Ivy’s mind was still whirring about this mysterious researcher, but she slowly raised the matchbox to her lips. “Sylvie Wrench.”
The matchbox made a sound like a cat yowling and then bounced out of Ivy’s arms and hit the empty stone floor with a surprising metal clang.
“Give it some space,” the archivist advised, stepping back.
They edged away, staring as the matchbox unfolded itself again and again, growing bigger all the time. A neat stack of papers appeared in the middle, followed by a brown cardboard box.
“Articles your grandmother is mentioned in will be in that pile,” Stanley explained. “Journalistic evidence that was kept will be in the box. Take as long as you need examining it all; it’s forbidden to remove anything.” He scratched his head. “I’ll go find that marble; might be able to tell you more about the gentleman who was here.”
As Stanley left the room, Ivy knelt on the floor. She could understand now why the place was empty—you needed as much space as possible to give the matchbox room to expand. As she picked up the box of photos, she speculated about who might have been snooping on Granma Sylvie. All at once this “pretend” look at her files didn’t seem so pointless.
Valian flicked through a batch of papers while Seb examined several documents on the floor beside him. “Lot of stuff about the Twelfth Night Mystery,” he muttered.
Ivy opened the cardboard box. There were two photos inside. The first showed a rosy-cheeked Granma Sylvie in a neat school uniform standing outside the Wrench Mansion, holding hands with her mother. “Seb, look.” Ivy passed the photo across before picking up the next one. When she saw it, she tensed.
In her hand was a black-and-white picture of a grinning teenage Granma Sylvie wearing a white petticoat and silver go-go boots. Linking arms with her was another young girl, with slanted cheekbones and long dark hair.
“Selena Grimes,” Ivy blurted. “I don’t believe it—they’re in this picture together.”
“What?” Valian shuffled closer.
Selena Grimes looked fresh-faced and glowing, smiling with straight teeth instead of the needlelike ones she had now. “You don’t think Granma was friends with her, do you?” Seb asked.
Ivy didn’t know what to think. The thought that her granma had even had a photo taken with Selena left her feeling nauseous. “I guess it explains why Selena appears in Granma Sylvie’s new memory of the black door and the smoking hourglass—they must have known each other.” Her heart sank. She didn’t want to believe that they were friends. They couldn’t have been….
“Wait,” Valian said. “I think there’s someone missing from the photo—there.”
Ivy studied the edge of the picture. Beside Granma Sylvie’s go-go boots was the toe of another shoe: a black leather brogue. The paper was crisp, brown and flaky. Ivy held it under her nose. “It smells like it’s been burned.” She examined the inside of the box; there were traces of ash in the corners. “Stanley said that he caught the last man in here smoking. He might have set fire to this.”
“There’s writing on the back,” Seb said, indicating underneath. “I think it might be a postcard.”
Ivy turned the picture over. Seb was right. There was an address in London that she didn’t recognize, and a short message inscribed in impossibly neat handwriting:
Sylvie,
The nature of my work has finally forced me into hiding.
I am so sorry not to have said goodbye, but the memories of our time together will always make me smile.
Be safe, and know that I miss you.
The tone of the message was so sad, it made Ivy’s throat tighten. It was signed at the bottom with a strange squiggle, but as half of it had been burned away, she couldn’t make out what it said. “Who do you think sent it? Surely not Selena.”
Valian scratched his head. “It’s got to be the person who’s missing from the photo. Whoever they are, they must be in danger and worried about your gran.”
Ivy considered what might have happened to them. There was a stamp affixed to the postcard. Last winter she had discovered that featherlight messages could be intercepted by the mailmaster; perhaps the sender wanted to keep his message away from uncommon eyes.
“Maybe this would trigger Granma Sylvie’s memory.” She thought about stowing it in her pocket, but then remembered the fridge magnet security door. “If only we could smuggle it out.”
“I can take a picture of it,” Seb suggested, fishing his phone out of his rucksack.
