He nodded. “I know the one. Mrs. Bees and I—” He shook his head. “Sorry, I mean Rosie and I didn’t pack away the sale items before leaving. That music box will be right where we left it in the garden.”
“I’ve been in an undermart in lockdown before,” Valian shared. “All methods of uncommon transport stop operating; every border and possible exit is monitored by underguards. Even the movements of the dead are restricted. I don’t know how we’d get to Nubrook to fetch it.”
Ivy racked her brains, trying to come up with something. By the empty looks on everyone else’s faces, they were just as stumped as she was.
“I’m afraid leaving this place under lockdown will be about as easy as finding a fresh-smelling selkie,” Mr. Rife remarked, rubbing his bad thigh. “Perhaps we could get a message to someone in Nubrook who can retrieve the box for us?”
A fresh-smelling selkie…Ivy had heard that turn of phrase before. She reached for Scratch with her whispering: Didn’t Mr. Farrow write that in the guide to Nubrook?
Certainlys did, the bell replied in her head. Need Scratch readings again?
No, it’s OK. Ivy recalled what Mr. Rife had told them: that he’d helped Rosie because he was an orphan too…just like Mr. Farrow. Now that she considered it, there were quite a lot of similarities between the auctioneer and the travel writer who went under the pseudonym “Frederick Ignacio Farrow”…They both traveled a lot. They both knew a great deal about Strassa. They both were dead….
Perhaps, Ivy thought, Mrs. Bees isn’t the only one who’s been fostering a secret identity….
“Mr. Rife, do you know Frederick Ignacio Farrow at all?” Ivy questioned.
Mr. Rife tilted his head, a coy smile on his face. “Ah, what gave it away—the anagram?”
“Anagram?”
Jumbly letters, Scratch said. Forward & Rife beings Fred I. Farrow.
Ivy understood Scratch’s meaning: minus the ampersand, the letters of “Forward” and “Rife” could be rearranged to spell—
“You are Fred I. Farrow!” Ivy cried.
“There aren’t many people who know,” Mr. Rife admitted. “The guides are given away free, so the auction business is my real livelihood. It makes sense as we travel…” He paused, and a wide grin broke across his face. “What am I saying? There is a way for us to get to Nubrook!”
Valian stepped closer. “There is?”
“My uncommon pram should be right where I left it, not two minutes from here,” Mr. Rife said. “It will allow us to journey to Nubrook, but it only carries two. Everyone else will have to take their chances in Strassa.”
From the conviction in Mr. Rife’s voice, Ivy gathered that he had successfully used his pram in a similar situation before. She was about to volunteer for the mission when he cleared his throat. “I’ll go. I’m the only one with access to the auction house. I’ll have to be careful that no underguards spot me moving around. You should all head into the mountain. Hopefully you’ll have a better chance of avoiding the Statue Salt from in there.”
“You’re too injured to operate the pram on your own,” Rosie said, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I remember what to do. You and I’ve made hundreds of journeys together. I’ll come with you.” She turned to Valian. “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing, I’ll be fine.”
Ivy caught a flicker of worry on Valian’s face, but he nodded.
“OK, that settles it,” Mr. Rife said, lifting his chest and taking a shaky breath. “We’ll be as quick as we can.”
Rosie hugged Valian tightly. “Stay safe.” And with a solemn nod, Mr. Rife and Rosie left.
Fear gripped at Ivy’s chest as she, Seb, Valian and Judy hurried toward the tunnel that burrowed into the mountain. “It’s going to be OK,” she told everyone. “For all we know, Johnny Hands, Curtis and the rest of the Tidemongers are working on getting everything back to normal as we speak.” Truthfully, however, she had never felt so uncertain about anything. She glanced at Valian, who was scowling so hard she decided that he might be trying to stop himself from crying. It must have been so difficult for him to let Rosie go after he’d just found her again.
“Everything the Dirge have done so far has been to neutralize their enemies,” Seb remarked, pushing Judy into the mouth of the tunnel. “Anyone who might try to fight them—the underguards, and now Mr. Punch—is powerless. There’s no one left to prevent New Dawn.”
