“Oh yes, yes,” Miss Hoff said. “What about the black and red”—she swept her hands down her sides—“with the stripes and the large…” She gestured in circles on her shoulders.
Seb’s eyebrows slowly climbed higher up his forehead. Ivy couldn’t help giggling.
“Just you wait here. I’ll bring our suggestions forthwith,” Miss Hoff told him.
While she was gone, Miss Winkle took Ivy’s measurements with the same ruler. Even without it touching her skin, Ivy could sense that it was uncommon. Mr. Punch had said that her whispering was a way to read the world around her, and it got her thinking.
She concentrated on the nearest couple of uncommoners browsing through the clothes racks, trying to reach out with her senses and detect any fragments of broken soul. It was tricky. She couldn’t control her whispering in the same way as her other senses—it wasn’t like focusing her eyes or tuning her ears. Instead, it came from somewhere deep inside her. After a moment’s struggle she gave up.
“Interesting,” Miss Winkle said. She peered into Ivy’s green eyes and smiled, dimples appearing in her cheeks. “You’re courage and tall and love above all.”
Ivy frowned. “I’m what?” She craned her neck to examine the ruler. The black inch lines had re-formed into words, spelling out the phrase Miss Winkle had quoted. “What does that mean? I’m not tall.”
“I don’t think it means physically, dear,” Miss Winkle said.
Seb folded his arms defensively. “So what did the ruler say when you measured me?”
“Oh yes,” Miss Winkle twittered. “Rhythm and grit and filled with wit.”
“Has a good ring to it, if you ask me,” said a familiar voice from behind them. Ivy turned to find Judy balancing a small barrel of Hundred Punch in her arms. She smiled at them and set the barrel down. “I got my first Hobsmatch outfit here too.”
“You did?” Ivy said. “What did the ruler say about you?”
Judy tucked a strand of poker-straight hair behind her ear, darting a look at Seb. “Daring and grace and glowing of face,” she said in a small voice. “I’m delivering Hundred Punch in exchange for replacement trousers for Mr. Littlefair. Anyway, what are you two doing here?”
Before Ivy could give an answer, Miss Hoff returned with an armful of possible Hobsmatch garments for her and Seb. Ivy spied a frilly white cuff and the corners of some pointy shoulder pads among them. Seb’s legs twitched like he was about to turn and run, but Judy put a hand on his shoulder and escorted him and Ivy to the changing rooms.
Half an hour later, Ivy found herself standing in front of a long antique mirror while she waited for Seb to emerge from his cubicle. She smoothed down the arms of her cropped black jacket with its smart Eton collar, which complemented the casual pair of stonewashed jeans underneath. Ribbon-laced brown leather boots and a red satin neck scarf completed the outfit. The color made her smile; it reminded her of the poppies in their garden at home. Altogether she thought Miss Hoff and Miss Winkle had done a good job. She’d never thought she’d feel comfortable in Hobsmatch, but now she could see why the traders liked it; it was as if she was wearing an extension of who she was.
“OK, this is the last one,” Seb called from the changing room. “If this looks stupid, erase it from your mind.” He poked his head around the curtain and looked at Judy. “Especially you.”
Judy laughed as he shuffled out wearing black three-quarter-length shorts, a baggy L.A. Lakers basketball jersey, scuffed vintage sneakers and a straight-cut, loose-fitting long black mandarin coat. It was embroidered with gold thread and he’d turned the sleeves up, like he did when he was drumming. “Well…?”
Ivy cocked her head, taking it all in. She liked the combination of modern sportswear and traditional Chinese dress. “Actually…this one kind of suits you.”
“Yeah,” Judy agreed. “It’s a good mix.”
“Really?” Seb opened the coat, showing them the gold satin lining. “The cool thing is, there’re these long pockets inside that I can put my drumsticks in.”
Ivy was just hanging a swimming cap back on a hook when something in the corner of the barn caught her eye. Inside a large glass case, an ivory leather jacket with long red sleeves was draped over a mannequin. There were gold buttons around the collar and leaves embroidered in jade thread on the cuffs.
