‘I knew no one would see us leaving that overgrown tree,’ Valian said, dusting off his knees as he got up. Seb threw a hand over his mouth and staggered to the open window, mumbling something about fresh air.
The feather duster squawked again, attracting both boys’ attention.
‘What’s going on?’ Judy demanded, putting her hands on her hips. ‘You’re breaking GUT law by using that thing. You’ll get Mr Littlefair into trouble.’
The duster screeched loudly. ‘Breaking the law, breaking the law.’
Judy frowned. ‘I don’t understand – uncommon bags don’t work inside undermarts. Is there something special about this one?’
‘Special about this one,’ the duster wailed. ‘Special about this one.’
Seb hastily closed the window. ‘Can you ask that thing to be quiet?’
Judy stuffed it in among the mesh of her tutu without taking her eyes off them. ‘Look, if you’re in some kind of trouble, just tell me. I might be able to help.’
Ivy knew they weren’t meant to be trusting anyone, but she couldn’t think of an explanation that Judy would believe – apart from the truth. Plus, it would be good to have someone else to talk to about what was really going on. ‘Maybe we should tell her,’ she suggested nervously.
Seb smiled at Judy. ‘OK by me.’
Valian narrowed his eyes, his expression switching from anger to mild annoyance. Eventually his shoulders slumped. ‘Fine,’ he told Judy. ‘But you’re not going to like it.’
Seb stuffed the feather duster in the wardrobe to keep it quiet, and as the bearskin rug lay snoring in the corner of the room, he, Ivy and Valian recounted everything that had happened last winter.
Judy rolled anxiously back and forth on her roller skates. ‘Ivy’s a whisperer … You own one of the Great Uncommon Good … Valian fought wraithmoths in the Wrench basement … You played Grivens with Jack-in-the-Green!’ She shook her head. ‘What’s next?’
‘Well, we’re hoping to use this,’ Ivy said, slipping the silver photo frame from her satchel.
Seb lifted her mattress and retrieved the postcard. ‘We think that whoever’s missing from the photo can tell us more about Selena’s past and her connection with our granma.’
‘Let’s have a look at them both,’ Judy said.
Seb passed her the postcard, Ivy the photo frame. Judy teased the back of the frame away and tucked the postcard face-down inside so that the photo would appear on the front.
Ivy watched her curiously. ‘Have you used one before?’
‘No,’ Judy admitted, ‘but whenever I have to use something uncommon that I’m not sure about, I just act as if it was a common version and hope for the best.’
At first nothing happened. Ivy drew closer to Judy and studied the image. Granma Sylvie and Selena Grimes were standing on a cobbled road with a red-brick wall behind them.
‘Uh, guys?’ Seb asked. ‘Are you seeing that?’
Ivy looked up and realized that something had happened to their room. She could still see the walls and floor, but the duck-egg-blue wardrobe and bedside chair were slightly faded. If she turned her head, the wooden floor appeared to be made of cobblestones, and the walls flickered between sunflower wallpaper and red bricks. Ivy squinted. It was a bit like looking at a hologram. From one angle she saw their room, but from another she saw the eerie setting of the photo. ‘Are we inside the photo somehow?’
Valian tilted his head. ‘I don’t think so. It’s more like the photo’s being projected around us.’
Ivy heard muffled footsteps, and a girl with golden hair came running through the bedroom wall and across the cobbles. The four of them shuffled back to the edges of the room, but Ivy was too slow and the girl ran straight through her – as if she was made of nothing but air.
‘Is that Granma?’ Seb asked.
The young girl was Granma Sylvie. Ivy could tell by the shape of her face and her amber eyes. She was wearing the same Hobsmatch as in the photo – a frilly white petticoat, a denim shirt and silver go-go boots. Ivy waved a hand in front of her but the young Sylvie remained oblivious.
‘It’s like some sort of recording,’ she decided. ‘Remember: it frames the picture by one minute either side. I think right now we’re seeing the minute before the photo was taken.’
Young Sylvie cupped her hands around her mouth. ‘Come on, Lena!’ she called in the direction she’d just come from. ‘We’ve got to be quick – the door only appears for a few minutes; that’s why it’s a secret sweetshop!’
