Seb turned the object upside down and gave it a shake. The salt looked like snow as it fell. An image appeared in the crystals: it showed the porch of the House of Bells, with the five of them beneath it, as they were right then. “OK, that is totally cool.”
“I’m not sure if I’ll get a chance to send many featherlights over the next few days,” Granma Sylvie said. “The shakers should allow us to check up on each other.”
Ivy shared a nervous smile with Seb and Valian. They’d have to be careful.
“What does the tape measure do?” Seb asked, stuffing the saltshaker into his rucksack.
“Resizes stuff,” Ethel said. “You wrap it around something to make it bigger or smaller. I’ve never used one myself, but ’eard others talk about them. You’ll ’ave to get that one graded; see ’ow much it’s worth.”
Valian caught Ivy’s attention and then pointed to Granma Sylvie’s pocket.
“Er, we found something today, Granma,” Ivy said softly, “while we were exploring. This is going to sound strange, but it’s in your pocket.”
“What?” Granma Sylvie pushed her hand inside her jacket and drew out the half-burned postcard. She blinked twice before examining it.
“We’re not sure who the sender is,” Ivy prompted, “but the photo shows you and Selena Grimes.”
“Yes, but I don’t recall Selena Grimes at that age,” Granma Sylvie remarked. “I have no memory of her at all, apart from the one you already know about.”
Ethel leaned over. “The picture must’ve been taken before you and I became friends, Sylv. You didn’t ’ang around with Selena Grimes when I knew you.”
“What about the shoe?” Valian asked, pointing to the toe of the mysterious black brogue. “Do you know who it belongs to?”
Granma Sylvie looked blank.
So much for that idea. Ivy was about to slip the postcard into her satchel, when she noticed another piece of paper on the table and dragged it toward her. It was the smoking hourglass that Granma Sylvie had scribbled that morning. The other hourglass symbols—on the leather notebook and on the memorial—had been drawn with straight edges and clean lines, but Granma Sylvie’s freehand sketch was wonky.
“Maybe it’s just me, but do these two look similar?” Ivy positioned Granma Sylvie’s sketch next to the postcard and pointed to the burn marks at the bottom of the message. “I thought that was the sender’s initials, but perhaps I was wrong.”
Seb squinted. “Ivy, that’s the same symbol! Whoever wrote the postcard signed it with a smoking hourglass.”
Ethel fumbled with her teacup. “Sorry—what did you say?”
“A smoking hourglass…?” he repeated.
“I knew it!” Ethel sprang to her feet and scuttled into the House of Bells without another word. There was a muffled chorus of oohs and aahs from the bells inside the shop, and then she returned carrying a newspaper and a small bell that looked like it had been carved from some sort of crystal. It was translucent yellow in color, with creamy white veins marbled through it.
“I knew there was something familiar about that symbol on the memorial,” Ethel said, opening the newspaper. “It’s on the front page of this afternoon’s Chronicle. Murder at the memorial,” she read. “Deplorable vandal draws burning sand timer across the stone. Underguards suspect victims were poisoned.”
Ivy read the headline, feeling a surge of excitement. “Are you saying you’ve seen the smoking hourglass before?”
Ethel shook her head. “No, but I ’ave ’eard of it—I didn’t make the connection at first because the Chronicle called it a burning sand timer. Here, listen…”
She held the crystal bell over the center of the table and gave it a shake. A child’s voice rang out, singing a nursery rhyme:
“The ’vatum men come a-hunting to town
And we will go to see
In tent or thatch or burrow or cart
Who knows where they will be, will be,
Who knows where they will be?
“With flourish and fizz the ’vatum men mix
For five wonders of light,
So stirs a dream, so flares a hope,
What will they show tonight, tonight,
What will they show tonight?
“But ’vatum men no more we see
Now grips a crooked fear
More powerful than e’er before,
How long will the dark live here, live here,
How long will the dark live here?
“Farewell to those great ’vatum men,
We shall see their kind ne’er more…
So hide your smoking hourglass,
And lock the secret door, the door,
And lock the secret door.”