Valian shook his head. “Common cameras won’t work in Lundinor. The pictures always come out blurry so that you can’t leave with evidence of what’s here. Special Branch have something to do with it.” He reached under his leather jacket and pulled out the scruffy Great Uncommon Bag. Then, checking that Stanley wasn’t around, he stuffed the photo inside and said, “Sylvie Sparrow’s pocket.”
Ivy recalled what Valian had said earlier—that the bag could break the rules of Lundinor without being detected. She hoped it would work now.
Just as the photo disappeared, Stanley came back into the room, throwing a small blue marble up and down in one hand. “Got it!” he said, sounding pleased with himself. “The gentleman in here before was a distinctive fellow—smart uniform, curly golden beard and a white line through his eyebrow.”
Seb frowned. “I want to say that sounds familiar, but I’m not sure why.”
“It’s the eyebrow streak,” Valian said. “The chief officer of the MV Outlander had one, and a blond beard too.”
“Yes, but it couldn’t have been him,” Ivy reasoned. “He’s—” She stopped short of saying “dead” in front of Stanley.
“Shall I show you out?” the archivist asked.
Ivy got to her feet slowly, the others rising beside her. Something very confusing was going on.
Back upstairs, Valian pushed his head between Ivy’s and Seb’s shoulders as Stanley escorted them along the corridor. “The chief officer was definitely dead; I checked his pulse myself. That leaves us with one possibility: someone in Lundinor is masquerading as him.”
“Yes, but who?” Ivy asked. “And why?”
Seb grimaced. “Who do we know who is a master of disguise and was on that ship? Jack-in-the-Green—it’s got to be.”
“Maybe Selena sent him to destroy the postcard, only he got disturbed by Stanley before he could finish the job?” Ivy suggested. “We need to work out who’s missing from that photo. There must be a reason Selena wanted it gone.”
As they entered the central room of the windmill, Ivy’s senses were on full alert. Something was wrong. The journalists were in a frenzy, shouting to one another and milling around. The receptionist kept wiping her brow as she scribbled furiously with a feather.
For a horrible moment Ivy thought the newspaper workers had found out about the missing postcard, but then one of them barged past her, running toward the doors. Ivy clearly wasn’t the target of their concern.
A reporter with cropped black hair and square glasses heaved himself on top of his desk and spread his arms wide, addressing the entire room.
“OK, everyone, calm down,” he insisted. “We’ve got no official details as yet, but reports are coming in thick and fast that posters have been put up along the Gauntlet. Rupert?” He pointed to a bespectacled man holding a snow globe. “I want photos of people’s reactions to that poster. Get down to the underguard station ASAP; see if it looks like they’re setting up for a public announcement. Julia?” He addressed a woman with wavy blond hair in the middle of the group of journalists. “We need vox pops from the traders—I want reactions! Forget the double murder at the memorial—this is the biggest story of the week. Why, this is the biggest story of the year! Selena Grimes has just announced the first legal Grivens contest in over a century! We need exclusives!”
Wiping dust from her eyes, Ivy hopped
off the sponge mop onto the gravel. Seb took a few deep breaths, trying to calm his insides.
“Thank you for traveling with Squeegee and Son’s uncommon mops,” the sky driver said cheerfully. “Don’t forget to rate us via featherlight.”
“Thanks.” Valian slipped his dustpan hover-shoes off his feet and handed them over.
Ivy waited until the driver was out of earshot before speaking. “I don’t understand. How can Grivens be legal again?”
Valian shook his head as they headed toward the House of Bells. The Gauntlet was remarkably empty now. Traders had left the street in order to gather under the trees, where linen sheets, fluffy bedspreads and crocheted blankets were floating beneath the leafy canopies like giant butterflies. Projected onto the center of each was a live video feed from the Great Cavern underguard station—Ivy recognized its smooth granite walls and smoked-glass windows.
