The floor shook with the thud of running footsteps. A familiar voice called into the barn, ‘Ivy? Seb?’ Valian came tearing in, zigzagging between the racks of clothes in order to reach them. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘You all right?’ Seb asked.
‘Yeah, fine.’ Valian started as he caught sight of Seb’s Hobsmatch. ‘Nice. Suits you.’
Ivy doubted Valian would have the same opinion when he realized the outfit was being charged to his account. ‘Listen – I think Sir Clement could have been one of the Rasavatum,’ she said in a hushed voice. ‘Is there somewhere we can go to learn more about him?’
Valian shrugged. ‘I suppose we could ask at the tourist information van in the Market Cross. I know they offer historical tours for visitors. How did you find out?’
‘I’ll explain on the way,’ Ivy said. ‘We’ve got no time to lose.’
As they hurried along the road, Valian zipped up his jacket. ‘Someone from the Scouts’ Union contacted me earlier – that’s why I had to leave. A rare uncommon sundial was being sold in the East End; scouts use them to pinpoint the location of objects.’
‘Did you manage to get hold of it?’ Ivy asked. ‘Did it find the Jar of Shadows?’
Valian scowled. ‘Sundials are normally highly accurate, but when I got it to search for a jar within the walls of Lundinor, it couldn’t fix on a single location. If the Jar of Shadows is here, it’s being hidden by powerful uncommon forces.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s a bit like what happened with Rosie.’
‘Your sister?’ Seb asked. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Before I went to the Scouts’ Union I wrote Rosie’s name on the label of the Great Uncommon Bag to see if it would find her,’ Valian explained. ‘The bag took me to Montroquer undermart in Paris, but Rosie wasn’t anywhere to be seen, so I tried the bag again and found myself in Mai Masima undermart in Thailand. After that it took me to undermarts in Germany, Lithuania and Portugal. It was like it couldn’t settle on one location.’
From the set of Valian’s jaw, Ivy could tell how frustrated he was. ‘Maybe we can mark on a map all the places the bag has taken you to so far, and see if they’re connected?’ she suggested. ‘If we can find a pattern, we might be able to predict where Rosie will be next.’
Seb gave her a wary glance. She knew what he was thinking: there was a strong chance that Rosie might not even be alive; she’d gone missing so long ago, and in the Dead End too. After their own experiences in that place, Ivy knew how dangerous it was.
The three of them slowed as they came to the Market Cross. There was little evidence of yesterday’s Timbermeal other than a few patches of flattened grass. Valian pointed to a dented old ice-cream van standing on the edge of the green and they headed over.
The vehicle was decorated with advertisements for things to do in Lundinor. There were guided tours for the living – Walk the walls of the great undermart of Lundinor – and the dead – Walk through the walls of the great undermart of Lundinor – as well as suggestions for places to stay and awards for Lundinor’s top restaurants.
At the rear of the van was a notice board covered in announcements from different guilds. Ivy paused to take a closer look. The top of every notice showed the guild’s coat of arms, and below, the times and dates of the next guild meeting. The Ancient Order of Chestnut Roasters were due to vote for a new guild leader.
‘Does every guild have a leader?’ Ivy asked Valian, thinking uneasily of the Dirge.
‘Yeah, that’s the rules. They have the final word on any guild decisions. There’s a fixed number of members too; a space only becomes available when someone has Departed.’
That was why there were only six members of the Dirge, Ivy thought. The code name Wolfsbane could have been taken by several people before Selena Grimes started using it.
Seb read one of the notices. ‘So … are you in a scouts’ guild?’
Valian scoffed. ‘No. You have to be invited by the other members.’
Ivy searched for disappointment on his face. He caught her looking at him and shrugged. ‘I’m used to working on my own. Anyway, it’s hard to feel lonely when you live in busy undermarts all year round.’
‘All year round?’ Seb repeated. ‘But Lundinor’s only open three times a year.’
‘There are hundreds of other undermarts around the world. When one closes, another one opens; there’s a kind of circuit.’
The lady behind the counter of the tourist information van had flowers in her fluffy brown hair. ‘There’s a Sir Clement museum,’ she told them. ‘I haven’t sold any tickets for a long while, but I’m sure they’re still valid.’ She rooted around in the van and reappeared with a small book of perforated paper tickets. ‘They’re half a grade each.’
