Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
About the Book
WELCOME TO A WORLD WHERE NOTHING IS QUITE AS IT SEEMS . . .
A silver bell will tell you the way.
A candle’s wick will hide you.
And a crooked sixpence will be the first warning:
Time is running out.
Ivy and Seb Sparrow stumble across something uncommon when they see a feather scratch an ominous message on their granma’s kitchen wall. Soon, they are lost in the extraordinary world of Lundinor, where ordinary objects have amazing powers.
But where there is power, evil often lurks, and Ivy and Seb must go to the bottom of a family secret . . . before it’s too late.
For Mum and Beth,
the heroines of my story.
Chapter One
Ivy rocked forward as the ambulance turned a corner. Everything inside rattled.
‘OK then,’ the paramedic said, looking up from his clipboard. He was a bald man with faded tattoos all the way up his forearms. ‘What’s your full name?’
‘Ivy Elizabeth Sparrow,’ she fired off, tapping her yellow wellingtons on the floor. It was so stuffy; she needed fresh air. She looked over the paramedic’s shoulder and wondered if she could ask him to open one of those blacked-out windows. She could see her frizzy brown curls bobbing in the glass, even more out of control than usual.
The paramedic made a note with his biro and turned towards the rear of the vehicle. ‘What about you?’
At the other end of the bench, leaning forward, legs apart, sat a boy in a grey hoodie bearing the band logo of The Ripz. His wiry blond hair had fallen in front of his eyes but Ivy knew he was glaring at her.
‘It’s Seb,’ the boy replied drily. ‘I’m her brother.’
The paramedic smiled as he jotted down the name. Ivy tried to push Seb out of her mind. This was all his fault.
She leaned over to the stretcher and took Granma Sylvie’s hand. It felt softer than usual. There were Velcro straps across her granma’s chest, a brace supporting her neck and a misted oxygen mask covering her nose and mouth. Ivy had never seen her look so fragile before.
‘And how old are you both?’ the paramedic continued.
‘Eleven,’ Ivy replied, shuffling ever so slightly closer to Granma Sylvie.
‘I’m sixteen,’ Seb said in a deep voice.
Ivy frowned and glanced sideways at him. He had only turned fourteen last month.
‘OK, good.’ The paramedic’s face softened. ‘Now, I understand that you’re both very concerned at the moment – but trust me, the best thing you can do to help your gran is to stay calm. When we get to the hospital, we’ll take her into casualty so the doctor can have a good look at her, and then she may need an operation, so she’ll be in for a while.’
Ivy grimaced. She knew of only one other occasion when Granma Sylvie had stayed overnight in hospital – everyone knew about that – but it had happened before Ivy’s parents were even born. ‘Do you know what’s wrong?’ she asked.
The paramedic frowned. ‘I think she may have broken her hip, and possibly her wrist as well, but we won’t know till we see an X-ray.’
While he scribbled down some notes, Ivy stroked Granma Sylvie’s hand and wondered if she’d suffered broken bones that time as well. Probably. She’d had a car crash during a freak snowstorm and had been unconscious for days; when she woke up, she couldn’t remember what had happened during the accident, or anything before it. The police only knew her name because she was wearing a necklace with SYLVIE engraved on it. Retrograde amnesia, Ivy’s mum called it. Ivy knew the exact date of the crash because the family discussed it so often: 5 January 1969. Twelfth Night.
‘Before we get to the hospital,’ the paramedic said, ‘I need to confirm what happened.’ He checked his watch. ‘I make it eight thirty a.m., so the fall must have happened at about seven forty-five? And you said that your gran slipped in the kitchen while you were both in the other room . . . ?’
Ivy imagined Granma Sylvie losing her balance and tumbling onto her back, legs in the air like an upturned beetle. If only she’d been there to help.
Seb swallowed. ‘She was baking mince pies. We heard her shouting.’