As the bell fell silent, Ivy’s mind was reeling, wondering what it all meant. Ethel rang the bell again, as if double-checking what she’d heard.
“Weird…but catchy,” Seb decided. “Anyone know who the ’vatum men are?”
“The Rasavatum,” Ethel corrected, “to give ’em their proper name. When I was a girl, they were a guild of mixologists famous for staging secret demonstrations. They’d drift into an undermart without announcing their arrival, put on a spectacular show—brewing everything from dream elixirs to waters of eternal youth, then give ’em away free to the audience. The following day they’d be headline news.”
“Like rock stars,” Seb said. “I’m guessing you had to do some seriously impressive mixology to be a member of their guild.”
“I’d say so,” Ethel agreed. “They were rumored to store all their recipes in a vast library, which only members ’ad access to.”
Valian shook his head. “But I’ve never heard of them before. Not even from my parents. What happened to them?”
“Once the Dirge rose to prominence, the Rasavatum stopped appearing.” Ethel sighed. “Evidence of mixology was found at the scene of the Dirge’s crimes—it was said that the Rasavatum ’ad joined them. Mixology fell out of favor in a big way. The Rasavatum were never spoken of again.”
Ivy reran the last verse of the nursery rhyme in her head, trying to understand the connection between the smoking hourglass and the Rasavatum. “So hide your smoking hourglass…,” she murmured. “When the Rasavatum disappeared, so did the symbol. Could the smoking hourglass be the Rasavatum’s coat of arms?”
Ethel shrugged. “The only people who’d know that would be Rasavatum members themselves. They didn’t use their coat of arms in the same way as other guilds. They existed by word of mouth.” She tapped the newspaper again. “That’s why no one’s recognized it.”
Granma Sylvie’s gaze was far away. Ivy wondered if she was thinking about her memory of the smoking hourglass on the black door. If the Rasavatum had worked for the Dirge, it meant another troubling connection between them and her past.
Seb leaned closer to Ivy and Valian, keeping his voice down. “We know the Dirge once had an army of the dead. What if they’re using the smoking hourglass to call back their old followers in the Rasavatum and rebuild their forces?”
Valian tapped Ivy’s satchel. “The owner of that notebook and the sender of the postcard must both have been members of the guild. We need to know more about the Rasavatum in order to understand how the notebook works.”
“Ho hum.” Granma Sylvie inserted her head between the three of them. “Whatever you’re plotting, you can just unplot it. It’s dinner and bed for the two of you.”
Seb groaned. “But—”
“No buts.” Granma Sylvie patted him on the shoulder. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it can wait till tomorrow.”
Valian smiled thinly. “Meet me at my place in the morning?”
Ivy nodded. They had work to do.
Seb held the door of the Cabbage Moon open
as Ivy followed him outside. “Worst night’s sleep ever.”
“Tell me about it.” Ivy rubbed her temples. The garbled voices of trapped souls had rattled around in her head all night, waking her several times in the early hours.
As they moved onto the Gauntlet and turned in the direction of the Market Cross, Seb studied his feet. “I kept dreaming about the chief officer lying there, dead.”
“We’ve still got another day and a bit to stop the Dirge from killing anyone else,” Ivy reminded him. “The Jar of Shadows is out there; we’ve got to learn how to find it.”
Lundinor was just waking up. Groggy shouts and clinking tent poles pierced the morning quiet, along with the sizzle of open-air cooking. Ivy stared across the patchwork fields and saw a thread of smoke rising from almost every camp. She thought of all the people who called Lundinor home at certain times of the year, and just how many lives were at risk from the Dirge and their vile plans.
On the opposite side of the road she spotted Alexander Brewster collecting glasses from the tables outside the alehouse. His apron was stained and his fiery hair looked as if he’d just battled through a storm. He caught Ivy’s gaze as she looked over.
Hey! she mouthed, waving. Alexander returned her smile before sighing and continuing with his duties. It seemed like he never got a break. Maybe, when this was all over, Ivy could invite him for a Hundred Punch at the Cabbage Moon; he was new to Lundinor—he probably hadn’t made any friends yet.