Ivy couldn’t understand why the place didn’t have more visitors. The tourist-information lady held out a patchy velvet glove expectantly. Ivy felt herself going red, realizing she meant to trade.
‘Don’t look at me,’ Valian said with a shrug. ‘That sundial cost me an arm and a leg – I’m skint.’
Ivy remembered the allowance Granma Sylvie had given her and took the purse from her satchel. Ethel had said there was five grades’ worth of objects inside it, but Ivy wasn’t sure which item to pick. She hastily selected a china napkin holder and handed it over.
The lady examined it carefully. ‘Hmm. Let’s check the current market grade.’ She took a stainless-steel fork off the counter and, very gently, tapped the prongs against the side of the napkin holder. A clear, high-pitched chime rang out and, as the sound died away, Ivy caught a number being sung: ‘One point eight.’
‘Excellent. That’ll do nicely.’ The lady smiled and shook Ivy’s hand.
Ivy’s wrist went weak. This was it: her first trade. She was now as much an uncommoner as anyone in Lundinor. She didn’t have long to dwell on the moment.
‘The museum is in Sir Clement’s old house, high up in the West End,’ the lady told her. She scribbled the directions down on a piece of paper and handed it over. ‘Have fun!’
To reach the West End the three friends had to walk through a huge archway of flowers that spelled out the words THE BEST END. Once inside, Ivy didn’t know where to look first. White pavilions bordered gleaming marble courtyards and lawns so neat and green the grass could have been made of plastic. People in huge Hobsmatch hats strolled around carrying parasols and walking tiny dogs, while others sat at tables, sipping tea and nibbling fancy cakes. Ivy noticed several underguards erecting temporary street bells directing people to the Grivens stadium. Preparations for the big contest were already underway.
‘Well, it’s exactly where that lady said it would be,’ Valian said, craning his neck. ‘High up.’
In front of them stood the biggest tree Ivy had ever seen – the trunk was as wide as a car and the branches reached so high the top wasn’t visible.
Seb screwed up his nose, peering into the dark canopy. ‘There’s a museum in there?’
Ivy looked closer. Nestled between the branches were some wooden platforms, with rickety rope ladders and bridges made of chain and driftwood. A long sign had been nailed to the rough brown bark.
The list continued to Level 21, but Ivy’s attention had already focused upon something. ‘François Filigree,’ she read. ‘I’ve seen that name before – yesterday, at the Timbermeal. It was written on that patio chair you were sitting on.’
A varnished wooden staircase spiralled up around the trunk. After fifty steps or so they reached a large, wide platform set among the branches. On it stood a forest of black iron spindles – some as tall as a door, others the size of cotton reels. Each spindle was stacked with a different type of wheel; there were brightly coloured skateboard wheels, wooden cartwheels, bicycle wheels and supermarket trolley wheels, among others.
‘Turn your life around with a new uncommon wheel!’ called a voice from somewhere behind them. ‘Best quality in Lundinor!’
Valian growled and sped up. ‘Quick – we hav
en’t time to talk.’
As they climbed the next set of stairs, the foliage of the Great Oak Tree grew denser and more tangled. Eventually the noises from the street below were muffled and it became so dark that uncommon lemon squeezers had been fixed to the branches to light the way.
‘Whoa!’ Ivy exclaimed, coming to a halt. In front of her, the stairs turned into a rickety rope bridge, crossing over to the other side of the tree. On each side hung nets topped with an assortment of chairs and tables piled up on top of each other as if they were about to be used in a bonfire. At the sound of Ivy’s voice they started shuffling around, kicking their legs and jostling for attention.
‘The way’s blocked,’ Valian said, pointing to a tangle of thorny branches in the middle of the bridge.
Seb pulled out his drumsticks. ‘Not for long.’
‘Careful,’ Ivy warned, laying a hand on his arm. ‘It’s still part of the tree.’
Seb thrashed his drumsticks through the air, aiming at the thicket. There was a loud crunch as, with an explosion of leaves and splinters, a hole appeared in the centre.
They continued over the bridge in single file. Halfway across, Ivy heard a voice:
‘Helloooo there! Are you on your way to François Filigree’s Furniture Jamboree?’