She walked over to take a closer look. A brass plaque attached to the case read: JACKET WORN BY SIR CLEMENT, CIRCA 1560. “Is this real?” she asked Miss Hoff. “It’s amazing.”
“Absolutely,” she replied with a smile. “We inherited it from our fathers, Mr. Hoff and Mr. Winkle.”
“And they from their fathers,” Miss Winkle added, appearing at Miss Hoff’s side. “Our ancestors were the foremost Hobsmatch traders of their time. Apparently Sir Clement bequeathed the jacket to our family before he Departed.”
“Here, you can take a closer look if you’d like.” Miss Hoff unlocked the cabinet using a small silver key from her pocket. Very carefully she slid the jacket off the mannequin and hung it over her arm. “The leather jerkin is over four hundred years old,” she said, pointing to the chest piece. “Sir Clement added the sleeves later; they’re made of Chinese silk. Have a feel—it’s just like new.”
Ivy ran her fingers down the front. The leather was soft but didn’t feel as if it was about to crumble. She guessed uncommon methods had been used to preserve it. Her fingertips grazed something rough under the lapel, so she lifted it up.
Hidden underneath was a symbol embroidered in gold thread:
A smoking hourglass…!
Ivy drew her hand back, her mind whirring.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Miss Hoff cooed, brushing the jacket down before returning it to the glass case. “We really don’t take it out enough.”
Had Sir Clement been a member of the Rasavatum? He was one of the most famous uncommoners in history; there was bound to be tons of information available on him in Lundinor. Ivy needed to find out more.
The floor shook with the thud of running footsteps. A familiar voice called into the barn, “Ivy? Seb?” Valian came tearing in, zigzagging between the clothes racks in order to reach them. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You all right?” Seb asked.
“Yeah, fine.” Valian started as he caught sight of Seb’s Hobsmatch. “Nice. Suits you.”
Ivy doubted Valian would have the same opinion when he realized the outfit was being charged to his account. “Listen—I think Sir Clement could have been one of the Rasavatum,” she said in a hushed voice. “Is there somewhere we can go to learn more about him?”
Valian shrugged. “I suppose we could ask at the tourist information van in the Market Cross. They offer historical tours for visitors. How did you find out?”
“I’ll explain on the way,” Ivy said. “We’ve got no time to lose.”
As they hurried along the road, Valian zipped up his jacket. “Someone from the Scouts’ Union contacted me earlier—that’s why I had to leave. A rare uncommon sundial was being sold in the East End; scouts use them to pinpoint the location of objects.”
“Did you manage to get hold of it?” Ivy asked. “Did it find the Jar of Shadows?”
Valian scowled. “Sundials are normally highly accurate, but when I got it to search for a jar within the walls of Lundinor, it couldn’t fix on a single location. If the Jar of Shadows is here, it’s being hidden by powerful uncommon forces.” He hesitated. “It’s a bit like what happened with Rosie.”
“Your sister?” Seb asked. “What do you mean?”
“Before I went to the Scouts’ Union I wrote Rosie’s name on the label of the Great Uncommon Bag to see if it would find her,” Valian explained. “The bag took me to Montroquer undermart in Paris, but Rosie wasn’t anywhere to be seen, so I tried the bag again and found myself in Mai Masima undermart in Thailand. After that it took me to
undermarts in Germany, Lithuania and Portugal. It was like it couldn’t settle on one location.”
From the set of Valian’s jaw, Ivy could tell how frustrated he was. “Maybe we can mark on a map all the places the bag has taken you to so far, and see if they’re connected?” she suggested. “If we can find a pattern, we might be able to predict where Rosie will be next.”
Seb gave her a wary glance. She knew what he was thinking: there was a strong chance that Rosie might not even be alive; she’d gone missing so long ago, and in the Dead End too. After their own experiences in that place, Ivy knew how dangerous it was.
The three of them slowed as they came to the Market Cross. There was little evidence of yesterday’s Timbermeal other than a few patches of flattened grass. Valian pointed to a dented old ice cream van standing on the edge of the green and they headed over.