“If all the broken souls inside Mr. Punch weren’t arguing, he would be able to stop them,” Ivy said. “I wish we could help him.”
“Me too,” Judy agreed. “But there’s no other way to get to Lundinor from here.”
As they advanced down the tunnel, Ivy sensed they were approaching a large collection of uncommon objects on their left. They turned a corner and she recognized a crumbling hole in the rock. It was where they had all broken out of Midas’s gold-filled chamber using Seb’s drumsticks after they had rescued Rosie. Under the surface of the speckled tan stone was a layer of brick wall. A gentle whirring noise sounded within as the swords, jewelry and trophies left over from their battle with Hemlock stirred.
Ivy had a thought—“Maybe there is a way to travel out of here,” she blurted. “If we can get into the Hexroom, we could use Ragwort’s door, which opens onto the featherlight mailhouse in Lundinor.”
“Ivy, you’re right!” Valian’s face brightened. “If we’re quick, we might be able to prevent Mr. Punch’s arrest.”
They stopped where they were. Seb withdrew his drumsticks and moved toward the opening. Judy tried to follow, but her bad leg wouldn’t budge. “I’ll have to stay here,” she said. “You’re on your own.”
“Why don’t you try vanishing and then coming back?” Seb suggested. “Your knee might return to normal that way.”
“I…” Judy hesitated. “I can’t.” Very slowly, she looked over at Ivy. “Do you know?”
Ivy nodded. “Yes, I can sense it.”
“I didn’t want to say anything,” Judy explained. “It seemed too good to be true.”
“What did?” Seb asked. “What’s going on?”
Judy fixed him with a stare, her eyes glistening. “While we were fighting Hemlock, I got caught by the Sands of Change….” She took a deep breath. “I’m alive, Seb. Living, heart beating, the works.”
“What—” Seb assessed Judy from her messy braids right down to her vintage roller skates. “Seriously?”
Her lip wobbled; a smile spread through her entire face. “Seriously. I’m not a phantom anymore. I’m just a girl.”
His jaw dropped. “That’s…brilliant!” As he threw his arms around her, Judy blushed. Ivy noticed her patting her cheeks, sensing the blood under the surface of her skin. She guessed blushing must feel different when you’re dead.
Valian gave Judy a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Really glad to hear you’ve left planet zombie, but we need to hurry,” he said, not unkindly.
Ivy stuffed her yo-yo in her pocket before handing her satchel to Judy.
“Judy really needs a friend right now,” she told Scratch as she stroked him goodbye. “You have to stay here and help her.”
“Doings best will Scratch,” he promised. “Ivy’s stay safe?”
“I’ll do my best too.”
They traipsed through the messy remains of Midas’s room, stepping over the shattered glass and dented pieces of golden armor. Valian shoved open Hemlock’s door to the Hexroom with surprising ease, considering it had been impossible to move from the other side, and they went in. They crossed the Hexroom and stood facing Ragwort’s wooden door.
Seb laughed nervously. “What’s so funny?” Ivy hissed. Her nerves were pulsing through her skin; she could do with a joke to relax her.
He shrugged. “I was just thinking—if the Dirge haven’t killed us by the time this is all over…I’m actually gonna have to ask Judy out on a date. I don’t know what’s more terrifying.”
“Lundinor will be a hostile place if Mr. Punch has alread
y been arrested,” Valian warned, curling his fingers around the handle of Ragwort’s splintered wooden door. “We’ve got to be prepared for anything.”
Ivy squeezed her yo-yo. With a long creak, Ragwort’s door swung open, revealing the shadowy interior of Lundinor’s featherlight mailhouse beyond. The curved walls were made of the same gray ashlar as those in Mr. Punch’s Curiosity Shop. Floor-to-ceiling shelves held jars of every imaginable kind of feather. Ivy read the labels of some of them as she ventured in: SPECIAL DELIVERY FLAMINGO and ULTRA-FAST FALCON caught her notice.
The air was cool and damp, as if it had just been raining. Valian emptied a pot of feathers labeled CHRISTMAS GREETINGS ROBIN and wedged it between Ragwort’s door and the doorframe—just in case they needed to make a speedy exit.
