‘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 favour 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 un-plot 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 only need 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.
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 re-read the message, which had been playing on 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 ignore her headache.
Seb stopped. ‘You all right?’
‘It’s my whispering; it makes my head hurt.’
He scanned the road purposefully. ‘Violet Eyelet’s Button Apothecary is right 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 coloured 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 tail coat – 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 colour, 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 removed a handful of square grey buttons from inside. ‘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 grey buttons into the top pocket of Ivy’s jumper.
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 scanned the road in both directions, but he was nowhere to be seen.
‘Must have been dead,’ she told Ivy, placing her hands on her hips. ‘Those ones disappear all the time.’
As Ivy and Seb continued along the Gauntlet towards 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 practising!
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 noticed 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 reached at least two foot above her head.
Ivy looked at the barn. ‘You’re … Miss Winkle?’
The lady offered 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 away 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 trainers 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 One racing driver’s suit emblazoned with brightly coloured 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 rectify that in no time. We’ll add it to Valian’s account.’ She pulled a plastic 30cm ruler from her dress pocket 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.
‘Oh yes, yes,’ Miss Hoff said. ‘What about the black and red’ – she swept her hands down her sides – ‘with the stripes and the large …’ She gestured in circles on her shoulders.
Seb’s eyebrows slowly climbed higher up his forehead. Ivy couldn’t help giggling.
‘Just you wait here. I’ll bring our suggestions forthwith,’ Miss Hoff told him.
While she was gone, Miss Winkle took Ivy’s measurements with the same ruler. Even without it touching her skin, Ivy could sense that it was uncommon. Mr Punch had said that her whispering was a way to read the world around her, and it got her thinking.
She concentrated on the nearest couple of uncommoners browsing through the clothes racks, trying to reach out with her senses and detect any fragments of broken soul. It was tricky. She couldn’t control her whispering in the same way as her other senses – it wasn’t like focusing her eyes or tuning her ears. Instead, it came from somewhere deep inside her. After a moment’s struggle she gave up.
‘Interesting,’ Miss Winkle said. She peered into Ivy’s green eyes and smiled, dimples appearing in her cheeks. ‘You’re courage and tall and love above all.’
Ivy frowned. ‘I’m what?’ She craned her neck to examine the ruler. The black centimetre lines had re-formed into words, spelling out the phrase Miss Winkle had quoted. ‘What does that mean? I’m not tall.’
‘I don’t think it means physically, dear,’ Miss Winkle said.
Seb folded his arms defensively. ‘So what did the ruler say when you measured me?’
‘Oh yes,’ Miss Winkle twittered. ‘Rhythm and grit and filled with wit.’
‘Has a good ring to it, if you ask me,’ said a familiar voice from behind them. Ivy turned to find Judy balancing a small barrel of Hundred Punch in her arms. She smiled at them and set the barrel down. ‘I got my first Hobsmatch outfit here too.’
‘You did?’ Ivy said. ‘What did the ruler say about you?’
Judy tucked a strand of poker-straight hair behind her ear, darting a look at Seb. ‘Daring and grace and glowing of face,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Anyway, what are you two doing here? I’m delivering Hundred Punch in exchange for replacement trousers for Mr Littlefair.’
Before Ivy could give an answer, Miss Hoff returned with an armful of possible Hobsmatch garments for her and Seb. Ivy spied a frilly white cuff and the corner of some pointy shoulder pads among them. Seb’s legs twitched like he was about to turn and run, but Judy put a hand on his shoulder and escorted him and Ivy to the changing rooms.
Half an hour later, Ivy found herself standing in front of a long antique mirror while she waited for Seb to emerge from his cubicle. She smoothed down the arms of her cropped black jacket with its smart Eton collar which complemented the casual pair of stone-washed dungarees underneath. Ribbon-laced brown leather boots and a red satin scarf completed the outfit. The colour made her smile; it reminded her of the poppies in their garden at home. Altogether she thought Miss Hoff and Miss Winkle had done a good job. She’d never thought she’d feel comfortable in Hobsmatch, but now she could see why the traders liked it; it was as if she was wearing an extension of who she was.
‘OK, this is the last one,’ Seb called from the changing room. ‘If this looks stupid, erase it from your mind.’ He poked his head round the curtain and looked at Judy. ‘Especially you.’
Judy laughed as he shuffled out wearing black three-quarter-length shorts, a baggy LA Lakers basketball jersey, scuffed vintage trainers and a straight-cut, loose-fitting long black mandarin coat. It was embroidered with gold thread and he’d turned the sleeves up, like he did when he was drumming. ‘Well …?’
Ivy cocked her head, taking it all in. She liked the combination of modern sportswear and traditional Chinese dress. ‘Actually … this one kind of suits you.’
‘Yeah,’ Judy agreed. ‘It’s a good mix.’
‘Really?’ Seb opened the coat, showing them the gold satin lining. ‘The cool thing is, there’re these long
pockets inside that I can put my drumsticks in.’
Ivy was just hanging a swimming cap back on a hook when something in the corner of the barn caught her eye. Inside a large glass case, an ivory leather jacket with long red sleeves was draped over a mannequin. There were gold buttons around the collar and leaves embroidered in jade thread on the cuffs.
She walked over to take a closer look. A brass plaque attached to the case read: JACKET WORN BY SIR CLEMENT, CIRCA 1560. ‘Is this real?’ she asked Miss Hoff. ‘It’s amazing.’
‘Absolutely,’ she replied with a smile. ‘We inherited it from our fathers, Mr Hoff and Mr Winkle.’
‘And they from their fathers,’ Miss Winkle added, appearing at Miss Hoff’s side. ‘Our ancestors were the foremost Hobsmatch traders of their time. Apparently Sir Clement bequeathed the jacket to our family before he Departed.’
‘Here, you can take a closer look if you’d like.’ Miss Hoff unlocked the cabinet using a small silver key from her pocket. Very carefully she slid the jacket off the mannequin and hung it over her arm. ‘The leather jerkin is over four hundred years old,’ she said, pointing to the chest piece. ‘Sir Clement added the sleeves later; they’re made of Chinese silk. Have a feel – it’s just like new.’
Ivy ran her fingers down the front. The leather was soft but didn’t feel as if it was about to crumble. She guessed uncommon methods had been used to preserve it. Her fingertips grazed something rough under the lapel, so she lifted it up.
Hidden underneath was a symbol embroidered in gold thread:
A smoking hourglass …!
Ivy drew her hand back, her mind whirring.
‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ Miss Hoff cooed, brushing the jacket down before returning it to the glass case. ‘We really don’t look at it enough.’
Had Sir Clement been a member of the Rasavatum? He was one of the most famous uncommoners in history; there was bound to be tons of information available on him in Lundinor. Ivy needed to find out more.
The Smoking Hourglass Page 11