The vehicle was decorated with advertisements for things to do in Lundinor. There were guided tours for the living—WALK THE WALLS OF THE GREAT UNDERMART OF LUNDINOR—and the dead—WALK THROUGH THE WALLS OF THE GREAT UNDERMART OF LUNDINOR—as well as suggestions for places to stay and awards for Lundinor’s top restaurants.
At the rear of the van was a notice board covered with announcements from different guilds. Ivy paused to take a closer look. The top of every notice showed the guild’s coat of arms, and below, the times and dates of the next guild meeting. The Ancient Order of Chestnut Roasters were due to vote for a new guild leader.
“Does every guild have a leader?” Ivy asked Valian, thinking uneasily of the Dirge.
“Yeah, that’s the rule. They have the final word on any guild decisions. There’s a fixed number of members too; a space only becomes available when someone has Departed.”
That was why there were only six members of the Dirge, Ivy thought. The code name Wolfsbane could have been taken by several people before Selena Grimes started using it.
Seb read one of the notices. “So…are you in a scouts’ guild?”
Valian scoffed. “No. You have to be invited by the other members.”
Ivy searched for disappointment on his face. He caught her looking at him and shrugged. “I’m used to working on my own. Anyway, it’s hard to feel lonely when you live in busy undermarts all year round.”
“All year round?” Seb repeated. “But Lundinor’s only open three times a year.”
“There are hundreds of other undermarts around the world. When one closes, another one opens; there’s a kind of circuit.”
The lady behind the counter of the tourist information van had flowers in her fluffy brown hair. “There’s a Sir Clement museum,” she told them. “I haven’t sold any tickets for a long while, but I’m sure they’re still valid.” She rooted around in the van and reappeared with a small book of perforated paper tickets. “They’re half a grade each.”
Ivy couldn’t understand why the place didn’t have more visitors. The tourist information lady held out a patchy velvet glove expectantly. Ivy felt herself going red, realizing she meant to trade.
“Don’t look at me,” Valian said with a shrug. “That sundial cost me an arm and a leg—I’m broke.”
Ivy remembered the allowance Granma Sylvie had given her and got the purse out of her satchel. Ethel had said there was five grades’ worth of objects inside it, but Ivy wasn’t sure which item to pick. She hastily selected a china napkin holder and handed it over.
The lady examined it carefully. “Hmm. Let’s check the current market grade.” She took a stainless-steel fork off the counter and, very gently, tapped the prongs against the side of the napkin holder. A clear, high-pitched chime rang out and, as the sound died away, Ivy caught a number being sung: “One point eight.”
“Excellent. That’ll do nicely.” The lady smiled and shook Ivy’s hand.
Ivy’s wrist went weak. This was it: her first Trade. She was now as much an uncommoner as anyone in Lundinor. She didn’t have long to dwell on the moment.
“The museum is in Sir Clement’s old house, high up in the West End,” the lady told her. She scribbled the directions down on a piece of paper and handed it over. “Have fun!”
To reach the West End the three friends had to walk through a huge archway of flowers that spelled out the words THE BEST END. Once inside, Ivy didn’t know where to look first. White pavilions bordered gleaming marble courtyards and lawns so neat and green, the grass could have been made of plastic. People in huge Hobsmatch hats strolled around carrying parasols and walking tiny dogs, while others sat at tables, sipping tea and nibbling fancy cakes. Ivy noticed several underguards erecting temporary street bells directing people to the Grivens stadium. Preparations for the big contest were already under way.
“Well, it’s exactly where that lady said it would be,” Valian said, craning his neck. “High up.”
In front of them stood the biggest tree Ivy had ever seen—the trunk was as wide as a car, and the branches reached so high, the top wasn’t visible.
Seb screwed up his nose, peering into the dark canopy. “There’s a museum in there?”
Ivy looked closer. Nestled between the branches were some wooden platforms, with rickety rope ladders and bridges made of chain and driftwood. A long sign had been nailed to the rough brown bark.
