Somebody Stop Ivy Pocket

by Caleb Krisp

  ‘Must we go through this every time?’ said Miss Always softly.

  ‘I’m afraid so, dear,’ I said, continuing to back away. ‘You see, I’m rather fond of my freedom. Rather allergic to insane, supernatural librarians. Also, I’m almost certain I’d be horribly bored as your prisoner and puppet.’

  ‘You shall have plenty of time to find out.’ Then she smiled sweetly.

  The Locks moved at speed, surrounding me in seconds. Miss Always took slow steps, the dagger once more in her hand.

  ‘The carriage is waiting, Ivy,’ she said. ‘Our destination is not far, so I apologise in advance for the brief burst of pain you are about to experience. I won’t deny that there is another way, but you have rather tried my patience and I find that I want very much to hurt you.’ She sighed and came to a stop just outside the circle of Locks. ‘Bosom friends have these little quarrels, but we shall be chums again tomorrow.’

  The Locks flew at me. Hissing like steam pipes. Their claws extended. I put up a valiant fight, showering kicks and punches, but it was no use. I felt the skin on my arm split as talons swiped my flesh like blades. Others closed around my arms and neck, their bronzed skin burning into me like hot irons. Then the real pain began as two of these vile little devils moved apart, each holding one of my wrists. That was when I cried out. For it felt as if my arms were being wrenched from my body.

  I caught sight of the light from the corner of my eye. It glowed in the night sky like a blue moon. And it appeared to be moving at some speed towards us. The Locks noticed it too. I could tell, because the searing pain in my shoulders eased.

  ‘Did I tell you to stop?’ hissed Miss Always.

  But there wasn’t time for an answer. The ghost swooped down and flew through the breach where the gates had been, a great ball of luminous blue gas. Miss Always spun around. The Locks seemed dazzled by the light and froze.

  ‘Move, child,’ a voice whispered in my ear.

  I pulled free and ran. Miss Always gave chase. But the ghost’s mouth had begun to open and it did not stop until it was a vast, churning hole with teeth like glass.

  The Locks scattered as the ghost flew up, then pounced. She swallowed each of them as if they were an evening snack. She collected three in one go, then a pair. The last Lock she seemed to suck into her mouth, for it lifted from the ground and shot straight into the abyss.

  Miss Always let out an almighty screech, her head flying back – no doubt to produce more of her hooded henchmen – but it was rather quickly silenced when the Duchess of Trinity turned and devoured her in one hungry bite.

  The ghost twirled, turning upright, a ginormous blubbery ball of sapphire hovering just inches from the ground. Inside her immense belly were Miss Always and her little ruffians. The Locks were stumbling about in that ghoulish bubble, while Miss Always found her feet and stood looking through the luminous skin imprisoning her – right at me. Her stare was of the fierce and hateful kind.

  ‘Close your mouth, child,’ said the ghost, ‘you look like a puddle.’

  ‘You … you ate them,’ I said rather feebly. ‘You ate them for me.’

  ‘It is a meal of the temporary kind.’ The Duchess of Trinity’s voice had lost its music, sounding terribly strained. ‘I cannot hold them for long, so be on your way.’

  I was frowning now. Remembering that the dead woman had tried to use me again for her wicked deeds – poor Mr Grimwig! Not to mention the fact that she had not come when I had called her in the madhouse.

  ‘Do not think this signifies some affection on my part, child,’ warned the Duchess. ‘It is simply that you are of more use to me out of Miss Always’ clutches.’

  ‘I’m terribly grateful,’ I said, as a thick grey mist lifted from the cuts on my arms and legs (I had almost forgotten I could no longer bleed), ‘but I won’t be helping you with another of your vengeful schemes.’

  ‘Hush, you foolish girl,’ said the ghost, her dark eyes twitching with the strain of holding her captives. ‘Miss Frost told you where to go, so for once, do as you are told.’

  I didn’t ask how she knew this. I had another more pressing question.

  ‘Do you know if she is alive?’

  The dead woman shook her head. ‘I do not.’

  The Locks had begun to spin around in her swollen belly like a ring of fire. While Miss Always threw back her head and shrieked as a fresh army of Locks flew from the folds of her skirt, swelling and churning inside the dead woman like a storm.

