Anyone but Ivy Pocket

by Caleb Krisp

  I gasped and jumped up. “So Rebecca is there! Can you bring her back?”

  Miss Frost looked rather uncomfortable. Just for a moment. Then she said, “She is dead, Miss Pocket—you saw that for yourself. Each time a soul is captured, it enters my world as a powerful healing energy. As you might imagine, this makes the stone very valuable indeed.”

  “It’s a nasty business, this stealing of souls. Utterly fiendish!”

  “You are right,” said Miss Frost with a frown.

  “How on earth did the stone end up with the Duchess of Trinity?”

  “The truth is, I do not know. Over the decades, the necklace has been rather difficult to keep track of. Somehow the Duchess managed to acquire the stone and . . . well, I do not need to tell you what she wanted it for.”

  “Did you kill her?” I said, sitting down again. “Miss Always, I mean.”

  “Unfortunately not.” Miss Frost stared off into the distance. “My sources tell me she returned home just hours after fleeing Butterfield Park.” She was frowning again. “Under normal circumstance, the gatekeeper would never leave England without the stone—not without a very good reason.”

  Now it was my turn to frown. “You encouraged me to invite Miss Always to Butterfield Park. Didn’t you know who she was?”

  “Of course, Miss Pocket. Once I learned that you had tried on the stone and lived, I knew Miss Always would get foolish ideas about you. I suspected she would attempt to drag you away on the night of the birthday ball. As such, I wanted her within my reach.”

  “Miss Always believes that I am the Dual.” I said this casually. “I’m sure it’s all nonsense. But it does make me wonder why the stone didn’t kill me, like it does everyone else.”

  “It is curious, I admit.” Then Miss Frost arched her left eyebrow and glared at me doubtfully. “You have a great many talents, Miss Pocket—self-delusion, bad manners, general insufferability—but as for you being the savior of an entire kingdom? I think not. Besides, the legend goes that the Dual will be a girl of high birth. Which rather excludes a common maid, don’t you think?”

  I huffed. “Hideous woman!”

  Then my mind flew to yet another confounding question.

  “So if Miss Always is a gatekeeper, what are you?”

  “I am Mistress of the Clock,” she said, smoothing down the folds of her dress. “My vocation is to chronicle the Clock Diamond’s history, monitor its use, and ensure its survival.”

  Which was awfully troubling. “If you wish to ensure the stone’s survival, and you know that it kills the innocent,” I said, “how are you any different from Miss Always?”

  Miss Frost bristled. She may have even fumed. “I seek to use the stone ethically. Miss Always cares little who the necklace kills—young or old, healthy or ill. And she seeks to possess the diamond as a way of controlling fate. We are nothing alike, Miss Pocket!”

  “Don’t burst your girdle, dear,” I said with heartbreaking good taste. “It was just a question.”

  Miss Frost stood up. “Hand me the Clock Diamond.”

  I wanted to protest (it was awfully tempting), but I didn’t.

  She took the necklace from me and hung it around my neck. “Right now it seems you are the only person in the world this stone cannot hurt.” She slipped the diamond under the collar of my dress. “Tell no one about it. Let no one see it. Understand, Miss Pocket?”

  I nodded.

  Then Miss Frost pulled an envelope from her pocket and handed it to me. “Go to this address the moment you arrive in London.”

  I pursed my lips. “And what will I find there?”

  “What you have always wanted. A home. A family.”

  I gasped. My mouth dropped open. “A family? Who? Who are they?”

  “Good people.” Miss Frost saw the curious look upon my face and sighed. “They have always wanted a child, and as it happens, I have one to spare.”

  I gulped. Such a thing did not seem possible. “You have told them all about me?”

  Miss Frost frowned. “Not everything.”

  “This is terribly unexpected,” I said rather meekly. “Perhaps they should meet me first . . . what I mean is, I am certain they will adore me—how could they not?—but perhaps they should at least see me before—”

  “Just be yourself, Miss Pocket,” said Miss Frost. “The rest will take care of itself. Think of it as a new beginning. A fresh start.” Her eyes softened. “Be happy, Miss Pocket.”

