Ivy considered ordering Hundred Punch, but instead opted for water. Seb ordered a Coke and Valian chose something called a Bugtop.
After the man had moved on to the next table, Ivy folded her arms and leaned forward. ‘Can we have some privacy, please?’ she asked Valian.
‘Yeah,’ Seb agreed. ‘Go be someone else’s bad smell.’
To Ivy’s surprise, Valian seemed more than happy to leave them. Once he was out of earshot, she leaned closer to Seb. ‘I don’t trust him. He was up to something in the mansion – I just know it.’
Seb’s eyes followed Valian across the room. ‘Why did Ethel choose him to look out for us? We don’t know anything about him. Where’s his home and family? He doesn’t seem to have any friends; that says a lot.’
Ivy nodded in agreement – though she doubted they could give Valian the slip in Lundinor. She turned her thoughts back to the mansion. ‘What we learned about Octavius Wrench . . .’ she whispered, not daring to voice the terrible truth. ‘Apart from being horrifically awful, does that help us with Mum and Dad at all?’
Seb frowned. ‘Maybe Granma stole something from him . . . And now he wants it back.’
Ivy shook her head. ‘He can’t want it back. There’s no way he’d still be alive today – Twelfth Night 1969 was over forty years ago.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Do you still have that newspaper?’
Seb stuffed a hand into his pocket. ‘Yeah . . .’ He sounded surprised to find that the paper had actually made it back with him.
Ivy spread it out on the table. Seb shuffled round so that they could read it together:
Whoever wins the election for quartermaster, the task ahead is a formidable one. In the last six months 97% of assaults on uncommoners in undermarts were made by members of the dead community. Notably, selkies account for over half of these, closely followed by creeps and ghouls. In every case, the crooked sixpence of the Fallen Guild was found at the scene. Many people are questioning the nature of the partnership between the dead and the Fallen Guild, speculating that the Fallen Guild have been offering more than grade for the services of members of the dead community. Whatever is truly behind their allegiance, it can only be fuelling rumours of a dead uprising. So far only three members of the dead community have been prosecuted. Underguards claim that not enough witnesses are coming forward to give evidence.
Octavius Wrench’s manifesto outlines stricter penalties to deal with the races of the dead. He said today: ‘Evil-doers will be rooted out by any means necessary. Members of the dead who continue to disobey our laws will be expunged.’
The current Quartermaster standing for re-election, Mr Punch, responded, saying: ‘Yes, there is evil at work within Lundinor, but the way to overcome this is not by perpetuating fear, but by strengthening our communities and working together to make the undermart a safer place. Our ancient traditions are built on communication and trust, and if we each hold fast to these, we will prevail.’
Polls suggest that Wrench has a narrow lead over Mr Punch going into tomorrow morning, but everything could change on the day.
Ivy swallowed. ‘Did you read that bit at the end?’
‘Hang on, I’m not as fast as you.’ Seb was still focused on the foot of the page.
Mr Littlefair set two pairs of spectacles down on the table, which instantly transformed into pint glasses. He filled them with water and Coke respectively before moving on. Seb looked up. ‘Thanks.’ He grabbed his drink and took a long slurp. ‘I don’t get it. Octavius Wrench was standing for election to fight the Dirge, but he was one of them. And what’s all that stuff about the races of the dead?’
Ivy remembered the portrait of Octavius in his study. She wondered how she and Seb would even begin to tell Granma Sylvie that her father was responsible for the kidnapping of children and the deaths of innocent people. It would break her heart. Even Ivy felt ashamed, and Octavius didn’t exactly feel like part of her family. ‘Maybe he was on a power trip.’ She recalled how Ethel had described the Dirge: secretive, calculating and ruthless. They had fooled everyone. It seemed likely that they’d infiltrated as much of Lundinor as they could.
‘Do you think this all has something to do with why Granma ran away on Twelfth Night?’ Seb asked. ‘She might have found out about Octavius being in the Dirge and been too frightened to stay.’
Ivy picked up her glass. ‘That doesn’t sound like Granma Sylvie.’ The Granma Sylvie she knew would never have run away from anything. She was always telling Ivy to face her problems head on. ‘There must be something else we’re missing.’
