Ethel nodded slowly and steadied herself against the bed. ‘That’s OK,’ she said, as cheerfully as she could, though Ivy could tell that she was hurt. ‘It’s not all goin’ to come back right away.’
Granma Sylvie brought a hand up to her face, rubbing her temples. ‘I wish it would; everything feels so out of reach.’ She turned to Ivy and Seb. ‘When I returned from surgery, my head felt fuzzy and was full of strange images – words, faces and names – nothing that made any sense. I thought they were hallucinations caused by these painkillers they’ve got me on. That was until I got a phone call from Ethel.’
Ivy glanced over at her. ‘A phone call?’
‘I thought in the circumstances featherlight mail might be a bit scary,’ Ethel explained with a shrug.
Granma Sylvie continued. ‘Now I think the images must be memories.’
Ivy thought how strange it must be to have memories of Lundinor come flooding back after forty years.
‘The amnesia is fading – just incredibly slowly . . .’ Granma Sylvie frowned at Ethel. ‘Everything is still mostly blank. There are some memories that seem stronger, a particular pattern my mind keeps returning to, over and over, though I can’t make sense of it. First I see a woman with sad blue eyes, and then I hear the trickle of water followed by the sound of creaking gates. Then, finally, there’s this big old house full of dark faces.’
Ivy had a sudden thought. She rummaged through Granma Sylvie’s handbag for the old photo. Maybe it would help jog her memory.
She opened the inside pocket – and the hairs on the back of her hand stood on end as she came across something that felt unnaturally warm. Her cheeks flushed.
She wriggled her fingers around until they found a thin curved object; it felt like it had just been under a heat lamp. As Ivy brought it out into the glare of the hospital lights, she gasped, realizing what it was.
‘Your bracelet, Granma Sylvie!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s uncommon.’ Everyone looked at her. ‘I mean, er – it must be, mustn’t it?’
Ethel assessed her suspiciously. ‘Give it here,’ she said.
Ivy handed over the half-bangle. Ethel made a quick inspection, then passed it to Valian. ‘You ever seen anything like that before?’ she asked him.
Seb coughed. ‘That’s Valian, by the way, Granma,’ he said, pointing a thumb at him. ‘He’s with Ethel, not us.’
Valian scowled at him, then turned to Granma Sylvie, who nodded back.
Ivy racked her brains while Valian examined the piece of bangle. ‘Earlier,’ she said, ‘in the underguard station, I overheard a conversation between Smoke-hart and this woman . . . er – Selena something, I can’t remember.’
Valian raised his eyebrows. ‘Selena something? Ha! Don’t let anyone hear you say that back in Lundinor. Her name’s Selena Grimes. She’s one of the four great quartermasters of Lundinor. They’re the most powerful people in any undermart.’
Seb glared at him. ‘Big deal. Go on, Ivy.’
‘Well, Smokehart said that Granma Sylvie appeared on his uncommon map while she was travelling in an ambulance. It must have been when the bracelet was cut off?’
Her granma sat up straighter. ‘Of course.’ She beamed at Ivy, then looked at the piece of bracelet in Valian’s hands. ‘All these years I kept it on because it was the only part of me that was whole after the accident. I had no idea what it was.’
Ivy’s insides turned heavy as she realized how Granma Sylvie was feeling. It must be like finding out that your favourite possession was a fake, or being deceived by a best friend.
‘Must have some sort of memory-wipe ability,’ Valian deduced, turning the bracelet over in his fingers. ‘The underguard use uncommon whistles to wipe people’s memories, but that’s permanent. Maybe the bracelet only does it while you’re wearing it.’
Ethel gave the object a sidelong glance. ‘It didn’t just hide your memories, though, Sylv. It hid you. That’s what its real use is. No one can hide from the underguards when they’ve taken the glove. No one. You were the first ever to do it.’
‘And the rest of our family . . .’ Ivy added, though it felt strange to say our. But they were her family too, as well as Granma Sylvie’s. She wondered what her mum and dad would make of it all. Her dad especially – he had uncles now. ‘They all disappeared on Twelfth Night, your mum and dad and your three brothers,’ she finished. She noticed Ethel and Valian shifting uncomfortably and wondered if they knew more than they were letting on. Before she could ask them, Seb raised his voice.