THE GREAT OAK TREE
LEVEL 1: Cog & Caster, wheelmongers
LEVEL 2: François Filigree’s Furniture Jamboree (also former residence of Sir Clement)
LEVEL 3: Muddled Melodies—uncommon objects with musical means
The list continued to Level 21, but Ivy’s attention had already focused upon something. “François Filigree,” she read. “I’ve seen that name before—yesterday, at the Timbermeal. It was written on that patio chair you were sitting on.”
A varnished wooden staircase spiraled up around the trunk. After fifty steps or so they reached a large, wide platform set among the branches. On it stood a forest of black iron spindles—some as tall as a door, others the size of cotton reels. Each spindle was stacked with a different type of wheel; there were brightly colored skateboard wheels, wooden cartwheels, bicycle wheels and supermarket shopping cart wheels, among others.
“Turn your life around with a new uncommon wheel!” called a voice from somewhere behind them. “Best quality in Lundinor!”
Valian growled and sped up. “Quick—we haven’t time to talk.”
As they climbed the next set of stairs, the foliage of the Great Oak Tree grew denser and more tangled. Eventually the noises from the street below were muffled and it became so dark that uncommon lemon squeezers had been fixed to the branches to light the way.
“Whoa!” Ivy exclaimed, coming to a halt. In front of her, the stairs turned into a rickety rope bridge, crossing over to the other side of the tree. On each side hung nets topped with an assortment of chairs and tables piled up on top of one another as if they were about to be used in a bonfire. At the sound of Ivy’s voice, they started shuffling around, kicking their legs and jostling for attention.
“The way’s blocked,” Valian said, pointing to a tangle of thorny branches in the middle of the bridge.
Seb pulled out his drumsticks. “Not for long.”
“Careful,” Ivy said, laying a hand on his arm. “It’s still part of the tree.”
Seb thrashed his drumsticks through the air, aiming at the thicket. There was a loud crunch as, with an explosion of leaves and splinters, a hole appeared in the center.
They continued over the bridge in single file. Halfway across, Ivy heard a voice:
“Helloooo there! Are you on your way to François Filigree’s Furniture Jamboree?”
She stopped, gripping the rope rail tightly and looking around. She couldn’t see anyone. “Um, actually we want to visit the museum at Sir Clement’s old house.”
“Oh,” the voice said. “You’re not lost, then?”
> Ivy nudged Valian. “I don’t know….Are we?”
There was a shuffling noise behind them, and a short, dumpy man dropped out of the branches, bounced onto the net and somersaulted over them onto the end of the bridge.
“Most people who wind up in my shop are lost,” François Filigree said in a sad voice, brushing down his long purple overcoat with a pair of thick, fire-retardant gloves. He had a small pear-shaped body with virtually no neck, and tiny arms and legs. Covering his face was a smooth white porcelain mask with small eye holes, painted lips and a black mustache.
He must have caught Ivy staring at it because he said, “It’s from Japanese Noh theater. Excellent Hobsmatch, of course. There aren’t many people who dare to wear them, so I really do stand out.”
“Yeah…see what you mean,” Seb said slowly. He edged up behind Valian, his knuckles white on the rope. “Er—the museum?”
“Right…” François Filigree’s shoulders sagged. “Have you got tickets?”
Ivy felt around in the pocket of her new jacket. “Yes.”
“Then I’ll show you the way,” he said, sounding dejected. “Come in, come in.”
He led them on a twisting route, past a graveyard of broken table legs and more cluttered bridges, to a ramshackle multistory tree house. The walls were covered with holey strips of moldy bark, and thick spiderwebs filled the empty window frames. Crumbling chimneys, crooked roofs and half-demolished balconies poked out of the dark green leaves.
“Leave your tickets on the table inside,” François Filigree told them.
“This is the museum?” Ivy exclaimed.
He tilted his strange white mask. “I understand that it might look a little unloved, but there are plenty of Sir Clement’s original possessions to check out inside, along with a few of my own knickknacks. Everything’s for sale; let me know if you want to strike a deal!”
The Uncommoners #2 Page 12