Seb slipped his rucksack off his shoulder. “I’ll say this for our innkeeper,” he decided, unwrapping the foil from a fried-egg sandwich, “there’s nothing little about Mr. Littlefair’s food.” He took a massive mouthful, sending ketchup squirting down the front of his black T-shirt.
Reaching inside her satchel, Ivy tickled Scratch hello, then felt past him for Granma Sylvie’s postcard. She studied the photo and reread the message, which had been playing in her mind. If it had been sent by a member of the Rasavatum, then the “dangerous work” the author spoke of could have been something carried out on behalf of the Dirge.
But…Ivy still didn’t want to believe that Granma Sylvie had known anything about it. “Why would Selena want this destroyed?” she wondered. “Perhaps the person missing from the photo is someone who knows something about her involvement with the Dirge?” She massaged her forehead, trying to lessen her headache.
Seb stopped. “You all right?”
“It’s just my whispering; it makes my head hurt.”
He scanned the road purposefully. “Violet Eyelet’s Button Apothecary is over there—she might have a button to help.”
Ivy headed over to a rickety wooden cart standing beside the road. It was painted pale green and lilac, and resting on top was a chest of what looked like a hundred tiny drawers, each with a little label hanging from the handle.
Violet was standing behind the stall, her fluffy white hair piled on top of her head like a huge dollop of meringue. Three pairs of different-colored spectacles jangled around her neck. “Hello, petal! Give me one moment and I’ll be right with you.”
Ivy waited while Violet served another customer. The apothecary was busy. Among the shoppers was a hunched old man with crooked teeth and deep wrinkles in his tanned skin.
Something about him was familiar….
Mr. Punch?!
No one else would have recognized the quartermaster of the Great Cavern, but Ivy’s whispering allowed her to see Mr. Punch’s true nature—he was a Hob, a race of the dead formed from several souls who all looked and spoke differently. On other occasions she’d encountered Mr. Punch as a wise old shop assistant; a pale red-haired young man in a ringmaster’s tailcoat, which was how he appeared as quartermaster; and a skinny guy with dark skin and a fuzzy beard. His eyes were always the same swirly blue-green color, like a tropical lagoon.
“Sir?” Ivy asked, going up to him.
The old man winked. “Nice to see yer back in Lundinor, Ivy Sparrow.” His voice was coarse, like a trader who’d been shouting to his customers all day.
Ivy broke into a smile. I’m right. It is him.
“Lundinor looks a bit different this season, eh?” Mr. Punch said.
Ivy wasn’t sure what he meant, but she didn’t have time for any more riddles. “My abilities have started to change,” she whispered. “I can hear voices all the time now—not just when I’m touching an uncommon object. And I can sense the dead too. Do you know why?”
Mr. Punch rubbed a hand across his chin. “Not exactly, but if I had to guess, I’d say that the longer you are exposed to fragmented souls—both those trapped inside uncommon objects and those transformed as races of the dead—the more acute your whispering becomes. It is a sense, after all—just like your sight or smell; it is a way to read the world around you. The more you use it, the stronger it will get.” His eyes flashed. “It’s a pity you don’t have a tutor—someone with the same gift as you.”
Ivy sighed, doubting she’d ever find another whisperer. It wasn’t as if she could place an advertisement in the Barrow Post. Fear of the Dirge kidnapping people like her had kept them silent for years.
“Ivy!” Violet panted, shuffling over. “Sorry—I was in the middle of an exchange. What can I do for you?”
Ivy hesitated. There was so much more she needed to ask Mr. Punch. “Um, I need something for a headache,” she said hurriedly.
“But of course!” Violet pushed two pairs of spectacles higher on her nose, squinting at the chest. Eventually she selected a drawer and picked out a handful of square gray buttons. “Is it for you, dear?”
Ivy nodded.
“Oh.” Violet smiled kindly. “I’m sorry to hear that. Here you go.” She assessed Ivy’s outfit and tucked one of the gray buttons into the top pocket of Ivy’s sweater.