‘Damn it. Where are they?’ He stared down at his mobile phone screen before looking up again. ‘I’ve been checking ever since we got here, but there’s still no text or voicemail from Mum or Dad. Didn’t Dad say he’d be here by now?’
Ivy checked the clock on the wall. It was eight-thirty. ‘Yeah . . . he should be. And I thought Mum would arrive before him. Did they leave a message with any of the nurses?’
Granma Sylvie shrugged. ‘Not that anyone’s told me.’
The room fell quiet. Ivy studied her feet, going through the possibilities in her head. When she looked up again, she saw that the others were looking anxious.
‘You don’t think—’ Before Seb had finished speaking, a jet-black feather appeared out of nowhere and hovered in front of his face. He tried to swat it away but it dodged his hand, flew over the middle of the bed and started writing:
You have something that is valuable to us.
Now we have those who are most valuable to you.
You have two days to give us what we want.
The clock is ticking.
The feather evaporated in a tiny cloud of black smoke, and in the same spot an alarm clock appeared and bounced onto the bed with a soft thud.
For a moment Ivy stood there, dumbstruck. Then she turned to Ethel, whose face looked like it had been drained of blood. She poked the clock, turning it over so she could see the front: the bells were spotted with rust, the glass dusty. The clock face was yellowed, painted with Roman numerals, and the black hands, each as thin as a spider’s leg, pointed to just after midnight.
‘Black hands . . .’ Valian murmured.
‘What did that—?’ Ivy gasped. ‘I mean, who was it?’
Seb suddenly grabbed the clock. ‘Ivy, I can see Mum in it . . . and Dad.’ She stepped closer and took hold of it too.
Within seconds, heat was shooting through her fingers; anguished voices echoed in her ears – cries of pain. She grimaced, trying not to drop the thing. Holding an uncommon object had never hurt like that before; like it was going to burn her. ‘It’s uncommon,’ she exclaimed. ‘What does it do?’
Granma Sylvie tried to reach out towards her. ‘Ivy, be careful. Ethel – should they be holding that?’
Ivy looked at the glass front. Her freckled face with its wide pale-green eyes and stubby lashes stared back at her. A voice whispered her name: Ivy . . . Ivy . . .
Slowly the faces of her mum and dad appeared in the glass before her. After a moment their reflections changed. The shadows under their cheekbones darkened and their skin withered as if they were starving. It was happening to Ivy’s reflection too – she watched the whites of her eyes yellow and her thick hair wilt and fall out. Her hands shook, making the image blur. ‘What’s happening?’
Ethel leaned across the bed. ‘Put it down, Ivy. It’s meant to scare you.’
‘It’s choking me!’ Seb cried. ‘The hands – they’re strangling me! Dad too – and Mum! We’re dying! I’m watching us all die!’ He let go of the clock, stumbling back.
Ivy looked into the clock face and swallowed. Her skin had now rotted away completely and her eyeballs had disappeared, leaving two dark holes brimming with squirming maggots. As she watched, the delicate black minute hand of the clock reshaped itself into a chain and wrapped itself around the reflection of her dad’s decaying neck. Before long, the hour hand had choked her mum, who shriveled to a skeleton.
Ivy dropped the clock, the burning sensation d
isappearing immediately. The noises coming from the clock were silent.
Panting, she looked from Ethel to Valian. ‘What was that?’ she asked again. She felt like she’d just watched a scene from a horror movie. ‘What just happened? Where are Mum and Dad?’
Ethel picked the clock up by one of the rusty bells and held it gingerly out in front of her. ‘Uncommon alarm clocks are used as fortune tellers,’ she explained, her voice full of disgust. ‘Depending on the grade, they can predict anything from a thunderstorm to the age you’re gonna lose your eyesight. This one, ’owever, has black ’ands and that only means one thing . . .’
Ivy shivered. She had a horrible feeling she knew what was coming.
‘Uncommoners call it being dealt the “hands of fate”,’ Valian finished. His face was serious. ‘This alarm clock counts down to the date of someone’s death.’
‘Are you saying that Mum and Dad . . . ?’ Seb shook his head. ‘There’s got to be some mistake. Are the clocks ever wrong?’
Ethel rubbed her chin. ‘Wrong? No. As long as the ’ands remain black, then your fate is sealed. But the clock reads the future. If you change the future, then the clock will change too.’