A second girl came racing into the room. The young Selena Grimes had freckles over her pale nose, and her dark plait swung behind her shoulders as she ran. Ivy shivered; it was disconcerting to see her with so much life in her cheeks. ‘Sylvie, hang on!’ Selena panted. ‘I promised we’d wait for Amos.’
‘Amos Stirling?’ Young Sylvie put her hands on her hips. ‘He likes you.’
‘What do you mean?’ Selena asked, smoothing down her dress. She was wearing a grey pinafore over a silver blouse, with long Victorian leather riding boots laced up to the knee.
Sylvie giggled. ‘You know what I mean. He’s always asking questions about you, following you around. He likes you.’
Selena blushed. ‘Well, he’s never said anything to me.’ She flashed her bare fingers while adjusting her black satin gloves. Her hands were not yet riddled with maggots. Ivy couldn’t believe this was the person who would grow up to join the Dirge and become Wolfsbane.
‘Selena’s still touching the ground; she hasn’t become a ghoul yet,’ Seb commented.
‘What do you think came first,’ Valian said, ‘Selena dying or her joining the Dirge?’
Ivy did the maths. ‘They must have both happened sometime between when this photo was taken and when the Dirge were last seen on Twelfth Night 1969.’
A tall boy with a mop of jet-black hair came hurrying into the room. He was wearing a white shirt, navy breeches and polished black brogues. ‘Lena – sorry I got held up.’ He was well-spoken and looked a few years older than Sylvie and Selena.
Seb pointed at the boy’s shoes. ‘They’re identical to the shoe in the photo!’
Amos was clutching a leather-bound book to his chest.
‘What’s that?’ Sylvie asked, tilting her head. ‘Don’t tell me you brought homework?’
Amos blushed. ‘No, it’s just my journal. I take it everywhere. You never know when you’ll need to write down a new mixology formula.’
‘You’re a mixologist?’ Sylvie’s face brightened. ‘That’s so interesting! I know what you mean about the journal – it’s the same with this …’ She took a snow globe from her pocket. ‘I want to be a photographer, so it’s important to carry it on me at all times.’ She grinned. ‘Hey, let’s get a picture now! I can take before and after shots.’ She set the snow globe on top of a fence post by the brick wall, then huddled between Amos and Selena.
‘Say “Uncommon Cheese”,’ she called.
‘UNCOMMON CHEESE!’
The snow globe vibrated, and a puff of tiny snowflakes shot out of it. Sylvie stepped forward, removed the globe from the post and peered inside. ‘Looks great,’ she declared, showing the other two.
As Amos put his journal in his other hand, Ivy gasped. Embossed onto the dark leather cover were the familiar lines of the smoking hourglass.
The notebook! It was the same one.
Judy flinched, allowing the frame to slip from her fingers. As she fumbled to catch it, Amos, Sylvie and Selena swiftly disappeared and the room returned to normal.
Ivy retrieved the notebook from her satchel urgently. ‘That’s why the initials AS are written on every page,’ she said, running her fingers across the cover. ‘They stand for Amos Stirling. This isn’t just a notebook; it’s his journal.’
‘He said he was into mixology,’ Seb commented. ‘Do you think he was a member of the Rasavatum? That might explain why the smoking hourglass is on the front.’
‘But it still doesn’t t
ell us why Selena would want to remove him from the postcard,’ Valian pointed out. ‘Or help us understand how we might use the journal to find the Jar of Shadows.’
Ivy opened the journal and flicked through the blank pages. She could sense a soul trapped within it somewhere, but the pages didn’t feel warm and tingly. ‘We need to discover what happened to Amos. On the postcard he mentioned that he’d been forced into hiding. Did he ever come out? Did he see Granma Sylvie again?’
Judy reached into the wardrobe and retrieved the feather duster, which began squawking. ‘I’ve got an idea that might help,’ she said. ‘We just can’t do it while my mum’s around. She takes a lunch break at two p.m. Meet me at the featherlight mailhouse then.’
Granma Sylvie slid onto the bench opposite Ivy, Seb and Valian, placing a bowl of soup on the table. All around, the dining room throbbed with activity – families chatting at tables, people serving drinks and collecting plates. The air smelled like a better version of Ivy’s school canteen – gravy and roast meat without the stark after-smell of disinfectant.
