they doing to you? What is happening in this house?’
‘The end of hope,’ she replied, ‘for it cannot survive here. I have accepted my fate, Ivy, and now you must too. If you come again, it will only make things worse for me. Leave Prospa and do not come back.’
‘I am not leaving without you.’
‘You must, for if they find you they will –’
‘There she is!’ Then a loud whistle.
I turned, the keys tumbling from my hand. Coming towards me was the hulking beast I had locked in Mr Blackhorn’s room downstairs, and beside her, a rather enormous man with the same buzzed haircut and orange coat.
‘I may have to delay your rescue, dear,’ I called out with tremendous calm.
Rebecca pounded on the door. ‘Run, Ivy! Get far away!’
But I didn’t. ‘Fear not, Rebecca. Number seven in Ambrose Crabtree’s list of rules states that only my soul has crossed into Prospa and I cannot be harmed. I am safely back in London, even as we speak. So you see, nothing at all to worry about.’
Which made it something of a shock when the two burly guards grabbed me by the arms and threw me against the wall.
The female ruffian gawked at me. Then gasped. ‘It’s her.’
‘She’s awake,’ trumpeted her male counterpart. ‘Justice Hallow will gives us medals for this.’
‘Unhand me this instant, or I shall administer the cruellest of thrashings to you both!’
In response, they began dragging me down the hallway. I did the reasonable thing – screamed, tried my best to bite them viciously, kicked with great enthusiasm. My captors barely flinched. We had just reached the stairwell when I stomped on the woman’s boot. It helped. The mean-spirited cow bellowed and released her grip on my arm. Which I quickly put to good use, poking her pigeon-brained sidekick in the left eyeball. He let out a cry that would shock a midwife and stumbled back.
I took off like a light, racing towards Rebecca’s room. Scooped up the keys and began another feeble round of roulette, hoping against hope that I might find the right key and free her.
‘Hold tight, dear!’ I called out.
‘Go, Ivy! Go this instant!’
‘Stuff and nonsense. I cannot leave you here and I won’t.’
My head flew back. How could it not? The female guard had grabbed me by the hair and yanked me with force. The keys were snatched from my hand. I struggled valiantly, but in no time I was once again being dragged down the hall.
‘Justice Hallow can deal with you now,’ said the brute, snigge
ring coldly.
‘Don’t let them take you, Ivy,’ cried Rebecca. ‘Whatever you do, don’t let them take you!’
‘It seems I haven’t a choice in the matter, dear!’ I called back.
‘Ivy, you control it!’ Rebecca shouted. ‘You got here and you can leave the same way.’
‘Shut your mouth, Butterfield, if you know what’s good for you!’ snarled the lady baboon.
‘But how?’ I cried.
‘You lifted the veil …’ My friend’s voice was growing weak. ‘You lifted it, now bring it down. Bring it down, Ivy.’
We were at the stairs now, and they were frogmarching me down the first flight. That’s when I let my arms slacken. My legs turn to jelly. I wasn’t really sure what I was doing; I just knew that I had London in my mind. And Rebecca in my heart. So I let it all go.
I heard one of the guards cry out. Something like, ‘Hold her, you fool!’
‘I’m trying,’ came the anxious reply.
The stairs began to buckle, rising and falling, like an ocean tide. Then their arms, indeed their whole bodies, simply melted away. As Prospa House began to fall, I fell with it. And it wasn’t even slightly terrifying.
I closed my eyes, arms out, and plummeted along with the building. But my landing was of the feather bed variety. All at once I felt solid ground beneath me. I think I rolled once or twice. My nightdress was damp and I was lying on the wet cobblestones of Winslow Street. Everything was just as I had left it. I got to my feet. Stood there as if in a daze.
Rebecca had been so close. Just a door separated us. But I had failed to bring her home. And Mr Blackhorn, what of him? The sound of his heartbroken sobs rang in my ears. What on earth was happening to them in Prospa House? Were they not meant to heal those dying of The Shadow? And why did Rebecca not want to be rescued? It was all so unfair. And confusing. And sad.
