“Do you think that music box really belonged to Queen Victoria?” Seb asked.
“It’s doubtful,” Valian said. “I’ve done loads of research on Forward & Rife, and there were several reports of them getting into trouble for false claims. Mr. Rife owns the company. I got the impression he was a bit of a charlatan.”
“What do you mean ‘was’?” Ivy questioned, her curiosity spiked. “Did you find out anything else about him?”
Valian shrugged. “For the last five years there haven’t been any accusations of dodgy deals at all. It seems Mr. Rife must have cleaned up his act.” He shook his head slowly from side to side. “Although…,” he went on, “for a man with nothing to hide, he is impossible to get hold of. I sent him several featherlight messages, hoping he might be able to explain the connection between Rosie and his company, but they were all returned unread.”
They moved on to the next case. Inside was a long-stemmed pipe turned from cherry wood. Its bowl was engraved with an elaborate pattern.
“I don’t believe it.” Valian gasped, pressing his nose to the glass.
“ ‘Item number 245—tobacco pipe, circa 1565,’ ” Seb read in the catalog. “ ‘Allows the user to speak any language on Earth. Scouted in Bolivia by Cherry and Florian Kaye’—” He looked up. “Kaye—isn’t that your surname, Valian?”
Valian’s voice faltered. “Cherry and Florian Kaye are my mum and dad.”
Ivy hadn’t often heard Valian talk about his parents. All she knew was that they had been scouts, like him: people who hunted for uncommon objects in the common world before selling them.
“I didn’t know that my parents had traded with Forward & Rife,” he said in a small voice.
“Do you remember them going to Bolivia?” she asked.
He nodded. “They were always away on business. They’d only just gotten back from their last trip when they were—”
Ivy lowered her gaze. On some occasions he managed to say “murdered” straightaway; at other times the word got stuck in his throat. She couldn’t imagine how painful it was to say aloud that your parents had been killed by the Dirge.
A burst of applause interrupted their conversation. Valian shook his head clear and walked around a wall of bamboo to see what was going on; Ivy and Seb hurried after him. Standing beside another display case was a suave-looking gentleman with a quiff of silver hair and deep wrinkles around his twinkly blue eyes. A spotted handkerchief peeped out of the breast pocket of his crushed velvet jacket, which he wore with matching cape and moccasin boots. An ostrich feather in his blue buccaneer’s hat quivered as he spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he announced in a smooth voice that told Ivy he was used to charming a large crowd. “My name is Mr. Rife, and it is my honor this afternoon to introduce to you some of the extraordinary treasures in the Forward & Rife collection. First, we have this paper knife from London, England.” He held up in his gloved hand a small gold dagger with an enamel handle.
Valian’s face widened. “That’s him! According to my research, he’s attended every single auction Forward & Rife have ever held. He’s the person most likely to have noticed Rosie. We have to talk to him.”
“As I’m sure you all know,” Mr. Rife was continuing, “uncommon blades give the user complete control over one or more variables. You may find swords that adjust speed, daggers that modify direction or knives that can manipulate weight. The higher the grade of the uncommon blade, the greater the number of forces it can control, and this delightful paper knife can control the energy between molecules, allowing it to alter states of matter.” He stepped aside flamboyantly to reveal a large vase of water. The audience murmured in anticipation. “For this demonstration, I will require the assistance of an absolute beginner: someone who’s never used an uncommon blade before.” His gaze moved through the audience and came to a stop above Ivy’s shoulder. “Sir, what about you?”
Seb looked left and right before pointing to his own chest. “Me?”
“Now, don’t be shy,” Mr. Rife chided, “this is going to be fun.”
Seb’s blank face said it all.
Valian elbowed him in the ribs. “Go on—we might learn something useful about the auction.”
Seb groaned as he trudged up to the front. Ivy felt a twinge of sympathy. She’d seen her brother with that same sweaty, pale-faced look whenever he went onstage to play a gig with his band. He always got nervous in front of large numbers of people.