Over our shouting, Ivy remembered. She shot her brother a look of regret. They had been arguing about the stupid new Ripz poster he’d got for Christmas – Ivy had accidentally knocked her orange juice over it; if he hadn’t been ranting at her, they might have got to Granma Sylvie sooner.
The paramedic flipped his paper round. ‘OK, that’ll do. Are you able to get hold of your mum and dad?’
Ivy sighed. If only. More than anything, she wished her parents were there now.
‘I’ve texted them but there’s been no reply,’ Seb said. ‘I’ll try calling when we get to the hospital. Mum’s working, but we might catch her before she starts her shift.’
Ivy had said goodbye to her mum yesterday morning. If she was there now, she would have clapped her hands together and taken charge of this whole mess in an instant. Ivy and Seb had done nothing except ring the ambulance.
‘Our dad’s in Paris,’ Ivy added in a quiet voice. ‘He’s working too.’
Their dad was a consultant for the famous Victoria & Albert Museum in London, which meant that he was an expert in everything old, and people from around the world were always asking for his advice.
The paramedic raised his eyebrows. ‘So that’s why you’re staying with your gran?’
‘Mum and Dad were with us over Christmas,’ Ivy explained, feeling the need to defend them. ‘They just had to go back to work early.’
It had never really bothered her – them staying in London and leaving her and Seb six hours away in Bletchy Scrubb with their granma – but then this kind of emergency had never happened at the same time before.
The paramedic put down his clipboard and turned to Granma Sylvie, who, despite the neck brace, made an effort to smile. Ivy doubted she could even hear what was being said with that thing on; she hadn’t corrected the paramedic about Seb’s age.
‘OK then, Mrs Sparrow, I’m just going to check how you’re doing.’ He untucked Granma Sylvie’s blanket and rolled it away until her arm was exposed. There was a thin cotton sling around it, secured behind her neck. Delicately he loosened the knot and slid the material out from underneath. Granma Sylvie winced.
As the sling was taken away, Ivy caught her bre
ath. Her granma’s entire arm was purple and bloated like a giant aubergine.
The paramedic took the damaged wrist carefully between his fingers. ‘Hmm, looks like that swelling is getting worse. It must be sore.’ He studied it from every angle. Ivy caught a flash of gold on her granma’s skin. ‘I don’t see any clasp on your bracelet. I think we might need to cut it off to make you feel more comfortable, Mrs Sparrow. Is that OK?’
Ivy’s chest tightened; she imagined Granma Sylvie’s was probably doing the same. That solid gold bangle was one of the few items that remained of her granma’s life before her amnesia. She had been wearing it at the time of the accident and Ivy couldn’t remember her ever taking it off. The bracelet was special to her, everyone knew that.
Granma Sylvie squeezed her eyes closed. Ivy heard a rasping, ‘Do it.’
The paramedic found a pair of small silver pliers. Ivy shivered as two soft snickts pierced the air and the two halves of the bangle fell away.
‘Ivy, my bag . . .’ Granma Sylvie lifted her other hand, pointing shakily.
Ivy reached down for the handbag and held it open. Very carefully, the paramedic placed both pieces of the bangle inside.
‘Will you look after it for me?’ Granma Sylvie asked.
Ivy nodded, forcing a smile, and opened the bag to check that the bracelet was safely in the inside pocket.
‘Be careful,’ the paramedic warned, ‘the ends are sharp.’
Ivy made sure not to touch it as she zipped up the pocket.
‘Here,’ Seb grunted, picking something up off the floor. ‘You just dropped this.’ He handed Ivy a black-and-white photo, the size of a postcard. Ivy had seen it many times before because Granma Sylvie always kept it in her handbag. It was the only photo of her from before. The police had found it in the glove box of her car after the crash. ‘Weird,’ Seb said, raising his eyebrows. ‘I haven’t seen that since I was little.’
We used to look at it all the time, Ivy thought. But she didn’t say anything.
‘Granma still doesn’t know who the other woman is, does she?’