As I stepped up on to the footpath, my eyes began to mist. It was just the wind. Nothing more. I took one final look at the dark void where Prospa House had been just moments before, wiped the tears from my face and headed for home.
Chapter 15
‘Your reading was very moving, Ivy.’
‘Was it?’
Ezra nodded his head (complete with wobbly jowls) and ushered me to a seat by the shuttered window. ‘But perhaps you might ask your friend at the library for something more uplifting next time. Now you rest a spell while Mother Snagsby and I see to business.’
Mrs Rushmore’s liver was diseased. The doctor gave her a week. Perhaps two. She didn’t want to trouble her family with funeral arrangements and whatnot, so she had called on the Snagsbys. The poem had gone down very well. It was Scottish, I think – about death coming in the night when you least expect it and how we are all doomed in the end. Mrs Rushmore had wailed like a fire alarm.
I am ashamed to say I didn’t read with tremendous feeling. My thoughts were crowded with the events of last night. Rebecca. The dark deeds of Prospa House. And what of Mr Blackhorn? How did he get there? And how was it that those bullish guards seemed to recognise me? She’s awake. That’s what one of them had said. What on earth did any of it mean? Oh, it was a tangled web!
‘Here.’ Mother Snagsby was holding out a glass of warm milk.
‘I’m not thirsty.’
‘Of course you are,’ she replied firmly. ‘Mrs Rushmore has a great many questions and I haven’t time to argue.’
I took the milk. And offered something in return. ‘I’ve been wondering about Mr Blackhorn.’
‘What of him?’
‘Do you recall anything strange about his passing? Anything unusual or out of the ordinary?’
‘Such as?’
I knew I must be magnificently cagey to avoid arousing suspicion.
‘Well, who can say? Perhaps he made mention of a pressing engagement in a faraway place. Or perhaps he was slightly less dead than you thought?’ I gave Mother Snagsby my most understanding gaze. ‘Is that possible, dear? For yes, nod once. If no, continue to stare at me with withering antipathy.’
‘Mr Blackhorn’s funeral is this afternoon at two,’ she said calmly, ‘and I assure you, young lady, we do not bury the living at Snagsbys’ Economic Funerals.’ She pointed to the glass. ‘Drink it and button your lips.’
Mother Snagsby was soon hunched over Mrs Rushmore’s bed, whispering about what stain of casket she might prefer. Ezra was measuring the poor old woman for length. They were a harmless pair. Shrivelled as year-old raisins, but harmless.
I drank down the milk. A muddle of tangled thoughts stretched to the farthest reaches of my mind. And as I wrestled with them, something warm and utterly comforting crept over me. Like a hot-water bottle on a winter’s night. Or a generous hug. It reached up and gently pulled me down. It was too delicious to resist. So I didn’t.
When Ezra woke me up, the stone felt warm against my skin. Mrs Rushmore was now covered by a sheet. Mother Snagsby said it was a blessing. She had died suddenly and was at peace.
Miss Carnage had seen right through me.
‘You are not yourself, Ivy, there is no point denying it.’ She pulled up a chair and sat down beside me. ‘I insist you tell me what is troubling you. After all, if you cannot tell a bosom –’ She stopped abruptly. Blinked a great deal.
‘Bathroom trouble, dear?’
The librarian laughed rather enthusiastically. ‘Goodness no. As I was saying, if you cannot confide in a sympathetic friend, who can you confide in?’
I had left the house before Mr Blackhorn’s viewing began. Mother Snagsby was busy making sure everything was ready – flowers, organ music, sandwiches and tea afterwards – so I was able to slip away undetected. Not that I didn’t have a perfectly good excuse to visit the library. Ezra had requested that I seek out more uplifting poetry. But I couldn’t pretend that that was the real reason. I hadn’t been able to look at Mrs Blackhorn when she arrived dressed in black and sobbing madly. Even her tremendous wig, which was wonderfully crooked, did nothing to lift my spirits.