Mr. Rife whispered something into Seb’s ear, and he mumbled a response. “Thank you, Seb Sparrow from London,” Mr. Rife said, holding the uncommon paper knife out toward him. “If you’ll just take this, please.”
Seb cradled the knife in his hands, staring helplessly out into the audience.
“Today,” Mr. Rife declared, holding up his finger in the air, “I shall prove that even a novice can operate this remarkable object. First, I will ask Seb to attempt to use the knife to turn this liquid”—at this his hand swept over the vase of water—“into gas.”
“Er, how am I supposed to do that?” Seb mumbled.
“Just try it,” Mr. Rife insisted.
With a sigh, Seb swished the paper knife over the vase like he was using a magic wand. Nothing happened. A few people sniggered.
“Good effort, Seb, but not quite enough,” Mr. Rife said. “The key is to think of uncommon knives as dials that you can turn up or down. Now, imagine this knife has invisible threads attached to it and, by moving your hands on either side, you can manipulate those threads in order to operate the dial inside the knife.”
“OK…” Adjusting his stance, Seb stared at the paper knife, his face straining with effort. Very slowly, he moved his hands apart.
The knife remained floating in midair. The crowd gasped. Mr. Rife pressed the tips of his fingers together. “Excellent. Now point the knife at the vase.”
Seb shifted his palms, tilting the handle so that the blade was directed toward the water.
“And finally,” ordered Mr. Rife, “to operate that dial inside the knife, send it spinning clockwise.”
Heeding Mr. Rife’s instruction, Seb pulled his hands wider to set the knife in motion. As the blade rotated, tiny bubbles appeared in the water.
“That’s it, keep going!” Mr. Rife encouraged as steam rose from up out of the vase.
Concentrating hard, Seb thrashed his hands back and forth as if he was playing air guitar.
The vase steadily filled with steam. “And there we have it!” Mr. Rife announced. “The liquid is now—”
But someone clapped too soon, making Seb jolt. His hands flew wider; there was a high-pitched whistle and then, with a crack, the glass shattered, sending a spray of icy shards over the audience.
Quicker than lightning, Mr. Rife whipped his cape from his shoulders and threw it over the vase, containing the explosion. The audience ducked; some people shielded their faces with their hands.
“Is everyone all right?” he called. “I think our young volunteer may have turned the gas into a solid by mistake.”
Seb mumbled an apology, but it was lost in the subsequent cheering.
“Bravo, Mr. Rife! Well saved!”
The audience straightened themselves back up again and applauded, while Mr. Rife beckoned a cleaner to come and tidy up the mess. Seb handed back the paper knife and hastily returned to his place, drying his face on the end of his sleeve. Amid the commotion, a loud bang suddenly resonated from the other side of the garden, and several people turned their heads to see where it was coming from. A few flinched and pulled displeased faces.
Mr. Rife’s neat gray brows lowered. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. In an hour’s time I will be demonstrating the so-called Frozen Telescope of the North—recovered from a shipwreck in the Arctic Bay. Please help yourself to another glass of cham
pagne while you wait.” His smile withered as he hastened away.
“Come on,” Valian said. “Now’s our chance to talk to him.”
The ostrich feather in Mr. Rife’s hat bobbed above the trees as he strode along, making him easy to spot. Ivy, Seb and Valian trailed him to the edge of the roof, where he turned into a stairwell leading down through the building. They paused at the top when they heard voices.
“…yes, my assistant’s a little deaf, so she probably didn’t hear you knock.” (Mr. Rife—though he sounded frailer than before.) “Is there a problem, officer?”
“I’ve been sent by the master of Second Quarter,” said a cheerless voice. “You still haven’t paid your trading taxes for last spring: objects to the value of thirty-two and a half grade.”
There was a shuffle. “The thing is, grade-flow’s a little slow at the moment. I’m sure you understand—because we travel so much, it can take weeks to collect all the payments.” He continued hastily, “I am delivering a gold magnifying glass after the auction in two days’ time. The buyer is a gold obsessive and will pay generously. I’ll have more than enough grade to settle the debt then.”
