by Caleb Krisp
“Are you as musical as your mother?” said Mr. Spencer, combing his unruly hair.
Mr. Spencer was not our usual piano player, but as Mrs. Harding was out with the flu, he had stepped in. “Can you sing?” he asked me, slipping the comb into his coat pocket.
“No, dear—I sound like three cats in a meat grinder. Though I did once burp ‘God Save the Queen.’”
Mr. Spencer let out a wistful sigh. “I do love Queen Victoria, such dignity. It can’t be easy, can it, being a queen?”
“Actually, it’s really not that difficult,” I said brightly. “I admit, I was only Queen Ivy for about five minutes, but still—”
“Ivy.” Ma was shaking her head.
“Queen Ivy, you say?” said Mr. Spencer, bug-eyed.
I groaned cheerfully. “Forgive me, Mr. Spencer. I talk a great deal of nonsense, being an odd sort of girl with an intriguing past.”
All talk of Prospa was forbidden outside the house. On account of people thinking we were bonkers and locking us up. Ma had had her fill of madhouses. As had I.
“Girls and their tall tales,” muttered Mr. Spencer as he set off for the piano.
Ma laughed and kissed my cheek. “Wish me luck.”
I did. And she kissed me again. Then she began rounding up her students, putting them in position on the tiered platform. The concert hall was nearly full. I saw Mr. Partridge sitting up front—dressed in a fine white suit, his top hat in his lap. Mr. Partridge had taken quite a shine to my mother, though she was usually too shy and quiet to give him much encouragement. Ma had that way about her, though. You just wanted to be near her.
“Remember, children,” said Ma, taking her position in front of the choir, “big voices, big smiles!”
She signaled to Jago. The boy pulled on the cord, the curtain parting. As it flew open, I looked out into the crowd again, delighting in their faces as they began to clap and cheer. Which is when I saw her. She was standing at the back. Dark dress. Flaming red hair. It was Miss Frost, stern and dignified. She looked at me, gave a slight nod of her head. I was too stunned to nod back. A man rushed in front of her to take his seat. When he had passed, Miss Frost was gone. My eyes roamed the hall, looking for any sign of her. Had it really been Miss Frost? Wasn’t the door between our worlds shut forever?
Ma swooshed her arms through the air, and the choir began to sing. It sounded heavenly. I didn’t keep searching for Miss Frost in the crowd. I had seen her, and she had seen me—that was enough. Was it her? How could it be? The whole thing was frightfully unlikely, yet I refused to fret or wonder too deeply about it. For if my life had been a school, it would have but one lesson. Anything was possible.
Acknowledgments
Oh, dear. How awkward. As this is the final book in Ivy’s adventure—wasn’t it grand?—now is the time to scatter thank yous and high praise like confetti. To declare my undying gratitude far and wide. Perhaps now you see my problem? Oh, well. Let’s get it over with.
My literary agent, Madeleine Milburn, has been a bright light in the literary fog these past three years. Her wisdom, loyalty, and negotiating savvy are masterful and I thank her. A tip of the hat to Thérèse Coen for handling foreign rights with ease and Haley Steed for being terrifically helpful.
Thanks to the folks at Greenwillow Books, especially Virginia Duncan, Sylvie Le Floc’h, Katie Heit, and Tim Smith. I remain in awe of Barbara Cantini’s incredible talent and whimsical illustrations.
I’m almost certain I was cursed at birth. Possibly by a witch. Or an ill-willed librarian. Despite my wretched fate, life has offered the odd ray of sunshine. My nephews and nieces, for example. Not to mention my mother and father, who have been hugely supportive over the years. Honorable mentions to Carol, for friendship, humor, and countless movies. Also, Christine for encouragement and a sympathetic ear. And Paul for printing and computer-related stuff.
Well, dear reader, that brings our adventure to a close. Let’s not get sentimental; that’s not our way, is it? The ending was marvelous and you’re sorry it’s over, we can all agree on that—but there are other books out there, other characters. No, it won’t be the same, but what ever is? As I need to keep myself in eggs and bonbons, I shall continue to write books about interesting children—but I suspect that none will be as infuriating, incorrigible, or offensive as Ivy Pocket. Nor will they be such glorious fun to write. It’s been a hoot. Now shuffle off, I’m tired.
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About the Author
CALEB KRISP lives in an abandoned cottage deep in the woods. You can find out more about him at www.ivypocketbooks.com.
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Credits
Cover art © 2017 by Barbara Cantini
Cover design by Sylvie Le Floc’h
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
BRING ME THE HEAD OF IVY POCKET. Text copyright © 2017 by Caleb Krisp. Illustrations copyright © 2017 by Barbara Cantini. First published in 2017 in Great Britain by Bloomsbury Children’s under the title Bring Me the Head of Ivy Pocket. First published in 2017 in the United States by Greenwillow Books. The right of Caleb Krisp to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017937637
EPub Edition © May 2017 ISBN 9780062364425
ISBN 978-0-06-236440-1 (hardcover)
17 18 19 20 21 CG/LSCH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FIRST EDITION
Greenwillow Books
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