‘I hoped I’d catch you three in here,’ she said, smiling. ‘I checked your room before I left this morning but you were both still asleep. And I used that pepper pot yesterday afternoon. You were buying ice cream, I think.’
The tourist information bureau. That had been lucky; if Granma Sylvie had spied on them at any other time of the day, the scene would have been far more incriminating.
‘What are you doing here?’ Seb asked, looking up from his chicken sandwich. ‘I thought you’d still be at the mansion.’
‘I’ve only come back briefly,’ Granma Sylvie explained. ‘Ethel made the underguard agree to give us a lunch break. We began cataloguing the first floor this morning, then it’s the study and the library, and finally the third-floor bedrooms.’ She examined Ivy’s jacket and red scarf. ‘Hobsmatch?’
Ivy brushed down her dungarees, smiling. ‘You like it?’
‘It suits you.’
Granma Sylvie’s outfit was similar to the one she’d been wearing yesterday – a stiff pencil skirt and crisp blouse.
Ivy hesitated before saying, ‘I have to ask you something; it’s about the postcard again.’
Granma Sylvie straightened. ‘Fire away.’
‘Is the name Amos Stirling familiar?’
‘Amos Stirling …’ She shook her head. ‘No, I’m sorry. I’ve never heard it before.’
Ivy looked at the others, her shoulders slumping. If only Granma Sylvie could remember.
Outside, Ivy peeled off her jacket and stuffed it into her satchel.
‘It’s heating up,’ Valian said, pulling a newspaper out from under his arm.
‘Tell me about it.’ Seb’s mandarin coat was tied around his waist.
‘Not the temperature,’ Valian groaned. ‘The Grivens contest.’ He showed them the newspaper: the contest was the top story splashed across the front page. ‘Famous players have been arriving from all over the world where the game is still played legally. Late last night four people drank from the contest master’s cup and two again this morning. Add those to the four who’ve already entered and we’ve got ten contestants so far.’
The photo accompanying the main article showed a man with a chiselled jaw and slick black hair taking a sip from a huge brass cup. He was surrounded by snow-globe photographers and screaming fans. Ivy swallowed, trying to dispel the bitter taste at the back of her throat. If they wanted to stop the Dirge from opening the Jar of Shadows at the contest, they were running out of time.
Hearing a clatter across the street, she glanced round. Brewster’s Alehouse was packed, as always – revellers released flaming burps as they lounged at picnic tables outside. Ivy spied a scrawny figure hunched over a row of metal bins in the alley beside the building.
Alexander Brewster. He swayed on the spot, a mountain of bulging bin bags in his arms. His thin legs wobbled as he took a step …
‘Hold on!’ she called, hurrying over.
Alexander’s pale face poked out from behind the black bags. ‘I think I’ve picked up too many,’ he fretted.
Ivy grabbed the top bag, and together they unloaded the rest into the dustbins.
‘There’s no time to dispose of the rubbish,’ Alexander said, sighing once they’d finished. ‘We’re so busy that Pa is having to whip up batches of Dragon’s Brew overnight. Every day we’re selling through.’
Ivy brushed her hands clean on her dungarees. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘It’s a great achievement. Everyone wants your dad’s ale.’
Alexander’s mouth twitched. ‘I guess.’ He set the last lid back on a dustbin. ‘Thanks for helping, er …’
Ivy held out her hand. ‘It’s Ivy – Ivy Sparrow.’
He shook it with old leather gloves the colour of ox-blood.
Ivy helped him collect up the glasses from the outside tables before wishing him luck with the rest of his shift and going back to join Seb and Valian. The featherlight mailhouse was only a short walk away.
‘Isn’t this better than skyriding?’ Seb asked as they came to a fork off the Gauntlet. ‘We have our feet on the ground, our lunch still in our stomachs …’
Standing on the corner in front of them was a dilapidated wooden hut. A mosaic sign propped up behind the dusty window said: POTTER’S POINT. The weedy garden was packed with eager customers and stallholders selling empty plant pots of all different shapes and materials – terracotta, plastic, glazed pottery and glass.