“Ready?” Seb asked, pausing by the door that opened into Lundinor.
Ivy could hear the wind whistling outside, rattling the hinges. She steadied her nerves as the door flew wide.
“No way.” Seb’s voice was soft.
Unable to believe what she was seeing, Ivy followed him out in a trance. What had once been a paved square bordered by cafés was now a grassy mound sloping down to the banks of a lake.
Lundinor had been flooded. Green islands poked through the murky water as far as the eye could see. Some were crowned by stone castles and connected by wooden bridges; others stood isolated in the thick mist, covered in forest. Ivy spotted the crumbling arches of a ruined abbey on one hill and a huge stone circle on another. She remembered then that a battered copy of King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table had been lying open on top of the Stone of Dreams: Lundinor had transformed into a version belonging to a mythical England of old.
Other than a few boats bobbing in the reeds and a line of swallow-tailed pennants waving from distant battlements, the place was still and quiet. Over her shoulder Ivy glimpsed the featherlight mailhouse, which now formed the wobbly turret of a medieval fortress. A wooden sign erected on the drawbridge listed the names of shops and restaurants you could find inside the courtyard. The portcullis was down; there was no one around.
“I’ve never been in Lundinor when it’s closed,” Valian admitted. “I’d guess the only people here would be underguards and a handful of officials, but stay alert all the same.”
Seb examined a map on the side of the featherlight mail tower. It was constructed from odds and ends of string, rubbish, plastic bags and random objects used to represent different landmarks. “If I’m reading this correctly, Mr. Punch’s Curiosity Shop should be”—he moved his thumb between the strange map on the wall and the green island in the distance—“in that castle over there. The one with the red bunting.”
Ivy squinted through the mist. Sure enough, she spotted Mr. Punch’s symbol—a black top hat—on the flags. “How are we going to get over there? It’s not as if we can hire a mop from a sky driver.”
“Look, down there.” Valian pointed to a small wooden rowboat, anchored in the weeds at the lake’s edge. They clambered down as quietly as they could and climbed in. Seb took the oars. As they moved through the water, Ivy gazed at the empty market city.
“This place is seriously creepy,” Seb muttered, scanning the shadows as he rowed. Only the splash of the oars broke the silence. Valian opened his leather jacket and they saw inside the pale light of his glowing trowel, which meant, Ivy knew, that it was sensing the presence of the dead.
“We’re not alone,” Valian whispered. “There must be races of the dead lurking nearby. We need to keep our voices down. If we’re discovered, we’ll have no chance of saving Mr. Punch.”
Ivy pushed her whispering senses as far as she could, using the magnifying glass to increase her reach. An overwhelming number of voices darted into her ears, making her jump. It felt as if she was standing in a huge crowd, with everyone talking through a loudspeaker. A shooting pain coursed down to her eardrum, and she had to lower the magnifying glass away from her heart. “The dead are congregated inside the castles,” she said, wincing. “I’ve never sensed so many together in one place before. They’ve got to be part of the Dirge’s army.”
“Great.” The oars vibrated in Seb’s hands. “Anyone else thinking we should have stayed with Judy in Strassa?”
They moored the boat under the drawbridge of the castle where Mr. Punch’s Curiosity Shop was located. Ivy attempted to sense him, but, with so many of the dead around, it was difficult to isolate one set of souls, and too painful to listen for any length of time.
“From what we saw in the discocommunicator, that could be Mr. Punch’s shop,” Valian said, signaling to a tower at one corner of the castle. Ivy studied the squat, circular stone structure. It was the right size and shape, and the positions of the arrow slits in the walls would offer a similar view to the one Ivy had seen in the discocommunicator hologram. Underguards in swishing black cloaks and three-cornered hats patrolled up and down the ramparts, their expressions blank.
“They’re still under the control of the Sword of Wills,” Seb murmured. “We can’t just knock and expect them to lower the drawbridge. How are we going to get in?”
“Did you bring your tape measure?” Ivy asked in a hushed voice. “I’ve got an idea.”