“I see….” The other speaker paused. “Can’t you visit this buyer earlier? Or perhaps I could collect the payment from them on your behalf?”
“Afraid not,” Mr. Rife said. “The buyer insists on concealing their identity, so goes by the alias Midas. Only I am allowed to collect the grade myself.”
“In that case, I’ll visit you again on Friday to recover what is outstanding. Good day, sir.”
Ivy, Seb and Valian stumbled backward as a broad-shouldered underguard appeared at the top of the stairwell. He eyed them suspiciously from under the peak of his cap before walking away. When Mr. Rife didn’t emerge, Valian took a few steps down. “He’s gone inside. Let’s talk to him now—he might reveal more if he’s distracted.”
At the bottom of the stairs they found an old wooden door covered in peeling green paint. Hanging from the knocker was a chalkboard scrawled with the words Offices of Forward & Rife.
“That conversation doesn’t make sense,” Seb observed. “If Forward & Rife can afford this fancy rooftop garden and all that champagne, why can’t they pay their debts?”
“Perhaps the firm’s in more trouble than Valian’s research made us all think,” Ivy speculated.
She knocked twice on the door. After a moment they heard Mr. Rife answer soberly, “Come in, it’s open.” The hinges creaked as they entered a dimly lit living room. Cardboard boxes bursting with polystyrene nuggets filled the spaces between the furniture. Half-hidden under a silvery blanket, a celestial globe and antique pram stood in one corner of the room, while a doorway at the back appeared to lead into a small kitchen. Mr. Rife sat in one of the two leather armchairs, his buccaneer’s hat resting in his lap. He squinted at them. “Oh—Seb, wasn’t it? What can I do for you?”
Before Seb could answer, there came a rattle from the kitchen and an elderly woman carrying a tray of teacups hobbled out. She had dark hair and a round belly. A flowery apron partially covered her Hobsmatch: a high-necked blouse and glittery Capri pants. “Tea’s made for your guests, Mr. Rife,” she said in a husky southern drawl. “I’d just boiled the water when I heard them come in.”
Mr. Rife looked at the ceiling. “And yet somehow, Mrs. Bees, you failed to hear the underguard knocking at the door. Thank you anyway.” He smiled apologetically at Ivy, Seb and Valian. “My housekeeper is uncommonly fast at making tea. Don’t feel obliged to drink it if you don’t want to.”
“Thank you, tea would be lovely,” Ivy said, smiling at Mrs. Bees as she took a mug filled with the pale-yellow liquid. From its floral perfume, she guessed it was chamomile—Ivy’s mum’s favorite. She thought of her parents at the wedding and hoped they were having a good time.
“You’ll have to be careful with that cup; it leaks,” Mrs. Bees warned. She hurled Mr. Rife an accusing stare before offering the tray to Valian and Seb. “I would buy a new set, but we can’t afford it.” She rested the final cup on the arm of Mr. Rife’s chair before scowling at him again and marching back into the kitchen.
Mr. Rife sighed. “You might as well sit down. You’ll have to stay until you’ve finished your tea or else I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Ivy perched on the edge of a cardboard box, Seb on a moth-eaten footstool.
“I’d prefer to stand,” Valian said, placing his teacup on the mantel above the fireplace. Then he said, “We’re here because we need your help, Mr. Rife.” He cleared an area of the floor and dropped his ping-pong ball onto it. Rosie’s poster appeared immediately. “We’re looking for this girl, and we’ve reason to believe she’s in Nubrook. Do you recognize her?”
Mr. Rife leaned forward. “Hmm…” He looked at the poster, then at Valian, and then back again. “You’re related?” he asked.
“She’s my sister.”
“Yes, you look alike. I’m very sorry she’s missing. But I’m afraid I’ve never seen her before.”
Valian’s face tightened. “We think she might have visited several of your auctions. Are you positive you haven’t noticed her hanging around?”
“Certain,” Mr. Rife said, checking the poster again. “I’m excellent with faces. I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”
Ivy’s stomach dropped. She thought of what they’d overheard on the stairs and said, “We can pay you for any information. Please try to think harder. You must have seen her—we discovered that she’s been following your auction company around the world.”