Seb’s forehead creased as they passed a levitating fleece throw. “What are those things, exactly?”
“Materializers. They display images,” Valian said. “We should see what happens; it might be the public announcement they mentioned at the Barrow Post.” They made their way under an oak tree, where a pale yellow duvet cover was hanging.
The image on the duvet cover flickered. Ivy flinched as the front door of the station shot open and a dozen underguards came marching through, their tricorne hats fixed to their heads. They formed a line and then parted down the center. Inspector Smokehart and Selena Grimes appeared between them.
Selena raised a conch shell to her lips and cleared her throat. “Some of you will know that Lundinor was established on the site of an ancient Roman undermart; and though its laws and customs have been forgotten, many of them are still honored today. One such rule permits the practice of outlawed celebrations on the occasion of a grand anniversary.” She put the shell down and clapped her hands together. “Therefore, in honor of the five hundredth anniversary of the birth of our founder, Sir Clement, I am delighted to announce that a one-off international Grivens contest will be staged in the world-famous West End Stadium the day after tomorrow!”
There was a burst of applause along the Gauntlet. Some people jumped into the air, raising their arms and cheering.
“In keeping with the traditions of the original game,” Selena continued, “both living and dead players will be welcomed, although we will be using some new rules to safeguard living contestants. The prize—donated anonymously—will be a trove of uncommon objects to the value of ten thousand grade.”
Valian’s jaw dropped. A few traders standing under the oak tree gasped.
The materializer showed Selena passing the conch shell to Inspector Smokehart. His voice was flat. “Entrants must drink from the contest master’s cup. One glove from each participant will be kept until the day of play. Withdrawals are forbidden. Security in the stadium will be tight. For full details, see the posters.”
The image vanished with a squeaky pop, leaving the duvet cover bare as it folded itself into a neat square and dropped to the ground. The traders left the trees and returned to their businesses in a flurry of whispers.
Valian closed his mouth and stared at the pavement. “She’s found a loophole in the law against playing Grivens! I can’t believe it.”
“Yeah, by going back to Roman times,” Seb added incredulously.
Ivy had no idea about Lundinor’s ancient history, but she did know that the Dirge had an insatiable thirst for knowledge—if anyone had discovered the forgotten secrets of GUT law, it would be them. “Surely no one is actually going to go along with this?” she asked hopefully. “It’s completely irrational. You can’t just make something against the law, and then reinstate it for one day.”
Seb stared at her. “You seem to be forgetting where we are, sis: weirdo capital of the world. These are the people who invented the Timbermeal.”
Valian smiled sarcastically but gave a grim nod. “He’s right. Uncommoners love traditional celebrations; the more eccentric, the better. In any case, people will welcome a distraction from all this news of Jack-in-the Green and the murders at the memorial. This contest has come at the perfect time.”
The more Ivy thought about it, the more certain she felt that Selena had planned it that way. She reran the announcement in her head. “The contest will take place two days from now. That’s May Day—the same deadline Jack-in-the-Green has for finding the Jar of Shadows.” A cold sense of foreboding came over her. “Do you think Selena’s planning to use the jar at the contest somehow?”
The three of them looked at one another warily. The people in the street around them had no idea how much danger they were in.
“We’ve still got time to find that jar before they do,” Seb said, gritting his teeth. “Perhaps now that we know more about the Dirge’s plan, we should ask Granma for help.”
Ivy considered the suggestion carefully. “But Granma Sylvie is already uneasy about being here—if she knows the Dirge are planning something, she’ll probably whisk us away before we’ve had a chance to stop it.”
“We need to be careful who we talk to,” Valian added. “We’ve no idea how many disguises Jack-in-the-Green has.”
“I guess you’re right,” Seb said, glancing nervously up at a folded materializer hanging in a tree. “He could even have been one of the officers standing in the background at the announcement.”
“Even scarier than that,” Valian said, “he could be that tree.”