They waded as quietly as they could through the shallows of the moat, using the tall reeds and grasses for cover. Ivy checked with her whispering until they reached a part of the castle wall with no dead around; Seb climbed up on the bank, his tape measure in his hands. He frowned at Ivy, a grim expression on his face. “Are you sure about this?”
“The tape measure has the power to resize things, to make them not just smaller but bigger too,” she said. “We skipped backward to grow smaller, so, theoretically, if we skip forward…”
“OK, OK, I get the idea.” Seb flicked his wrists and sent the tape flying up behind him, over his head, toward his toes. On the first jump, his head bulged like it was a balloon being inflated. His cheeks turned chubby and his feet swelled.
On the second, his legs grew taller, as if he was wearing stilts.
“It’s working,” Ivy whispered to Valian. “He won’t be able to stay that size for long or he’ll be seen. We have to be quick.”
She and Valian crawled out of the water. Once Seb was around twenty feet tall, they climbed onto his sweaty hand, and he lifted them up to one of the battlements. Lowering their heads below the embrasures, they scurried along to Mr. Punch’s tower. The door to the shop was already wide open. Ivy couldn’t sense any dead within the immediate vicinity, so they sneaked inside. Mr. Punch was nowhere to be seen, but there were no signs that there had been a struggle. The room and all its contents appeared the same as when Ivy had seen them in the hologram of the discocommunicator.
“Perhaps he fled before they could arrest him,” Valian said hopefully. “The Stone of Dreams has gone too.”
They heard some shuffling outside and hurried to one of the arrow slits. A small group of underguards was assembled down in the courtyard, just in front of the gatehouse. Two of them were guarding the Stone of Dreams, while another three detained Mr. Punch. Ivy could see him flicking between several appearances, faster and more out of control than ever. She tried to catch what his different guises were saying to each other, but they were changing too fast.
“Is that who I think it is?” Valian said, squinting.
“The souls within Mr. Punch are panicked,” she told him. “It’s as if none of them wants to relinquish control, rendering all of them powerless.”
Valian rubbed his chin. “The underguards can’t realize he’s Mr. Punch, or else there would be more of them here to apprehend him. No one else knows he’s a Hob, do they?”
Ivy shook her head; as far as she knew, it was a secret.
“Look over there—” Valian nodded to one of the underguards who appeared stiffer and more robotic than the others. He seemed to be issuing commands and directing the others what to do. “I can’t see any members of the Dirge anywhere, so where is that one getting hi
s orders from?”
The underguard leader pointed at the Stone of Dreams and barked an instruction. Two of his men removed the copy of King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table from the lectern and put there in its place a smaller book with a black leather cover, which they opened at the pages in the middle.
The ground rumbled. Up in the room in the tower, Ivy steadied herself against the stone wall. “What’s happening?” The arrow-slit windows were expanding and filling with stained glass. Fiery torches were materializing on the walls, flooding the room with flickering orange light.
“They’re changing the appearance of Lundinor,” Valian realized.
He led Ivy back outside, onto the battlements. Lundinor was cloaked in darkness. The castle walls had grown higher, and a spiky black roof now covered the courtyard, obscuring Mr. Punch and the underguards. The jolly flags had transformed into tattered rags, and grotesque gargoyles loomed from the battlements.
Gazing into the distance, Ivy saw that Lundinor had turned into a decrepit medieval city. A black-as-night river ran through the center, crossed by arched bridges lined with nightmarish statues of winged creatures. The pointed spires of several Gothic cathedrals poked above the gloomy thatched houses on both banks. The stink of tar and sewage carried on the wind.
At the sounds of footsteps, Ivy turned. Four underguards were marching toward her and Valian, their faces immobile. One of them was holding Seb in an armlock. “Argh!” he yelped, gritting his teeth.
Ivy ran to help him, but the underguard leader strode out from behind them, stopping her in her tracks. The veins on his temple were purple and throbbing, as if he was straining with all his might against the Sword of Wills. When he opened his mouth, a familiar, deep voice spilled out.
“You couldn’t resist joining me, I see.”
Cold fingers traced the back of Ivy’s neck. Octavius Wrench…? He must be using the Sword of Wills to control the underguard’s vocal cords.
The Deadly Omens Page 17