As Ivy searched for some indication of what they did, her eyes picked out a face among the shoppers and she froze. ‘No way …’ She pointed with a shaky hand. ‘Is that …?’ She was too shocked to finish the question.
Seb followed the line of her finger and his brow crinkled. ‘The chief officer of the Outlander?’
Ivy examined the man’s features carefully, making doubly sure that it was the same person. White line through his eyebrow, curly blond beard … ‘It’s definitely him,’ she decided. ‘I don’t understand – he’s dead.’
Valian narrowed his eyes. ‘We have to follow him. Judy can wait.’
Head down, the chief officer shuffled away from the plant-pot sellers, his hands in the pockets of his smart black uniform. As he turned towards the East End, Ivy, Seb and Valian kept their distance, using trees and clusters of crowd as cover. The shabby quarter had undergone a spring transformation into a patchy forest of silver birch trees, complete with ramshackle cottage shops and ragged tents. Scarlet toadstools poked up above the ferns in the undergrowth, and wind rustled through the spindly branches.
The traders here all wore a similar style – their Hobsmatch was Victorian and tatty: mud-stained tailcoats, threadbare trousers and moth-eaten petticoats were the favoured choices.
The chief officer emerged from the forest at the edge of a vast swamp. Ivy squinted into the thick white mist. Small groups of men and women sat fishing in the tall reeds. In the distance, on the far bank, lay the misshapen silhouettes of shepherds’ huts. The chief officer trudged round the swamp and entered a green hut, third along from the left. There were dim lights on inside.
Ivy approached one of the fishermen. ‘Excuse me,’ she asked politely. ‘Do you know whose hut that is?’
The fisherman lifted his cap to see. ‘The green one? Not sure, love, sorry.’ Ivy was about to step away when he added, ‘Only two fellas have gone inside since I got ’ere, and that was hours ago. Both of ’em were dead: one sticky and yellow; the other ’ad an extra arm.’
Ivy had a horrible feeling she had met those two characters before. ‘Why is the chief officer meeting them?’ she asked Seb and Valian.
Valian glanced at the fisherman’s rod. ‘Can I borrow that for a minute? I’ll owe you one grade.’
The man shrugged and shook his hand. ‘I haven’t had a bite for a while anyway.’
Valian took the rod and started round the edge of the swamp. ‘Come on – we can use this rod to find out what’s being said inside
.’
They snuck up to the green hut, ready to spring into action. The frilly curtains at the windows were all drawn, but smoke rose steadily from the chimney.
‘Uncommon fishing rods catch bites,’ Valian explained, keeping his voice low. ‘It can be a bite of anything: cake, data … even a bite of conversation.’ He raised the rod towards the chimney and lowered the hook into the smoke. In seconds, something was tugging on the line. Carefully Valian reeled it in towards where they were crouching. A set of voices emerged from the hook as if it was a speaker:
‘Glad you got my message,’ one said. It sounded like Mick the Stretch. ‘I received your payment. Here’s what you asked for: coordinates for where my sources think this jar of yours is being hidden.’
There was a pause, then another familiar voice. ‘There? How did you find it?’
Jack-in-the-Green. Ivy shivered.
‘Squasher’s friendly with one of the guards,’ Mick answered. ‘The jar was smuggled in there last night.’
Suddenly the front door of the shepherd’s hut swung open and Jack-in-the-Green stepped out. Valian lowered the fishing rod onto the ground, and they all ducked.
Huge yellow eyes scanned the mist over the swamp. Jack-in-the-Green adjusted his emerald suit before taking a feather from his pocket. Ivy squinted, desperately trying to discern what he was writing, but only one word at the top was clear: Selena.
‘He’s sending her the coordinates,’ Valian hissed.
To Ivy’s annoyance, the broken soul of one of the dead flitted into her ear, making her skin prickle. She tried to ignore it, but it was close by …
Jack-in-the-Green shook himself like a dog with wet fur. In an instant, the seven-foot green-skinned creature was transformed into a man with a curly blond beard. The chief officer of the MV Outlander.
Ivy, Seb and Valian remained quite still until he had tramped most of the way back round the swamp. Then, very quietly, they left their hiding place and began to trek after him. Ivy sensed the dead creature start to move too, following.
The Smoking Hourglass Page 13
