Johnny Hands waved. “On my way!” He patted Ivy on the head as if she was a small puppy. “See you around, Ivy Sparrow. I hope our paths cross again.”
After he’d left, Mr. Punch crouched to address them all. He peered into their faces one after the other—Rosie’s, Valian’s, Seb’s and then Ivy’s. “Thank you,” he said simply.
“What happened?” Ivy asked him. “The army burst through the gates; we couldn’t see you—”
“I got trapped inside Lundinor during the fighting,” he explained. “If it hadn’t been for your quick thinking, the Dirge would have won.” He bowed his head in respect. “Uncommoners everywhere are in your debt.” From behind his back he brought out Amos Stirling’s journal. Ivy noticed the pages were badly water-stained and crinkled, and she assumed the damage had occurred on top of Breath Falls.
“This was just recovered from Octavius Wrench,” Mr. Punch said. “I wanted to return it to its rightful guardian.”
“Me?” Ivy replied as Mr. Punch handed the notebook over. “Surely it would be safer if you kept hold of it from now on?”
He gave her a kind smile. “There is no secret among those pages greater than the one you have just protected. Because of your actions, the entire uncommon world remains hidden. I doubt there is anyone better qualified to watch over Amos’s journal than you.”
Ivy mumbled a bashful “thank you” as she slipped the journal back into her satchel. She looked at the old lady Mr. Rife was looking after. “Will commoners ever learn the truth about us, do you think?”
“Not all secrets can remain hidden,” Mr. Punch pronounced, glancing at Rosie and Valian. “Maybe one day commoners will learn who we are, but until then we must continue to protect them from the dangers of our world and the dangerous people in it….” He gestured toward Ivy’s satchel. “Amos spent his life trying to do that. Perhaps, in time, you’ll continue from where he left off.”
As Ivy placed her hand on the door knocker, she heard the thud of feet, and the door swung open.
“You’re here!” Judy laughed as she ushered Ivy and Seb inside Hoff & Winkle’s Hobsmatch Emporium. It was the winter trading season in Lundinor, and in fitting with the style of all the other shops, Hoff & Winkle’s was situated on the ground floor of a rickety old Victorian house with a crooked black roof and dusty leaded windows.
“Sorry we couldn’t come sooner,” Ivy said with a smile. “We had school.”
Judy was wearing faded jeans, a cropped leather jacket and one of Seb’s long gray Ripz T-shirts. Now that they were dating, Judy occasionally borrowed his clothes.
In the hallway they bumped into Mr. Rife, hanging his cape over a hook on the wall. He was holding a bunch of pale lilac flowers. “These are for the birthday girl. Sky-blue sun orchids, all the way from Tasmania. I picked them myself.”
“You’re traveling again?” Ivy asked. Sasspirits like Mr. Rife, she’d learned, healed very slowly. After the injuries he’d sustained during the Thanksgiving Battle, she hadn’t been sure he’d be able to operate his uncommon pram so soon by himself.
“Yes, I can’t abide staying in one place for too long,” he admitted. “Anyway, there’s a new skymart opening in the Canadian Rockies next month, and Fred Farrow has been invited along for a preview. I can’t miss it.”
They crossed the shop floor, which was flanked by clothes racks stocked with everything from ball gowns to hazmat suits, and entered a small, sparsely furnished living room. The air smelled of vanilla and icing sugar.
“Valian’s been baking,” Judy whispered, “and decorating.” Brightly colored bunting hung from the ceiling. Each pennant was printed with a different letter or number so that, all together, they read HAPPY 7TH, 8TH, 9TH, 10TH, 11TH, 12TH AND 13TH BIRTHDAYS, ROSIE! Ivy spotted the greeting cards she and Seb had sent propped up along with several others on the windowsill. A heap of torn wrapping paper lay in the middle of the floor, evidence of where Rosie had been opening some of her presents. On the mantelpiece over the fireplace was the Frozen Telescope of the North, gleaming like a Christmas bauble.
Rosie stood by the table in the adjoining dining room, snacking on mini sausage rolls. Her Hobsmatch—which Ivy had grown accustomed to over the past few weeks—combined a brightly colored flower-print dress with a tasseled brown suede jacket and an old green army helmet, which was far too big for her. “You made it!” She rushed over to give them all a hug. “Valian said it might be difficult for you to get here.”
“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Seb said. “Happy birthday!” He handed her a glittery gift bag stuffed full of presents. Beneath the wrapping paper were a selection of common items that had caught Rosie’s interest after Ivy and Seb had spoken about them—wash-out hair mascara, six mini Bakewell tarts, a sheet of edible paper, a jewelry-making kit, the DVD boxed set of Star Wars and a packet of extra-strong mints.
Scratch vibrated in Ivy’s pocket. “Happying of the birthdays!” he cried as she brought him out and placed him on the table.
Rosie giggled. “Thanks, Scratch.”