As she took a sip of water, Ivy cast her eyes thoughtfully around the dining room. She spotted Violet Eyelet sitting in a booth opposite, eating a piece of cake topped with glowing orange cream. As she looked on a group of tall men and women swept in, heading for a table in the centre. The ladies wore long taffeta gowns, while the men were in trousers or floor-length tunics. They glided over the floor as if they were on wheels.
‘Seb . . .’ Ivy whispered, unsettled by this. ‘Look at them. Is it just me or is there something not quite . . . ?’
She didn’t need to finish her sentence. Before taking their seats, they all removed their various overcoats, capes and hats. As one of the women’s long skirts lifted, Ivy realized that there was nothing between her and the floor.
Nothing. As in absolutely nothing. Just air.
Ivy couldn’t take her eyes off them. She watched one man with curly black hair lay his cavalier’s hat down on the chair opposite. Instead of reaching over the table, however, his hand went straight through it.
She grabbed Seb’s arm. ‘Did you see that?’
Seb was transfixed. ‘Yeah. Whatever uncommon thing he’s using, we need to get us one. We could pretty much walk through walls with that.’
On the other side of the room, Violet Eyelet caught their eyes. She looked at the floating uncommoners and then came shuffling across the dining room, cake plate in hand.
‘Try and take some deep breaths,’ she told them. ‘It’s always a shock the first time you realize they’re dead.’ She sat down next to Seb, her huge skirt billowing up like a marshmallow.
‘Dead?’ Seb batted the skirt out of his face. ‘What?!’
Ivy looked back at the group: the innkeeper had already taken their orders and now they were chatting as they waited for their drinks.
‘What do you mean dead?’ she asked.
Violet smiled nervously as she put down her plate. ‘Well, the thing is, Lundinor isn’t just home to living traders; it opens its gates to dead ones too. When an uncommon object is formed, only part of a soul gets trapped inside; the rest turns into one of the dead. There are hundreds of different races.’ She lowered her thick spectacles to study the floating figures. ‘I think those might be ghouls. You can always tell because ghouls can’t be earthed – they wear long clothes to cover the gap.’
Ivy went rigid in her seat. No one else in the dining room seemed the least bit concerned about the ghouls; indeed, they looked quite friendly.
They can’t be dead, she thought. They’re walking around.
‘Oh, I know it seems rather creepy,’ Violet went on. ‘Believe me, when I first found out about the dead, I kept looking over my shoulder, expecting things to jump out of shadows. But it isn’t like that; at least, not any more. The dead and the living mix together happily now. When I was a little girl, it was exciting finding out about the dead – about all the new races being discovered, and what they could do. A new list was published every year in Farrow’s Guide for the Travelling Tradesman.’
Seb, who was looking rather pale, swallowed and raised his empty glass. ‘Excuse me?’ he said, looking up. Ivy turned round and saw Mr Littlefair.
‘Can I get some of that Hundred stuff please?’ Seb asked. ‘The one that makes you feel good?’ He ran a shaky hand through his hair and stared at Ivy. ‘I never thought I’d ever say this and mean it, but I see dead people. I need sugar to help me deal with that.’
Ivy smiled weakly, knowing exactly how he felt. I can handle this, she told herself. She’d got over uncommon objects; she could deal with dead people . . . walking around. She looked at the newspaper article and picked out the phrase members of the dead. ‘Were the dead ever involved with the Dirge?’ she asked Violet.
‘The D—?’ Violet clamped her lips together. ‘You mean, the Fallen Guild?’ she whispered.
‘Yes,’ Ivy said, forgetting that no one used their true name. ‘Did the dead ever have anything to do with them?’
Violet’s spectacles dropped further down her nose as she bent her head. ‘Yes, of course. Many of the races of the dead worked for the Fallen Guild when they were at their most powerful. It was just one dead attack after another back then. On Twelfth Night 1969, it was the dead that fought on the side of the Fallen Guild – but no one talks about that any more. It was a long time ago. The dead have been law-abiding citizens for decades; they’ve tried to put the mistakes of the past behind them.’
Ivy remembered what Ethel had said about the Dirge raising an army of sorts. She must have meant an army of the dead. She pictured a troop of zombies staggering towards her, and shuddered. It was easy to see why everyone was so eager to believe that the Dirge had gone.