She stopped, gripping the rope rail tightly and looking around. She couldn’t see anyone. ‘Um, actually we want to visit the museum at Sir Clement’s old house.’
‘Oh,’ the voice said. ‘You’re not lost then?’
Ivy nudged Valian. ‘I don’t know … Are we?’
There was a shuffling noise behind them, and a short, dumpy man dropped out of the branches, bounced onto the net and somersaulted over them onto the end of the bridge.
‘Most people who wind up in my shop are lost,’ François Filigree said in a sad voice, brushing down his long purple overcoat with a pair of thick, fire-retardant gloves. He had a small pear-shaped body with virtually no neck, and tiny arms and legs. Covering his face was a smooth white porcelain mask with small eye holes, painted lips and a black moustache.
He must have caught Ivy staring at it because he said, ‘It’s from Japanese Noh theatre. Excellent Hobsmatch, of course. There aren’t many people who dare to wear them, so I really do make an impression.’
‘Yeah … see what you mean,’ Seb said slowly. He edged up behind Valian, his knuckles white on the rope. ‘Er – the museum?’
‘Right …’ François Filigree’s shoulders sagged. ‘Have you got tickets?’
Ivy felt around in the pocket of her new jacket. ‘Yes.’
‘Then I’ll show you the way,’ he said, sounding dejected. ‘Come in, come in.’
He led them on a twisting route, past a graveyard of broken table legs and more cluttered bridges, to a ramshackle multistorey tree house. The walls were covered with holey strips of mouldy bark, and thick spider’s webs filled the empty window frames. Crumbling chimneys, crooked roofs and half-demolished balconies poked through the dark green leaves.
‘Leave your tickets on the table inside,’ François Filigree told them.
‘This is the museum?’ Ivy exclaimed.
He tilted his strange white mask. ‘I understand that it might look a little unloved, but there are plenty of Sir Clement’s original possessions to examine inside, along with a few of my own knick-knacks. Everything’s for sale; let me know if you want to strike a deal!’
Ivy climbed the dusty steps towards the front door.
‘Careful,’ Filigree warned, batting a branch away from her hand.
She felt her left glove catch on something as she withdrew it. A small hole had appeared in the thumb.
Filigree winced. ‘Ah, sorry; the tree grows faster than a flying vacuum cleaner these days.’
As he bounded off, Ivy poked her thumb, assessing the hole. Seb yanked on the handle of the tree-house door and a cloud of dust puffed out. ‘This place can’t have had any visitors for years.’
‘I’m guessing access was difficult,’ Valian said drily. ‘I don’t know why Filigree doesn’t cut things back. It’s almost like he doesn’t want customers.’
The entrance hall was covered in vines and weeds. A solitary stool tottered in one corner and a cracked ladder hung down in the centre, leading to the upper floors.
‘We’d better split up to save time.’ Valian jumped for a rung on the ladder and pulled himself up. ‘I’ll search the first floor. Let me know if you find anything down here.’
Seb walked over to a rectangular hole in the wall, which had clearly once been a doorway. ‘Here goes,’ he said, ducking under what was left of the rotting frame.
Ivy followed him through. The room beyond was decorated with sun-bleached maps and vintage posters, and the air smelled fusty and dank. A balding velvet couch rested against one wall and a moth-eaten Chinese rug covered the floor. Ivy examined one of the sideboards, which displayed a selection of objects labelled with price tags. ‘François’s collection,’ she said, wiping the dust off a box containing a spun-glass paperweight.
‘Any sign of the smoking hourglass?’ Seb stood on tiptoe, looking into the rafters. ‘Or anything to do with mixology or the Rasavatum?’
Ivy spotted a chequered wooden board set with marble chess pieces. Or at least, she thought they were chess pieces. She read the label: Original 1604 Grivens set – 7.4 grade.
‘Know what that reminds me of?’ Seb said, appearing at her shoulder. ‘Toenails.’ He reached for a tarnished silver photo frame by her elbow. ‘Rare Victorian photo frame, circa 1879,’ he read on the tag. ‘Frames an image by a minute either side – 5.6 grade.’
Ivy frowned. ‘What do you think that means?’
‘Dunno. Maybe it changes the way a photo appears somehow.’