Ivy saw that her granma was trembling beneath the covers. She laid a hand on her arm; it was covered in goose pimples. ‘Who sent it?’ Granma Sylvie asked Ethel.
Ivy didn’t wait for Ethel to reply. She already knew the answer. ‘The Dirge,’ she said. The name seemed to hang in the air. ‘The black feathers, the coin, the We can see you now – it’s them, isn’t it? They are back.’
Ethel lowered her eyes. Valian’s expression was grim.
‘Hang on,’ Seb said, exasperated. ‘Ivy told me that the Dirge were never seen again after Twelfth Night 1969.’
‘They weren’t,’ Valian said, in a cold voice. ‘Everyone believed they’d gone for good.’
Ethel nodded, her face pale. ‘Except now, I think that was just a foolish hope. Somewhere in the world, one of the Dirge must ’ave been waiting for you to reappear, Sylv. As for what you ’ave that’s of value to ’em, I don’t know.’
She looked out of the window into the dark winter evening. ‘One thing’s clear: wherever the Dirge fled after Twelfth Night 1969, in whichever parts of the world they’ve been hiding, your reappearance may ’ave just given them the incentive to come together again.’
Chapter Sixteen
Valian paced up and down at the foot of Granma Sylvie’s bed. Seb had collapsed into a chair, looking drained, while Ivy curled up next to Granma Sylvie, tucking a hand through her good arm.
‘If the Dirge are about to re-form,’ Ethel said darkly, ‘then many people are in danger, not just the ones in Lundinor. Years ago, rumour ’ad it that the Dirge wanted to use uncommon technology to control the entire common world. Taking your parents may be just the beginning. We ’ave to do something.’
‘We have to track them down,’ Valian said sharply. ‘All five of them. I always knew they’d never really disbanded. They’ve been here all the time, lurking in the shadows.’ There was a flicker of something in his eyes – hysteria, maybe, Ivy wasn’t sure.
‘It’s not about them,’ Seb retorted. ‘Our parents have been taken! We need to find them.’ He looked helplessly at Ethel. ‘Can’t you – you know, use something uncommon?’
Ethel sighed. ‘It’s not that simple, love, I’m afraid.’
Seb dropped his head into his hands. The sarcasm was gone. Ivy realized that he was in the same state of panic and desperation as her. She tried to think. ‘The black feather wrote: You have something that is valuable to us,’ she reminded everyone. ‘Does anyone know what the Dirge are talking about?’
Valian shook his head. Ethel shrugged. ‘It could be anything. The Dirge did everything in secret. No one knew any of their real plans. It was all rumour and speculation.’
Granma Sylvie sighed. ‘It’s useless me trying to remember. I have no idea.’
Ethel reached for the uncommon alarm clock again. ‘By the looks of this you’ve got till the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve to get an idea,’ she said, not unkindly.
Two days to change the future, Ivy thought. That was it.
‘We need a plan,’ Ethel went on. ‘There’s no use moping around ’ere, the three of you, trying to figure it out. We need answers and there’s only one place we’re gonna get those.’ She straightened, her hands on her hips. For the second time that day Ivy got the impression of a formidable woman; a warrior, with the battle lines drawn on her face to prove it. ‘Ivy, Seb? You’re coming back to Lundinor with me. I ’ave old friends there – people I trust – you can stay with them.’
Seb looked at Ivy. ‘I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. We don’t fit in there. Won’t we be in more danger?’
‘There’ll be no arguments about it,’ Ethel insisted. ‘If your parents ’ave been kidnapped by the Dirge, you’re not going to save them from this hospital room. Besides, who’s gonna protect you ’ere?’
Ivy snuggled closer to Granma Sylvie. She didn’t want to leave her again, she really didn’t. But Ethel was right. They couldn’t just hang around the hospital for two days waiting to see if Granma Sylvie remembered anything. Her mum and dad were going to die if they didn’t act.
Her granma frowned. ‘I – I don’t know . . .’
Ethel gestured around the room. ‘You’re safe ’ere, Sylv. The underguard ’ave already been to question you and left with nothing. The Dirge won’t come after you again until the deadline’s up.’
Granma Sylvie put a hand on Ivy’s shoulder. ‘If only I could remember . . .’ She sniffed and wiped her eyes. ‘What have I done? What did I do?’