Ivy heard something fizzing, and turned to find Valian standing beside her, a tankard of frothy black liquid in his hand. It smelled like aniseed. ‘Thought you might like some company.’ He squashed into the booth beside them.
Seb grabbed his pint glass right after the innkeeper had filled it with Hundred Punch, and started slugging it down, glowering at Valian as he did so.
‘The thing to know about the races of the dead is that they’re just like the races of the living – some are good, some are bad,’ Valian explained.
Great, Ivy thought. He’s been listening, then.
‘Mostly they’re hired to do illegal stuff, ’cos they don’t mind breaking the rules and it’s difficult to impose GUT law on creatures that can move faster than light, or disappear, or fly.’
Ivy thought back to the talking wolf in the Wrench Mansion. She had thought she’d seen it poke its nose through the iron gates. ‘That wolf,’ she said to Valian. ‘Was it dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘A dead wolf?’ Violet mused. ‘Ooh, it must have been a grim-wolf. They’re meant to be very shy.’
Ivy was fairly certain ‘shy’ wasn’t the right word to describe it.
‘The question isn’t what the wolf is,’ Valian said. ‘It’s whose it is. It must have been working for somebody.’
‘For the Dirge,’ Ivy said coldly. ‘It was there, at Granma’s house yesterday.’
‘Members of the Fallen Guild were at Sylvie’s house?’ Violet exclaimed. ‘No, there must be some mistake. They disbanded decades ago. It’s not possible.’ She shook her head, her glasses wobbling.
Seb ignored her and leaned forward. ‘The wolf said that it had a mistress,’ he remembered. ‘So one of the members of the Dirge must be a woman.’
‘Wolfsbane,’ Ivy remembered. ‘That was the door it came out of in the Hexroom. And it asked us where we’d hidden it – whatever it is the Dirge want from Granma Sylvie.’
Violet muttered to herself while pushing cake crumbs around her plate. ‘The Fallen Guild . . . all those years . . .’
Ivy watched the crumbs curiously. They reminded her of something. ‘The dust on the Hexroom floor . . .’ she said. ‘It had only been disturbed in two places. One was outside the Wolfsbane door, but the other was in front of the wooden door belonging to Ragwort. I think they’re the only doors that have been opened.’
Seb placed his glass down on the table. ‘Wolfsbane and Ragwort.’
Ivy shivered. ‘Do you think they took Mum and Dad? Do you think they’re both still in Lundinor?’ She looked around the room.
‘You’ve already seen one of them,’ Seb reminded her. ‘That man with the creepy hands in Bletchy Scrubb hospital.’
The man in grey. Ivy didn’t think Seb had been listening when she told him she suspected he was a member of the Dirge. ‘If Wolfsbane is a woman, then the man in grey must be Ragwort,’ she said.
‘Exactly. And right now they could be anyone. We can’t trust men or women, dead or not, or people wearing gloves. That’s, like, everyone in Lundinor.’
Ivy glanced warily at Valian and Violet. They couldn’t trust anyone.
Chapter Twenty-three
In the dusty case of the uncommon alarm clock I see Mum’s face appear out of the darkness. Her eyes are squeezed shut in pain, her lips black. Her wispy brown hair begins to whiten and her face lengthens into that of another . . . Dad. His glasses are smashed, his blue eyes wide with fear. There is blood streaked across his cheeks. For unbearable moments I watch him – until finally his mouth rips open in a scream, tears falling freely to his chin. The spindly hands of the uncommon alarm clock begin to whirl, blurring his face. They whir around, getting faster and faster. The air rushes out of my lungs. Panic begins to fill me like rising water. I can’t . . . move . . .
This is it. I haven’t been able to save them . . . My parents are going to die.
The alarm clock rings—
‘Ivy? Ivy!’
Seb’s voice pierced Ivy’s mind. The alarm clock dissolved into darkness. She struggled for air.
‘Ivy, wake up!’
Groggily she opened her eyes and heaved herself upright. The bedroom light was on. Seb was standing in front of her, already dressed. She rubbed her eyes. ‘What time is it?’
Seb shook his head. ‘It’s early,’ he said. ‘Are you OK? It sounded like you were having a nightmare.’