  The Duchess’s face grimaced in pain. Great plumes of dark smoke poured from her nostrils and seeped from her hair. ‘Hurry, child.’

  And that is just what I did.

  The road stretched on into darkness, flat and empty. I had no idea how to reach Hammersmith (I had never been there before), or even if I was walking in the right direction. All I did was run – keeping to the side of the road so that I would not be discovered should Miss Always’ carriage come past.

  I didn’t know if the Duchess had released her prisoners yet. Or if they would come looking for me in this direction. The wind blew hard and I hugged my shoulders, bending my head against the cold.

  Then the ground rumbled. In the dim light I saw horses approaching. Without hesitating, I leapt behind a bramble bush and cowered. Prayed they hadn’t seen me.

  The carriage wheels slowed and came to a stop.

  I didn’t dare take a breath.

  ‘I expect you have your reasons for hiding in there,’ came a deep, pleasant voice, ‘but if you’d like a ride, I’d be happy to have you along.’

  Was this Miss Always’ driver pretending to speak like a dim-witted farmer to fool me?

  ‘If not, I’ll be on my way,’ he said next.

  I peeked my head above the brambles. What I found was a wagon stacked with logs and a driver who didn’t look even slightly deranged. In fact, he looked like a man who cut down trees for a living, with a thick wool jacket and a slouch hat.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said, approaching the carriage, ‘are you going anywhere near Hammersmith?’

  ‘Close enough,’ came the reply.

  I stepped up into the wagon and took a seat beside the amiable stranger. Looked at him carefully. ‘Are you crackers in any way? Also, do you have any desire to steal souls or imprison perfectly innocent people in madhouses?’

  The driver gave his horses the signal and the wagon took off. ‘Not lately,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Looks like we’ll be travelling together a spell, so I suppose we should swap names – Jonah Flint, pleased to meet you.’

  Being well versed in manners and whatnot, I said, ‘My name’s Esmeralda Cabbage.’

  Mr Flint looked at me sideways with a half smile but made no further comment. Instinctively, I went to cover the gashes on my arms – but when I looked down, the wounds had healed. All that remained were the rips upon my sleeves and skirt.

  The wagon jolted about a great deal and the seat was agony on the buttocks, but we were making good ground and I began to relax.

  ‘I’d duck down, if I were you,’ announced Mr Flint suddenly.

  I looked back and saw a dark carriage barrelling towards us. It was Miss Always! I jumped down and crouched under the seat. The roar of the carriage filled my ears. But it didn’t slow. Instead, it went around us and thundered down the road.

  I did not get up until Mr Flint gave the word. And when I did, the woodcutter did not ask me a single thing about who they were or why they might be looking for me.

  ‘I reckon we might take the back road – what do you say, Esmeralda?’

  ‘I think that’s a fine idea,’ I replied. I was about to compliment Mr Flint on not being nearly as stupid as he looked. But as he didn’t look at all stupid, I held my tongue.

  The wagon slowed at a cross section and then veered off to the left. Mr Flint urged the horses on and the carriage rolled swiftly beneath a canopy of elm trees, which arched above us like a cathedral. The moonlight splintered down through a web of branches, piercing the bl
ack night like shards of luminous ice. Despite its strange beauty, I shut my eyes tight. Praying that Miss Frost was still alive. And that I would find her at journey’s end.

  Chapter 28

  ‘Do you know where I might find the Rambler Inn?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’ The baker eyed me with considerable suspicion.

  ‘That would be me, you chinless buffoon.’ I said this brightly so as not to cause offence. ‘I am looking for a friend and she told me to meet her there.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘My friend.’

  ‘What’s your friend’s name, you cheeky imp?’

  Mr Flint had dropped me on the edge of Hammersmith, directing me to follow the main road into the village, where I was to locate Oscar Bonson’s Baked Delights – he seemed certain that the baker would be awake at this unseemly hour (it was a quarter to four in the morning) and would help me find the place I was looking for.

  ‘My friend’s name is none of your concern,’ I declared. ‘Our business is of a clandestine nature.’