Ivy shook her head. The photo showed a woman standing beside Granma Sylvie. She was slight, with sharp dark eyes and unruly hair poking out from under a round black hat. She wore a thick tartan dress and studded cowboy boots. Granma Sylvie was dressed in washed denim dungarees with what looked like satin ballet shoes on her feet.
‘What were they wearing?’ Seb asked. ‘It’s like really bad fancy dress.’
Ivy shrugged. ‘Who’s to say it wasn’t the fashion?’ She didn’t really think it could have been; she just didn’t want to agree with her brother.
‘Keep that safe,’ croaked a voice. Ivy turned. Granma Sylvie was waving her good arm in their direction.
‘Sorry.’ Ivy hastily tucked the photo back into the handbag and fastened it up.
Seb slid away from her before she had to push him.
Chapter Two
‘Dad?’ Ivy squinted. The split-screen image on Seb’s phone was distorted and moved in slow motion. She nudged Seb in the ribs. ‘I told you video call was a stupid idea. Why didn’t we just ring them?’
Seb grumbled something about reception and repositioned the phone higher on his knee. ‘If you owned a phone, like most people, you’d know it’s easier to three-way call using video chat. But you don’t. Because you’re weird.’
Ivy rolled her eyes. Whatever.
‘Mum? Dad? Can you see us now?’ The video flickered. Ivy shifted in her seat. Around her, the A&E department of Bletchy Scrubb Hospital was teeming with people: doctors in white coats with stethoscopes draped round their necks; solemn-faced relatives; nurses carrying clipboards; and hobbling patients clutching swollen limbs. Ivy ran her eyes over the linoleum floor and glossy white walls. There wasn’t a trace of tinsel or glitter anywhere. Three days after Boxing Day, and Christmas had been forgotten about, just like that. Granma Sylvie would hate it.
‘Ivy? Are you there?’
‘Dad!’ Finally. The image sharpened and Ivy grimaced. Her dad was far too close to the camera, his pale freckled face taking over most of the left of the screen. On the right, Ivy’s mum could be seen sitting at a table in her staff canteen. She was wearing a pale blue nurse’s tunic with a silver fob-watch hanging from the top pocket.
Her mum tucked a stray wisp of brown hair behind her ears and leaned closer, frowning. ‘You’re back now, but you keep going all fuzzy.’
‘I’m on the train to Paris,’ Ivy’s dad called. ‘My reception’s bad. Can everyone see me?’
‘We can see both of you now,’ Ivy said. ‘Did you understand what I just explained about Granma?’
Her dad frowned. ‘Yes, just about. I can’t believe it. Is she all right? Are you two all right?’
Ivy shrugged. ‘We’re OK.’
‘Seb,’ their mum said sternly, ‘are you looking after your sister?’
Seb was slouched in the hospital chair beside Ivy, his scuffed white trainers resting on a plastic coffee table with the phone wedged between his knees. His headphones snaked into his lap.
‘Yes,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t worry.’
Ivy thought for a moment. ‘Seb lied about his age; he told them he was sixteen.’
Seb’s eyes turned to slits as he looked at her. ‘If you’re sixteen, you can be on your own. It’s the law.’
Ivy pulled a face at him.
‘It doesn’t matter about that now,’ their dad said. ‘As long as you stay together. How’s Granma?’
Ivy gazed over at the blue cotton curtain fluttering a few metres behind Seb’s shoulder. It concealed a small room where Granma Sylvie was lying on her stretcher. Ivy paused before answering, trying not to get upset again. ‘She’s asleep right now. We’re in A and E but the doctor said she’s going for an X-ray later. What do you think we should do?’
Her dad hesitated. Ivy could hear the rattle of the train in the background.
‘There’s only one option, really,’ their mum said, pursing her lips. ‘You both return to Granma’s house and sit tight till we get there. Even if I leave now, it’ll be a good few hours before I get to Bletchy Scrubb.’