‘It’s terribly complicated,’ I heard myself tell Miss Carnage.
‘Has something happened, Ivy?’ Miss Carnage had her hand on my hand. She was squeezing it most sympathetically. ‘Have you had news of your friend?’
I nodded. ‘I was able to reach her.’
The librarian gasped. ‘You did?’
‘It all happened so quickly – I went back to Winslow Street, not sure why, but it just felt right and the next thing I knew, there I was. Finding her room wasn’t easy, there were so many shades of yellow, and then those guards recognised me and it all ended rather badly.’
‘They recognised you?’
‘I think so. Oh, I don’t know.’
Miss Carnage looked awfully perplexed but she soon snapped out of it. ‘You told me that your friend was somewhere far away – but Winslow Street is in London.’
‘That was just where I departed from.’
‘How are you back so soon?’ asked the curious librarian.
‘Could only stay thirty minutes,’ I said with a shrug. ‘It’s one of the rules – though I have my doubts about several of the others.’
‘One of the rules?’ Miss Carnage gasped again, only this time her hand flew to her shockingly large chin and she stared at me in dismay. ‘It was you who stole Ambrose Crabtree’s manuscript from the vault, was it not? Oh, Ivy, I am bitterly disappointed – you lied to me!’
‘Highly doubtful. I’m violently honest as a general rule.’
‘Even after I warned you not to …’ The flustered creature stood up. Sat back down again. ‘You must return it this instant and promise never to meddle with such things again.’
‘Return what, dear?’
‘The manuscript that was stolen.’
‘Stolen?’
Miss Carnage nodded vigorously. ‘Stolen by you!’
‘Stolen by you? Well, I’m sure you had your reasons, let’s say no more about it.’
I was practically positive the subject wa
s closed. The librarian felt differently. She took me by the hand into the back office. Shut the door. Sat me down at her desk and said, ‘That book has great power and is not to be trifled with – if Ambrose Crabtree’s rules are not followed to the letter, they could lead to certain death.’
The nerve! ‘Miss Carnage, while I am perfectly innocent of any crime, I can say with some confidence that if I had stolen the manuscript, I would find the instructions terribly easy to follow.’
Miss Carnage pushed her spectacles up her bent nose. ‘I see.’
‘And as for those silly rules, I can only suspect Mr Crabtree was drunk on rum cake when he wrote them. Some are stupendously wrong – so I’ve heard.’
‘Go on,’ said Miss Carnage, leaning forward.
‘Number seven says that when a person crosses, only their soul takes the journey and they cannot be harmed. Well, I have it on good authority that a person can be thrown about and pulled by the hair in a most unpleasant manner.’
The librarian paled. ‘Heavens.’
‘I want so much to help her, but Rebecca said …’ My voice had dropped to a whisper and I found myself looking at Miss Carnage most earnestly. ‘She said I should never come back. That it would only make things worse for her. I must confess, dear, I am not entirely sure what I should do. I cannot leave her in that hideous place, but I couldn’t bear the thought that I was inflicting more suffering upon her by going back.’
‘You poor girl,’ said Miss Carnage with such tenderness. ‘We will not dwell on the manuscript’s whereabouts, but you are very right to heed your friend’s plea and stay away.’ She cleared her throat. ‘After all, you have done everything that can be asked of a chum. Who could blame you for giving up? I am sure Rebecca will understand.’
Despite the fact that soft-hearted Miss Carnage was trying to reassure me, it had quite the opposite effect. How could I think for one moment that it was better to leave Rebecca to her fate? It was unforgivable!
‘I’m sorry, Miss Carnage, but my friend needs me and I won’t give up on her.’
The librarian smiled faintly. ‘How brave you are, Ivy.’