  Strangely, this seemed to satisfy the gangly fellow. ‘There’s a bank across the road,’ he said, kneading a great ball of dough with ease. ‘Go around the side and you’ll see a little green inn at the back – that’s the place you’re looking for.’

  I found it easily enough. Even in the fading moonlight I could see that it was a ghastly dwelling. Peeling green paint. Broken eaves. Two of the five steps leading up to the front door were missing.

  A jolly woman with wispy grey hair and the roundest face I’d ever seen opened the door – inviting me in without so much as a hello.

  ‘I’m Mrs Spragg,’ she said, stepping over a pile of books in the middle of the narrow hall. ‘Excuse the mess – my husband is a great reader though the dear man is burying us alive.’ She pointed to the unspeakably narrow stairs. ‘You go on up, it’s the first door on the left.’

  My throat dried up as I knocked gently on the door.

  Next, I heard rapid footsteps. The door opened just a crack. I couldn’t see anything inside. But I heard a voice. ‘I knew you’d make it, chatterbox.’

  When the door flew open, I was rather startled to see Jago standing before me. He had changed into a fine tan suit and his dark hair was combed in a most pleasing fashion.

  ‘But … ?’ was my only question.

  Jago shut the door gently and said, ‘I’ve worked for Miss Frost on and off since I was just a wee boy. It was her who sent me into Lashwood to get you out.’

  ‘Blimey,’ I muttered for the first time in my life.

  We were standing in a poorly furnished sitting room. A doorway led off to another room that appeared to be dimly lit.

  ‘Miss Frost?’ I said urgently.

  The boy’s brown face looked utterly grim as he nodded. ‘Come on.’

  I followed Jago quickly into the next room. The window was drawn shut. Miss Frost lay upon the bed, her hands crossed over her stomach. Her dazzling red hair fanned out around the pillow. Her eyes were closed and her skin had the colour of death upon it.

  ‘She won’t let me send for the doctor,’ said Jago. ‘I’ve been using the cloth to cool her head, but seems to me she’s only getting hotter.’

  ‘Fetch some more water,’ I said, as I sat down on the bed and picked up the damp cloth.

  Jago took the bowl and hurried off downstairs.

  ‘Can you hear me, dear?’ I said softly. I unbuttoned the top of her dress, which was damp with perspiration, and applied the cool cloth to her neck.

  ‘Yes, Miss Pocket,’ came her faint reply. ‘I am pleased … that you could join us.’

  The poor creature’s forehead was dripping from heat. ‘You are positively burning up.’

  ‘That is the poison doing its job,’ she whispered, her eyes opening.

  I laid the cloth across her forehead. ‘What can I do, Miss Frost? Please tell me what to do.’

  ‘I am … afraid … there is nothing to be done,’ came her monstrous reply.

  ‘Stuff and nonsense. There must be something.’

  Miss Frost gulped and took a shallow breath. ‘There is a …’ She shuddered with pain. ‘In my pocket … an address of a cottage near Weymouth … in Dorset … go there with Jago … stay until … until you hear from …’

  ‘I will do no such thing,’ I said firmly. ‘Now I really must insist that you stop this dying business and snap out of it.’

  A smile crept on to her face. ‘Excellent advice, Miss Pocket.’ She closed her eyes. ‘But I fear … Miss Always has won the day … but hopefully not the war.’

  I pulled the cloth from her forehead. Set it aside. Used the edge of my apron (the only part not covered in grime and dust) to dab her face and neck. Though her freckled flesh was a ghostly white, dark circles smudged her eyes like bruises.

  ‘Tell me … about Anastasia and her child.’ Each word seemed to be pushed from her mouth with great effort. ‘Where did they go?’

  For the briefest of moments I considered lying to her. But if there was ever a time for the plain truth, it was now. So I told Miss Frost all about the wicked conspiracy that had ensnared Anastasia. About how mother and child were cruelly separated. About the woman in the madhouse humming her endless lullaby and about how that sad creature was none other than Anastasia Radcliff.

  Miss Frost listened, her eyes fluttering open then closing again. Her brow knotting and unclenching as I spoke. When I paused to dab her forehead again she said, ‘I knew they were hiding something awful.’ She faintly shook her head. ‘But not that … not such malice.’