Their dad started nodding. ‘Agreed. Seb, you can pay for the bus back to Granma’s house out of that money I gave you yesterday.’
Ivy’s heart lifted. ‘So you’re coming back? Both of you?’
Her mum swept a hand across her forehead. ‘Of course we are. You’ve done a great job so far, but don’t worry. We’ll sort everything out when we get there.’
‘I might not arrive till late this evening, but I’ll be there,’ Ivy’s dad told her. ‘You’ll be OK, won’t you? Make sure you have something to eat – look after each other.’ He paused and lowered his voice. ‘Or at least try to.’
Ivy glanced at Seb, who was flicking through the track-list on his iPod, only half concentrating on the screen. ‘I’ll try.’
After their dad had waved goodbye, their mum blew a kiss and hung up. Seb put his phone away and his headphones in his ears without saying another word. Ivy sank back in her chair, her thick blue duffel coat creasing up around her. She wished her mum and dad were with her now; this place was horrible.
She crossed her arms and stared out aimlessly across the waiting room. A man in a grey trench coat was coming through the main doors. He was wearing pointed black shoes and a wide-brimmed hat that hid his face. Ivy watched as he slipped between the staff and patients around the reception desk and then flitted past a pair of security guards. He was heading towards them; towards the cubicles where people were taken from the ambulances.
The longer Ivy watched the man, the more certain she felt that he didn’t want anyone else to notice him. He kept looking from side to side, timing his movements to coincide with those of everyone around him. As he drew closer, Ivy spied two gnarled yellow appendages poking out of his coat sleeves. She recoiled as she realized what they were.
His hands!
The skin across both palms was covered in pustules
and shrivelled, so that his fingers looked like diseased, rotting twigs.
Ivy lowered her face as he went past. She wondered what had happened to him. Maybe he had been in some terrible chemical accident. Certainly it was nothing normal – she’d never seen anything like it, not even in movies. When she raised her eyes, he was standing at the end of a long line of cubicles – the row that Granma Sylvie was in. He peeked behind the nearest curtain, waited a moment, then turned and tried the next one. Ivy watched him repeat the process again and again. He seemed to be looking for something.
Or someone, Ivy thought. She froze as she realized that he was heading in Granma Sylvie’s direction.
Seb was nodding his head to a beat, air drumming in his lap.
Ivy sprang out of her seat, thumping him on the shoulder. ‘Seb!’
He shrugged her off and pulled one headphone away from his ear. ‘Ivy, what’s—?’
‘There’s this man . . .’ She turned. He was three curtains away. ‘Quick!’
She hurdled over Seb’s legs and dashed along the row of chairs, her wellies squeaking on the lino.
Seb sauntered after her, fixing her with a stare. ‘What is wrong with you?’
Her heartbeat quickening, Ivy ripped open the curtain to Granma Sylvie’s cubicle. ‘Granma, are you . . . ? Oh.’
Her granma looked peaceful, her eyes closed and her hands placed delicately across her stomach – exactly as she had been when Ivy saw her last.
Ivy looked back along the corridor, searching for the man in grey. It was empty; but the man couldn’t possibly have had time to disappear. She’d looked away for barely a second.
Seb tramped up to her shoulder. ‘This better be good.’
‘You don’t understand,’ she whispered. ‘There was this strange man here. I thought he was going to do something to Granma.’
‘What?’ Seb’s jaw tightened. ‘Why can’t you be normal? Like, for once . . . ?’
It was just starting to rain when they reached Granma Sylvie’s house, almost an hour’s bus ride later. Droplets drummed against Ivy’s hood and tumbled through the frizzy hair that stuck out beneath it. She looked up at the familiar higgledy-piggledy outline of the house, with its clay chimney and crumbling plaster walls. It used to be a farmhouse, or so Ivy’s dad had told her, which explained why it was in the middle of nowhere.
The Crooked Sixpence Page 1