  I nodded. Didn’t speak. Couldn’t, really.

  Miss Frost lifted her gaze, her eyes cool and sharp once more. “When Miss Always returns, she will think I have spirited you far away. The last place she will think to look for you is in London—the daughter of a thoroughly respectably businessman and his charming wife.”

  The word “daughter” thrilled me so.

  “What is their business?” I asked, rather excitedly. “They build railways, don’t they? Or perhaps they own hotels or banks or gold mines. Oh, it is sure to be gloriously important!”

  Miss Frost allowed a small grin. “They make coffins, Miss Pocket.”

  The train rolled into the station, great puffs of steam billowing around our feet. Miss Frost picked up my bag and placed it in my hand. “You must not miss this train.”

  I decided the time had come to ask the only question that really mattered.

  “Miss Frost, who was my mother? I suspect you know more than you are saying.”

  She did not hesitate. “Your mother is dead,” she said. “Beyond that, I cannot help you.” She pointed at the train. “Do hurry. It is about to depart.”

  I walked solemnly to the first-class carriage, where the stationmaster took my ticket. The carriage door was shutting behind me when I heard Miss Frost call my name.

  She put a hand upon the window and said, “You will not see me, but I will be about.”

  I nodded. “Yes, I thought you might.”

  Then the whistle blew, and the train moved out of the station. I quickly found my seat and looked out the window. Miss Frost had not waited to see the train roll away. She was already on her horse, galloping to destinations unknown. And as shocking as it may seem, I missed her already.

  Epilogue

  Lulled by the train’s jolting rhythm, my mind wandered to lost friends. Mr. Banks. Rebecca. And in a strange way, Miss Always. For I had lost her too. And, of course, my mother. For so long I had harbored a fantasy that she would come and take me home. But that wasn’t to be. It was foolish to pretend it didn’t hurt. But if these new sorrows settled inside me like a morning fog, shrouding my hopes and making happiness difficult to find—well, I felt certain it would not last. Misery did not suit me. I wasn’t the type. And while I still had questions about the Clock Diamond and why it hadn’t killed me, I refused to fret over them. I was bound for London. A new life. A family of my very own. There were sure to be wonderful parties. And glorious dresses. And a great deal of cake (not to mention raw potatoes). I won’t deny a few nerves as I thought about all that was to come. But despite my fears and my sorrows, one thing was perfectly clear—I would be the most adored (slightly) dead girl in all of London. Perhaps even England.

  Which was really no great surprise—for I have all the natural instincts of a coffin maker’s daughter.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank-yous are a revolting business. One is expected to gush and praise wildly. Make heartfelt declarations of appreciation and whatnot. It’s monstrous! Why on earth must I acknowledge people, simply because their efforts were instrumental in getting this book into print? Yet, if I don’t offer undying gratitude to the small army of people who helped bring Ivy Pocket lovingly to life, there will be hell to pay. As such, I will be brief. Madeleine Milburn is utterly dedicated, hugely effective, and awfully loyal. As far as literary agents go, I suspect she is one of the very best. She is ably assisted by Cara Lee Simpson. Cara is smart and astute and thoroughly pleasant.

  On the publishing side there is Virginia Dunc
an, who did a brilliant job knocking Ivy into shape. Sylvie Le Floch’s art direction is rather wonderful—with great care and artistry, Sylvie has pulled all the pieces together and created a truly beautiful book. Barbara Cantini is an illustrator of whimsy and wonder. She has somehow managed to capture the Ivy Pocket of my imagination—which I put down to great talent. Or witchcraft. At Greenwillow/HarperCollins and many other publishers around the world, there are teams of people who have done terrifically important work bringing this book to market. If Anyone But Ivy Pocket roars into the bestseller lists, I offer you all my heartfelt thanks and a thousand good thoughts. But if Miss Pocket finds herself in the discount bin six months from now, then I wish each and every one of you a lifetime of disappointment and regret. Which is rather harsh, but there you are.