Ivy’s spirits continued to plummet. Ethel and Valian were looking at each other bleakly; whatever they were thinking, it wasn’t good. Ivy had to hope she could save her mum and dad by working out what it was the Dirge wanted from Granma Sylvie. The trouble was, she didn’t have a clue where to start.
She glanced over at Seb. Sometimes, when she was upset or worried, she’d look at her mum or dad and all her worries would just fade away.
Seb’s head was lowered. Ivy couldn’t see his eyes – but it didn’t matter because she had already noticed the two dark patches that had formed on his jeans. He was crying.
Chapter Seventeen
Ivy rolled her shoulders back and groaned. Her whole body was still sore from yesterday’s bike crash, and the lumpy mattress she was laying on only made things worse. She looked around at the walls of an unfamiliar bedroom. There was a single window draped with spotty yellow curtains, and an empty fireplace set between two wardrobes painted in peeling duck-egg blue.
Only the chimney breast had been wallpapered – a thick white paper veined with hundreds of different fold-lines. As Ivy watched, one corner of the paper peeled away from the wall with a loud crumpling sound and folded over into a triangle. She sat up in bed, looking on with wide eyes as the rest of the wallpaper did the same, lifting and folding, crimping and twirling. Ivy had once seen a boy at school do origami, but it had never looked this fast or intricate. In the end, the paper had rearranged itself into a vase of huge white orchids perched on the mantelpiece.
‘Whoa . . .’ Ivy whispered. Impressed didn’t even cover it.
‘You’re awake then?’ Seb asked from above her.
‘I’m awake,’ she called, yawning. They were in bunk beds. Ivy had a vague recollection of climbing some creaking wooden stairs and being escorted into the bedroom by Ethel and a kind man with a doughy face and blue eyes.
‘I’ve been awake for an hour, listening to music,’ Seb continued. ‘Couldn’t get back to sleep. And it’s not just because this mattress seems to be filled with marbles. I can’t stop thinking about Mum and Dad . . .’
Ivy’s stomach turned over. For a second – for a tiny blissful second – she’d forgotten about the Dirge and the parent-napping. Her heart sank as she saw her duffel coat hanging over the back of a chair by the bed; on the cushion wa
s Granma Sylvie’s handbag, Scratch and the uncommon alarm clock.
She let her head fall back against the pillow as the vision of her parents’ decaying faces swirled in front of her eyes.
The bunk bed creaked. Ivy watched Seb’s legs swing over the edge, and then he landed with a thud on the polished floorboards. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘That thing the Dirge want . . . it must be something Granma had before she disappeared on Twelfth Night 1969, so we have to find out more about her life when she was here.’
‘Ethel was her closest friend,’ Ivy reminded him, ‘but even she doesn’t know what they’re after, so . . .’
‘So we’ll have to do some digging,’ Seb decided. ‘There must be other traders here who knew Granma.’
Ivy looked closely at her brother. There were dark circles around his bloodshot eyes, and after the rain yesterday, his thick blond hair was a mass of bedraggled curls.
‘We’re Mum and Dad’s only hope, Ivy.’ He grabbed a towel hanging over the end of the bunk bed. ‘I’m gonna go wash my face. Let’s start as soon as you’re ready.’
There was a small bathroom leading off the bedroom. While Seb was getting ready, Ivy sat on the edge of her bed, thinking. So much had happened yesterday that she hadn’t had time to address what was going on with her. She picked up Scratch and gazed at him. Her palms tingled pleasantly.
‘Scratch,’ she whispered. ‘I need to ask you something.’
Scratch stirred. ‘Ivy mornings.’ He sounded as if he was yawning. ‘Helpings Scratch can will.’
‘Do uncommon objects ever feel . . . warm at all? Kind of like body temperature.’
‘Guessings the object what depends it. Normal to no.’
Ivy bit her lip. ‘It’s just . . . Whenever I touch something that’s uncommon, it feels warm, like it’s been left out in the sun; and then the feeling spreads and starts to tickle . . . And then sometimes, if I concentrate really hard, I kind of’ – she hesitated – ‘hear voices coming from it . . .’
Scratch was still. ‘Ivy,’ he said quietly. ‘Scratch meanings to know.’ He turned warmer, vibrating strongly in her hands.
The Crooked Sixpence Page 10