“I assure you, it would be quite impossible for anyone to do that,” Mr. Rife declared. “Mrs. Bees and I travel using—” He stopped himself. “Look, I’m sorry I can’t be more useful, but I really must get back to my guests, which means you need to leave.” He pushed his buccaneer’s hat onto his head and rose from his seat. “Good day.”
So much for “stay until you’ve finished your tea,” Ivy thought, putting down her mug.
Valian looked empty and bewildered. Ivy knew he’d pinned all his hopes on finding Rosie here. She couldn’t bear it if they left with nothing. “We understand,” she said. “We’ll get going.” She turned to the door that led out up to the roof garden, hoping Seb and Valian would trust her enough to play along. The shuffle of footsteps told her they did. Quickly, before they left the room, she extended her senses to the walls, trying not to wince as her ears were bombarded with the gabble of broken souls. With a little focus, she identified the fleeting whisper of one of the dead among them: it was Mr. Rife. She scanned the uncommon objects in the room: the vintage pram in the corner immediately drew her attention. She’d never sensed a soul so restless or fidgety before, like a spider trapped in a jar. She listened carefully, trying to focus on what it was saying, but it was speaking too quickly for her to understand, and—before she knew it—Mr. Rife had ushered them out of the door. He slammed it shut behind them, breaking Ivy’s concentration. She pursed her lips in frustration.
“Did I miss something?” Seb asked as they trudged back into the garden. “What was that all about?”
“I was using my whispering to examine the room,” she said, “but I hadn’t really finished—and my senses don’t stretch far enough to continue doing it from here.” As they wound their way back through the trees and flowerbeds she told them about the pram and Mr. Rife being dead. “Do you think Mr. Rife was telling the truth about Rosie?” she asked.
“Hard to tell,” Valian said in a suspicious tone, “but if he does know something, it seems he’s not going to tell us willingly. We need to do more digging.”
“How could he be so certain that Rosie hadn’t followed him?” Seb asked. “I know the dead travel super-fast, but Mr. Rife said that he and Mrs. Bees traveled together—and she is living.”
Ivy’s head jerked around. She hadn’t extended her senses as far as the ki
tchen to where Mrs. Bees was, so she hadn’t been able to check. “How can you be sure?”
“She was bleeding from a cut on her finger,” he replied. “There are only two races of the dead who can bleed: Sasspirits and the Eyre Folk, and Mrs. Bees can’t be either of those.”
“Since when did you know what a Sasspirit is?” Ivy had never heard of that race of the dead before.
“Sasspirits look human but they have superior hearing and brilliant memories,” he explained. “Mrs. Bees didn’t hear the underguard knocking, so she can’t be a Sasspirit. And she didn’t have swirly black holes for eyes like the Eyre Folk…so she must be living.” Seb shrugged, adding, “Scratch has been giving me a few lessons about the dead. You know…just in case.”
Ivy got the feeling there was more to it than that, but before she could delve deeper Valian said, “Mr. Rife must be using that uncommon pram to get around. They’re super rare. I’ve never seen one before, but I’ve heard stories about them. If you sit inside one, you can travel short distances faster than the speed of light.”
“No wonder Mr. Rife didn’t want to tell us about it,” Seb quipped. “What grown man is going to admit that he rides in a baby’s pram?”
“If Rosie was traveling faster than light, it would explain why the Sack of Stars sent you to several different undermarts in such a short space of time to find her,” Ivy said to Valian. “Perhaps she has a pram too?”
Valian kicked a plant pot in frustration. “But where would Rosie have gotten an uncommon object that powerful? And why would she be trailing an auction company in the first place?”
Ivy shook her head, lost for an answer. “I wish I knew.”
Ivy and Valian followed Seb across a wooden bridge into a small Zen garden covered in patterned dove-gray shingle. The place was quiet and empty, although the rumble of applause could be heard coming from somewhere on the roof. Valian took out his ping-pong ball and set about replicating Rosie’s missing poster every few meters along the decking.
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