Ivy glanced at the uncommon alarm clock on the chair by her bunk. ‘I’m fine – it’s just . . . we don’t have much time. There’s only one day left.’
Seb reached for the clock. In the quiet of the bedroom they could hear it ticking. ‘Every step we take, it’s like I can feel it getting closer,’ he murmured. ‘I keep wanting to shout at someone, you know? I want to ask why this is happening to us. What did we do to deserve it?’
Ivy felt angry too, but she had tried to push the feeling away. Her mum had told her once that anger could burn you up if you weren’t careful.
Seb put down the alarm clock. ‘We have no time to lose. I’m gonna go and ask some questions. Someone must know something about Granma that’ll give us a clue. I’ll meet you back in the dining room in an hour.’ He paused. ‘You know how Dad always says, We just need a bit of luck? Well, that’s what I feel like right now.’ He sighed as he opened the door. ‘Do you think he’s OK – I mean, wherever they’ve got him?’
Ivy shook her head. It was bad enough that her mum and dad weren’t there. The idea of them locked away somewhere in the Dirge’s control made her go cold inside. ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Keep an eye on Valian.’
Seb’s mouth drew into a line. ‘I’ll try and lose him the first chance I get.’
After the door shut behind him, Ivy sat up in bed, thinking. Seb was right. There was no way they’d solve this without a bit of luck. Luck was the only reason they’d found the Wrench Mansion in the first place, and even after their visit yesterday, they still knew very little about what was going on; they were no closer to rescuing their parents.
Ivy threw back her duvet and got up. As her feet touched the floor, her skin prickled. She had the distinct – and very strange– feeling that something was watching her. She looked around, but there was nothing but old furniture and shadows. The uncommon wallpaper had rearranged itself into an ornate lamp, which was standing proudly on the floor. Ivy sighed. She hadn’t woken up properly.
Before heading downstairs she put Scratch in her pocket. It would be nice not to be totally alone; for some reason talking to Scratch yesterday had made her feel better. Maybe it was because he was one of the few uncommon objects in which she could see all that was good about Lundinor. She stuffed Thaddeus Kandinsky’s copy of Lundinor: Farrow’s Guide for the Travelling Tradesman in he
r pocket too. After Violet had mentioned it yesterday, Ivy thought she’d have another go at reading it.
She entered the dining room expecting Valian to be waiting for her, but he was nowhere to be seen. Mr Littlefair told her that he had followed Seb outside earlier.
Ivy gazed around the room. A couple of traders were gobbling down the last of their breakfast, while two waitresses were busy clearing up after the main rush. A half-empty dish of what looked like custard was making strange whistling noises in the corner.
Ivy went back to the door. There was no point waiting around. She would see what she could learn on her own and meet Seb in an hour.
Out on the Gauntlet she reached into her pocket and pressed the lever on Scratch’s side. ‘Any advice where to go?’ she asked. The street was already filling up with uncommoners. Traders were rolling back awnings, sweeping tables clean and unloading their wares.
‘Trying the other quarters?’ he suggested.
Ivy dodged a small, portly man carrying a bundle of hay on his shoulders. ‘The other quarters?’
‘Undermarts always be quarters divided into,’ Scratch said. ‘Why that’s four quartermasters in charging. Lundinor quarters namings: the Great Cavern – beings of the biggest – the East End, the West End, and then of the Dead End.’
Remembering the ghouls in the dining room, Ivy gulped. ‘The Dead End?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Scratch said. ‘Tradings for the dead there happens.’
‘Right.’ Ivy ran a hand through her curls. Best to avoid that one then. ‘What about the other two?’
Scratch jingled. ‘Expensive beings the West End. All sellers furniture, of boutiques fashion and cafés. Opposite beings the East End.’
Ivy stopped at a crossroads and felt a sudden chill. She looked over her shoulder, sensing someone following her, but she could see no one. She shook her head before continuing. That nightmare she’d experienced was just making her paranoid.
She wondered where the Granma Sylvie from that old photo would have gone when she was in Lundinor. The Wrenches seemed quite posh – their house was huge. But Ivy had the feeling that Granma Sylvie wasn’t like them. She’d been best friends with Ethel, after all. ‘Which way to the East End?’
The Crooked Sixpence Page 14