Ivy wondered if the next birthday party they all attended would be Scratch’s. After much thought he’d decided that it would be brilliant fun to be a human boy again, but he was happy to wait his turn to use the Sands of Change. The Tidemongers were using the necklace to help those of the dead who were far more desperate than Scratch was, and, in any case, Ivy still needed to organize where Scratch would live when he became human again. He wouldn’t be able to fit in her pocket anymore.
Valian peeped his head through the kitchen doorway. His dark brown hair was neatly combed and parted on one side; he’d replaced his usual leather jacket with a smarter cotton version. “Good,” he said, “everyone’s here. Judy—can you do the honors?”
Judy reached for the switch and dimmed the lights as Valian brought a cake through from the kitchen. It was designed like a world map, with green and blue royal icing. Little models of Rosie in different Hobsmatch outfits stood on each of the seven continents; a small gold candle burned on top.
“It’s amazing!” Rosie squealed, taking a seat at the head of the table. “All the places Mr. Rife and I went to on our travels—” She signaled to the Frozen Telescope on the mantelpiece and added, “I’ve been learning all about our adventures.”
Everyone gathered around her. In the candlelight, Ivy scanned their faces. Mr. Rife looked tired but happy. Judy and Seb were laughing. Valian locked eyes with Ivy, clamping his lips together as though he was trying to stop himself from bursting with joy. She wondered whether he had ever dared, during the last seven years, to dream about a moment like this—with Rosie back in his life, the Dirge gone, and his friends all around.
“All right, everyone!” he called. “ ‘Happy Birthday,’ after three. One…two…”
There was a communal inhaling of breath.
“…three!”
And then the group began to sing. It was disjointed and out of tune, but full of vigor. Rosie grinned and rocked her head from side to side in time with the melody; her army helmet wobbled. A murmur fluttered into Ivy’s ear, the voice of a broken soul. It stood out from all the others in the room because it was singing “Happy Birthday” with them. She scanned the dining room carefully and tensed as she realized what it was. “Rosie, wait! The candle—”
Her warning came too late: Rosie puffed her cheeks and blew. The flame flickered and died, leaving behind minute glowing embers. Judy turned the lights up and everyone clapped. Ivy hurried around the table, surprised that Rosie was still visible. “That candle was uncommon,” she said. “How can I still see you?” She knew that extinguishing the flame of an uncommon candle turned you invisible—she’d used one before.
“That wasn’t just any old candle,” Valian explained, leaning closer. “It was a birthday candle. They have an additional uncommon power…they grant small wishes. Our parents always gave us one every
birthday when we were little.” He stared at Rosie. “What did you wish for?”
She wound a strand of blond hair around her finger. “I just wished for a birthday like this every year, with all of you here.”
“Well, I don’t see why that won’t come true,” Mr. Rife commented. “I’ll certainly travel back from wherever I am to celebrate with you.”
“Us too,” Ivy said. “We’re a family now…we’re uncommoners.”
There are several people I wish to thank for their help while I was writing The Deadly Omens. Huge appreciation goes to my editors Phoebe Yeh, Naomi Colthurst and Elizabeth Stranahan for all their advice and guidance while I reshaped and polished the story.
Karl James Mountford, thank you once again for lending your brilliant talents to another title in the Uncommoners series. It’s been so thrilling to see places in Nubrook, Strassa and Lundinor brought to life by your rich and detailed illustrations.
Polly Nolan, Sarah Davies and everyone at Rights People, thank you for continuing to represent me and my writing. The Uncommoners books are now translated into many different languages because of your hard work, and I am very grateful.
A special thank-you to Mr. B. and his students at St. John’s Church of England Primary School in Canterbury for sharing their ideas about uncommon ties and for coming up with the name for the Tierrific Ties shop. I hope that designing an uncommon object inspired you to find the creative potential in even the most mundane things.
My gratitude goes to my friends Tara, Nichol, Beks, Nat, Charlotte and Sarah for their excellent listening skills, encouragement and good humor. Mum and Beth, I appreciate all the patience and understanding you’ve given me since I became a writer, during this last year especially. When I don’t believe in myself, you’re the two people that convince me otherwise.
Peter, thank you for everything you do to inspire and support me. Here’s to all of our adventures to come….
Londoner Jennifer Bell began working in children’s books as a specialist bookseller at Foyles—one of the world’s most famous bookshops—in Charing Cross Road. There she looked after the shop’s five not-so-deadly piranha fish as well as recommending children’s books to celebrities, royalty, and even astronauts. After having the privilege of listening to children talk about their favorite books for many years, she started writing a book of her own. Jennifer came up with the idea of The Crooked Sixpence while packing for a holiday and wishing she could just disappear inside her suitcase and be there already. The world of Lundinor is inspired by sayings from traditional English nursery rhymes as well as the stories Jennifer grew up with about the cockney markets her grandparents used to visit.
jennifer-bell-author.com
Karl James Mountford was born in Germany and brought up around the UK. He now lives in Wales, where his sketchbooks rarely get a day off. Karl works in both traditional and digital mediums to create his illustrative work. He graduated with a master’s degree in illustration and visual communication from Swansea College of Art.
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The Uncommoners #3 Page 21