Ethel and Granma Sylvie were sitting on the large front porch of the House of Bells when Ivy, Seb and Valian arrived. Ivy almost didn’t recognize the building in its spring incarnation—a timber-framed three-story house painted cornflower blue and covered in climbing roses.
“Ivy! Sebastian!” Granma Sylvie leaped up from her seat. Strands of long white hair had come free of her neat bun and her cheeks were flushed, as if she’d just run the length of the Gauntlet. “I’m so happy to see you.” She squeezed Ivy tightly and then pushed her back for inspection. “Are you OK? Where have you been since the Timbermeal?”
Ivy brushed the dried mud from the last mop landing off her knees. “Just exploring the Great Cavern. We didn’t go far.” She greeted Ethel with a hug and sat down on the bench beside Granma Sylvie. Ethel patted Seb fondly on the shoulder as he took a chair. Her hand froze when Valian appeared behind him. They gave each other a wary scowl, and he joined the others around the table.
“What happened to you?” Seb asked Granma Sylvie, glancing at her disheveled hair and clothes. “You look a bit—”
“I’ve had a difficult morning,” Granma Sylvie said, cutting him off. “This business sorting out the Wrench estate has been exhausting. Only an hour ago, the underguard escorted me into the family mansion.”
Ivy had often thought about that strange old house on the hill; Granma Sylvie would have only been a teenager when she lived there.
“More like you escorted them,” Ethel corrected. “They couldn’t have got in if you hadn’t given them access—that place only opens to a member of the family.” Her flinty eyes narrowed. “If you ask me, all this cataloging-the-estate business is a cover for what Smokehart and the underguard really want—access to that building and all the secrets inside.”
Granma Sylvie pursed her lips. “Even if you’re right, I can’t get out of it now; they made me shake on it. At least I managed to convince them that the four of us were at the Timbermeal when that graffiti appeared this morning, so they can’t hassle us for statements.” Her lip quivered. Ivy guessed the murders at the memorial and their connection with the smoking hourglass had been troubling her.
Ethel huffed and began pouring tea. “You can’t have them bullying you like this.” She passed Granma Sylvie a cup of pale green steaming liquid. Seb eyed it suspiciously. “It’s only peppermint,” Ethel told him. “Even uncommoners don’t mess around with tea.”
&n
bsp; Granma Sylvie’s face darkened as she took the cup. “We’ve been logging the contents room by room, starting on the ground floor, but neither I nor any of the underguards have found anything of great value so far. I overheard a few of them talking—they suspect that my family stored any high-grade objects in secret locations around the world.” The teacup was shaking in her hands, so she put it down. “I hope they’re not expecting me to know where they are.”
“That does it,” Ethel said. “I’m coming with you tomorrow, whether they like it or not.” She leaned back in her chair, a satisfied expression on her face.
Granma Sylvie pulled several objects out of her handbag: a small drawstring purse made of blue velvet, a waxy old tape measure and a stainless-steel saltshaker—the kind you’d find in a fast-food restaurant. “I’m only allowed to take a few things out of the house each day. Here—these are for you.” She handed the saltshaker and tape measure to Seb and the purse to Ivy.
Ivy peered inside. The purse was filled with a handful of small feathers, some buttons, a teaspoon, a china napkin holder and a broken pencil. She sensed they were all uncommon.
“I thought it could be your allowance,” Granma Sylvie said. “Ethel told me that most children who take the glove are given one the season after.”
“My allowance?” Ivy queried.
“I added it up earlier,” Ethel explained. “You’ve got five grade in there.”
Ivy’s face flushed. I can trade. She flexed her gloves; now that she had something to barter with, they would record what deals she made.
Seb scrutinized the saltshaker. “OK, so what does this baby do?”
“Uncommon saltshakers are viewing devices,” Valian said.
“And yer gran ’as the matching pepper pot,” Ethel added. “Tip some out and you’ll see.”
The Uncommoners #2 Page 10