  ‘Estelle’s mother was without pity,’ I said softly, ‘and she has bred that same hatred in her daughter. When I think of Anastasia rotting in that horrid cell while –’

  ‘The baby …’ Miss Frost struggled for breath. ‘What became of the baby?’

  ‘A maid was paid two hundred pounds to take it away – they went to Wales apparently, though Estelle claims they left there years ago and left no forwarding address.’ I walked quickly across the room, drew back the curtains and opened the small window. ‘When you are well again, we must return to London and liberate Anastasia from Lashwood. I have a perfectly brilliant plan in mind.’

  ‘What do you know of the maid?’ said Miss Frost.

  I shrugged. ‘Her name was McSomething-or-other, but they called her McCloud because she had a birthmark under her eye shaped like a cloud.’

  Miss Frost cried out suddenly. And though it didn’t seem possible, she paled even further. For a moment I worried that another poisoned dart had struck her.

  ‘Could it be … ?’ she whispered.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Miss Pocket, are you sure of what you are saying?’ Her dull eyes were fixed on my face.

  ‘About what, dear?’

  ‘The maid who took Anastasia’s child … and the mark on her face.’

  ‘Yes, quite sure. Do you know her?’

  A faint, sad smile pulled at her pale lips. Then she called me close.

  ‘I haven’t much time, Miss Pocket, but I have …’ Her eyes shut. She gulped. ‘I have something to tell you …’

  ‘Is it a deathbed confession?’ I folded my arms. ‘Because if it is, I do not wish to hear it. You are not going to die. I simply will not allow it.’

  ‘Listen to me … hear what I have to say …’ Amongst the beads of perspiration tracking down her face, a vale of tears bubbled up. I had never seen her shed a tear. I didn’t know she could! Her hand flew up to cover her eyes, as if in shame.

  I reached over, pulling her hand away and holding it tight. With my other hand, I stroked her cheek.

  ‘Cry if you need to, dear,’ I said softly. ‘There’s no harm in it, is there? But do not fret about the past. I’m almost certain you’ve done some awful things – most pretend governesses are devious by nature – but I feel that despite all the times you have lied to me and been unforgivably stern, you are good at heart. You are good, Miss Frost.’

  T
he Mistress of the Clock was frowning. Then her eyes opened wide. And a gasp flew from her lips.

  ‘Miss Frost?’ I said.

  Her pale skin began to glow, the colour returning to her cheeks as if she were blushing furiously. Her lips were suddenly red and bright. But it was her eyes that told the tale – they were clear and attentive and intense. I could feel her hand, which had been limp, tighten inside my own.

  ‘Miss Frost?’ I said again.

  She lifted her head off the pillow and looked about the room. She peered up at me with something like wonder on her face. ‘I feel much improved. In fact, I feel remarkably well.’

  Miss Frost managed to sit up, then carefully swung her legs around and sat on the edge of the bed next to me. She tucked her long hair behind her ears. Then she nudged my shoulder with her own. ‘It seems I owe Miss Always an apology.’

  I was still rather befuddled by Miss Frost’s remarkable return to health. But in no time the penny dropped. ‘When I touched your hand, did I heal you as I did Miss Always at Butterfield Park?’

  ‘So it would seem,’ said Miss Frost crisply. She rose to her feet. Swooned slightly, reaching out and grabbing the wall. But she soon steadied herself. ‘We must prepare to leave – Miss Always is probably on our heels and we have far to travel.’

  Feeling it was only proper, I told Miss Frost the treacherous tale of Miss Carnage and the great disguise. Miss Frost showed a begrudging respect for Miss Always’ abilities. Though she did look at me as if I were some kind of village idiot for not seeing through her disguise. The nerve!

  By then Jago had returned with fresh water – and the poor boy was rather gobsmacked by Miss Frost’s return to health.

  ‘Blimey,’ he muttered.

  Miss Frost invented a perfectly plausible explanation for her recovery. Then she ordered the boy to pack up their things for our departure. Without saying it directly, it was clear that Jago would be travelling with us.

  ‘Here,’ said Miss Frost, pulling a perfectly dull auburn dress from the closet, ‘this should be satisfactory for the journey ahead – there are several others waiting for you at our destination.’