Ivy thought of the postcard of Granma Sylvie and Selena. She’d hidden it under her mattress before leaving the Cabbage Moon that morning. ‘Do you think the frame could tell us who Jack-in-the-Green burned off that postcard?’
‘It’s worth a try,’ Seb said with a shrug. ‘Do you have enough grade to trade for it?’
Ivy shook her head. She’d spent 1.8 getting them tickets for the museum.
Seb turned out the pockets of his jeans, but all he found were a few feathers and his phone, which he swiftly clutched to his chest. ‘Er … no.’
‘The only other uncommon thing I have to trade is Scratch,’ Ivy said. ‘And there’s no way that’s happening.’
‘We’ll have to ask Valian,’ Seb decided, his mouth curling in disappointment. He tucked the frame under his arm. ‘Keep looking for Rasavatum clues.’
Ivy studied the faded posters on the walls. One promoted the opening of the West End of Lundinor: MARVEL AT THE WEST END, LUNDINOR’S GRAND NEW SPACE FOR TRADERS! The watercolour painting in the centre depicted children playing with hoops and sticks, running on a green lawn beside a row of striped pavilions. ‘Seb, how much do you remember of that nursery rhyme?’
‘A little bit,’ he said. ‘It starts: The ’vatum men come a-hunting to town.’
‘Yeah …’ Ivy’s mum had once told her that nursery rhymes sometimes had hidden meanings. ‘It doesn’t say what they were hunting for though, does it?’
Scratch vibrated within her satchel. ‘Repeating rhyme to Ivys can nursery!’ he announced proudly as she scooped him out. ‘Memory excellent Scratch.’
Ivy hugged him. Of course. He’d been in her bag when they’d first heard the rhyme. She hurriedly fetched a pen and paper. ‘OK, Scratch, go slowly.’
Once he had finished, Ivy read the rhyme back carefully, trying to identify something they might have missed, but the poem only echoed the story Ethel had already told them.
There was a creak above her head, and a cloud of dust fell down onto the sideboard. Ivy was about to brush it off her piece of paper when she noticed that only some of the words were now visible. ‘Wait … What if we’re reading it wrong? What if only certain lines are important?’
Seb scanned the page a few
times, reading the poem through in his head. ‘The only pattern that makes sense is if you take the first line from the first verse and the second line from the second verse and so on …’
Ivy tried it, reading aloud: ‘The ’vatum men come a-hunting to town … for five wonders of light … more powerful than e’er before … and lock the secret door, the door, and lock the secret door.’ Her skin prickled. ‘Seb, it works!’
‘Yeah, but what does it mean?’
Ivy’s voice went hollow. ‘Oh no. The Rasavatum were searching for five wonders more powerful than ever before … that can only be one thing – the Great Uncommon Good!’
Seb’s eyes widened. ‘If the Rasavatum were hunting for the Great Uncommon Good even before the Dirge, that might be why the Dirge recruited them.’
‘And it would explain why a formula from the smoking-hourglass notebook would help Jack-in-the-Green find the Jar of Shadows,’ Ivy added. ‘It must have belonged to a member of the Rasavatum who was searching for it.’
A tremor ran along the floorboards and Valian appeared in the doorway. ‘There’s nothing useful up there,’ he said, running a hand through his hair. ‘Have you had any luck?’
‘Ivy found a secret message in that nursery rhyme,’ Seb explained. ‘Also, we’re buying this.’ He held up the silver photo frame. ‘Except that neither of us has enough grade to trade Filigree for it, so’ – he grinned – ‘we’ll owe you …’
The second she poked her head out of the Great Uncommon Bag Ivy spied Judy’s roller skates. ‘Judy!’ Her mind raced to find an explanation as she crawled onto the floor of their room in the Cabbage Moon. ‘Er … This isn’t what it looks like …’
Judy stared at the sack by Ivy’s feet. She was wearing an apron over her waistcoat–tutu combo, and in one hand held a rustling brown feather duster. As Ivy clambered to her feet, the duster gave a noisy squawk, which seemed to rouse Judy from her stupor.
‘Ivy? What’s going on? How are you bag-travelling in here?’ She opened her mouth to say more, but was cut off by a loud scratch and thump over Ivy’s shoulder. Valian and Seb appeared through the opening of the Great Uncommon Bag in quick succession.
The Smoking Hourglass Page 12