  Closer to home, there are parents. Mine are above average and I thank them. Paul printed whatever needed printing. Carol urged me to stop waffling and write the damn book. Various nephews and nieces feigned interest from time to time—especially Shannon and Kaelin. While others urged me to prepare myself for literary failure—thank you, Dylan. Which brings this torturous groveling to a close. And if you happen to still be reading this, and you know what books can do—how they are a door to another world, how they are a refuge and a wonderland, how they thrill and comfort, how they break hearts and kindle hope—well, then there is no need for me to thank you as well. For you already know that life is simply better with books. And with that in mind, I would urge you to go out this instant and choose your next adventure.

  Somebody Stop

  A Preview of Sorts

  My task here, dear reader, is really very simple—I wish to tease and tempt you with a tantalizing glimpse of what befalls our heroine in the next part of her remarkable adventure. I am going to assume that you have only just finished reading Anyone but Ivy Pocket—I will also assume that you are now so devoted to Ivy that the thought of waiting until the publication of the next book fills you with unspeakable misery and a strong desire to tear out your hair. Which is not nearly as much fun as it sounds. Much better to tear out somebody else’s hair.

  Or, better yet, to read what follows—

  I am about to reveal a great deal about the events chronicled in Somebody Stop Ivy Pocket. I shall describe in glorious and captivating detail exactly what befalls Ivy when she reaches London and begins a new life with the Snagsbys.

  Get comfortable. Have a glass of lemonade at hand. Perhaps a cupcake. The odd bowl of popcorn. Your best pair of slippers and whatnot.

  For I am about to begin. . . .

  Oh, but where to begin? Somebody Stop Ivy Pocket is positively bursting with mystery and adventure. With danger and treachery. I could describe how Ivy befriends a gorilla with a peg leg and a tragic secret. Giving you a heart-stopping account of how they collect driftwood, bed sheets, and abandoned puppies and use them to defeat an evil, fire-breathing milkmaid. Or I could make your blood run cold, as I offer you a terrifying glimpse of the moment Ivy falls into a shallow puddle and isn’t seen again for seven chapters.

  The trouble is, none of these things actually happen. What does happen is monstrously unexpected and rather thrilling. And I would tell you all about it, if I wasn’t so busy writing the infernal thing!

  What I can say is that Ivy will find that her new life is not exactly as she imagined. The past casts a long shadow. London is a rather dangerous place. And friends are hard to find.

  To say any more would spoil things, don’t you think? I am almost certain that it will be worth the wait. I advise you to put down this book and wait quietly on a park bench until the next part of Ivy’s great adventure is ready.

  Until then, farewell.

  About the Author

  CALEB KRISP lives in an abandoned cottage deep in the woods. For many years he has devoted himself to writing about a twelve-year-old lady’s maid of no importance. His only communication with the outside world is via Morse code or kettledrum.

  www.ivypocketbooks.com

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  Credits

  Cover art © 2015 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.

  Anyone but Ivy Pocket.

  Text copyright © 2015 by Caleb Krisp.

  Illustrations copyright © 2015 by Barbara Cantini.

  First published in 2015 in Great Britain by Bloomsbury Childrens under the title Anyone But Ivy Pocket. First published in 2015 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, downloaded, 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. www.epicreads.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data.

  Krisp, Caleb. Anyone but Ivy Pocket / by Caleb Krisp; illustrations by Barbara Cantini.

  “Greenwillow Books.”pages cm

  Summary: “Fate intervenes when Ivy is called to the sickbed of a dying duchess and is charged with delivering a mystical (and possibly cursed) diamond necklace to the utterly revolting Matilda Butterfield for her twelfth birthday”—Provided by publisher. ISBN 978-0-06-236434-0 (hardback)

  EPub Edition © March 2015 ISBN 9780062364364

  [1. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 2. Orphans—Fiction. 3. Necklaces—Fiction. 4. Blessing and cursing—Fiction. 5. Aristocracy (Social class)—Fiction.] I. Cantini, Barbara, illustrator. II. Title.

  PZ7.1.K75An 2015

  [Fic]—dc232014044994

  15 16 17 18 19 CG/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Greenwillow Books

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