The throbbing in Ivy’s temples lessened almost immediately. She started to get her allowance out of her satchel, but Violet shook her head. “There’s no charge for friends, Ivy. Now, what can I do for you, si—?”
Violet looked up to where Mr. Punch had been standing, only to find that he had vanished. She looked along the road in both directions, but he was nowhere to be seen.
She placed her hands on her hips. “Must have been dead,” she told Ivy. “Those ones disappear all the time.”
As Ivy and Seb continued along the Gauntlet toward Valian’s, Ivy couldn’t help but notice the number of GRIVENS CONTEST posters fixed to tree trunks and tent poles. Bunting decorated with Grivens pieces was strung between some of the shops, and there were at least two stalls offering reductions on newly minted Grivens sets, displaying hastily written signs saying: GET PRACTICING!
She caught snatches of excited conversation, the traders speculating on who might enter the contest or taking bets on the final winner. Ivy tensed, knowing what might really happen that night if she, Seb and Valian failed in their search. All the fears in the world…Opening the Jar of Shadows would be like releasing a nightmare into Lundinor.
They slowed as they approached Hoff & Winkle’s Hobsmatch Emporium, heading for the staircase at the back that led to Valian’s room. Ivy had passed the store during the winter, when it had taken the form of a crumbling house with dusty leaded windows. Now it was a huge wooden barn with a steeply sloping roof. Chickens pecked at the hay bales outside. Ivy brightened; she was beginning to enjoy discovering how everything had changed.
A very short woman with shiny brown hair was sweeping up by the wide barn doors as they passed. She wore a sleeveless beaded dress, golden sandals and a pale pink cloche hat. When she spotted them, she waved. “Yoo-hoo!”
“Is she talking to us?” Ivy asked.
They stopped as the lady came trundling up to meet them.
“It is you!” she declared in an Irish lilt. “Oh, how exciting! Known Valian since he was a tadpole and he’s never had friends before. Miss Hoff will be
so thrilled!” She rested her broom beside her; it was at least two feet taller than her.
Ivy looked at the barn. “You’re…Miss Winkle?”
The lady held out her hand. She was wearing small pale pink suede gloves embroidered with daisies. “Delighted to meet you both.”
“We’re here to see Valian,” Seb said, smiling thinly as he shook her hand.
“Yes, he was called out on urgent business this morning,” Miss Winkle explained. “Told us to let you know that you should wait for him here.” She scrutinized Seb’s plain black T-shirt, muddy jeans and scruffy sneakers and smiled weakly before turning with similar disappointment to Ivy’s outfit. “You’d better come inside.”
As Ivy stepped over the threshold, a bell called out, “Miss Hattie Hoff and Miss Gabriella Winkle wish you the best of the Trade!”
“Miss Hoff!” Miss Winkle shouted, leading them into the middle of the barn. “Look who I found—it’s Valian’s friends!”
The floor was filled with clothes rails. Ivy spotted a tall, slim lady with vibrant red hair raise her hand. “Right with you, Gabi!” She finished helping a man in purple yoga pants adjust the fit on his astronaut helmet before dashing over. Her Hobsmatch consisted of a white Formula 1 racing driver’s suit emblazoned with brightly colored logos, crimson cowboy boots and leather biker gloves. She gasped when she saw Ivy and Seb. “But my dears—you’re not in Hobsmatch!”
Before Ivy could offer an explanation, Miss Winkle tutted, “My thoughts exactly. But we can sort that out in no time. We’ll add it to Valian’s account.” She pulled a plastic twelve-inch ruler out of the pocket of her dress and held it to Seb’s head.
He shied away, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “What exactly are you doing?”
“I’m taking the measure of you,” Miss Winkle explained. “Finding out what you’re made of. Haven’t you ever noticed that uncommoners wear Hobsmatch that expresses who they are? The ruler helps us find what’s inside so we can match what’s on the outside. Why do you think it’s called Hobsmatch?” She held the ruler lower for Miss Hoff to examine.
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