The bag dragged her forward at high speed and whipped her around in a dizzying pattern of twists and turns—like the teacups at a fairground, except in pitch darkness. Pressure squeezed her face and chest, making her feel queasy. She caught the faint whiff of burning in the air. Just when she thought something might have gone seriously wrong, there was a flash of light and the bag spat her out at the side of a dark cobbled street.
Ivy scrambled to her feet, snatching the Great Uncommon Bag off the ground. From the silver bells glinting on the buildings she could tell that she was in Lundinor, but the undermart had a wintry feel: cast-iron streetlamps stood guard on the pavements, and the air was full of the scents of cinnamon and roast chestnuts.
She gawped at the frost-topped roofs. The bag might just have worked….
“Over here!” Valian waved to Ivy from behind a stack of empty wooden crates beside the road. Stuffing the Great Uncommon Bag into her satchel, she dashed over and tucked herself down beside him.
Crouching on Valian’s other side, Seb looked like he was trying not to throw up. Ivy remembered the teacups sensation and guessed that his journey had been particularly awful. “Do you think this is it?” she asked Valian, adrenaline surging through her. “Are we in 1967?”
Valian seemed lost for words. He shook his head and pointed to the crates, which were each stamped with the logo of the business opposite: MR. SNIPPETS. Hanging in the pristine shop window were photographs of men sporting elaborate mustaches; one gentleman had two hairy galleons sailing on his upper lip; others had the roaring head of a dragon or the body of a vintage racing car. Ivy couldn’t decide if they’d been fashioned with an uncommon object, or if the resident barber was just incredibly talented. She searched for her reflection in the glass, but it wasn’t visible; no one would be able to see them from the street.
“My dad used to get his hair cut here when I was little,” Valian managed, his voice disbelieving. “But it didn’t look as new as this. We must have gone back in time.”
“So it worked!” Ivy couldn’t believe it. Time travel.
“You know what this means,” Valian said. “I can return to my childhood and save them—Rosie and my parents…”
Ivy didn’t think it was wise to get his hopes up; there was so much they still had to learn. She squeezed his shoulder. “We’ve only been here a minute—we don’t know what’s going to happen. Let’s get this over with first.”
She locked eyes with him, and his expression hardened. “Yeah, OK. You’re right.”
The clip of heels suddenly disturbed the quiet street.
Ivy tensed. “Someone’s coming.”
Seb—who had finally regained his composure—craned his neck around the corner of the crates to get a better view. Ivy lowered her head, peeking through a gap.
Someone wearing a long gray cloak and red stilettos swept along the road. As the figure turned, Ivy, Seb and Valian glimpsed a pale face and a long dark braid.
Selena Grimes. She looked exactly the same as she did in Ivy’s time, almost fifty years later—except that in sixties Lundinor her feet touched the ground. Ivy was looking at a living Selena Grimes. “What’s she doing here?”
“I don’t know, but I can’t see Amos yet,” Valian whispered. “Let’s follow her—she might lead us to him.”
Seb got to his feet. “She’s heading down the street opposite.”
They pursued Selena from a distance, mixing with the traders on the main roads and hiding in the shadows, where it was quieter. Selena’s heels were so noisy, they were always able to locate her, even if she occasionally drifted out of sight. The other uncommoners didn’t give them a second glance. Ivy hoped none of them had a good memory for faces. Her mind kept returning to the consequences of their time travel, but she tried not to dwell on it.
“Look at what they’re using to fly,” Seb said. “Vintage.” He signaled toward a stream of traders sweeping over the rooftops on vacuum cleaners with flowery fabric bags hanging from the back.
As they continued, Ivy noticed further evidence of the fact that they were walking through a Lundinor of another era—shop signs painted in old-fashioned lettering, and goods displayed in wicker baskets behind dusty wood-framed windows. Traders called, “Cheerio!” as they left buildings; fashion pieces from later decades were missing from their Hobsmatch.
All at once Valian pointed to a recess in the wall. “Quick—in there. I think she’s going inside.”
They watched from the shadows as Selena stopped outside a door. Instead of producing a key to open it, she stamped one of her stilettos twice on the ground, and they saw a circular metal panel set into the cobbles beneath her feet.
“Drain cover?” Seb mouthed.
With a swish, the disk slid open and Selena Grimes descended into the ground as if there was a platform under her feet, lowering her down. Ivy tensed. The only thing she knew about the drains of Lundinor was that they were inhabited by foul races of the dead.
“We’d better find out what’s down there,” Valian decided.
They waited thirty seconds before sneaking after Selena. The drain cover was only big enough for one person to stand on at a time. Ivy went first. She held her yo-yo in front of her, ready for anything that might jump out when she reached the bottom.
An empty stainless-steel tunnel welcomed her. She pressed herself against the cold wall as she waited for Seb and Valian to descend behind her. The air smelled musty and the floor was wet.
“Ivy—anything down here?” Seb asked, appearing in a crouch on the drain cover. He aimed the light from his cell phone ahead of them.
The end of the passageway was shrouded in shadow; there was no sign of movement. “Nothing yet.” Ivy touched her satchel, thinking of the Great Uncommon Bag inside. If anything happened, they would need to escape fast.
Valian joined them as they crept nervously along the tunnel. The farther they went, the closer the walls seemed to draw in. Eventually the ceiling was so low, Seb had to bend his knees. “OK, this place is definitely getting smaller. What’s going on?” He directed his phone into the distance. The tunnel appeared to shrink to a point at the very end.
“I don’t get it,” Ivy said. “There’s no way out. Where did Selena go?”
Valian narrowed his eyes. “There must be a clue somewhere.”
They continued as far as they could, crawling on their hands and knees when there wasn’t enough room to stand. At the very end of the tunnel Seb swept the light across the wall. Writing had been scratched into the surface, but there was so much, and in so many different hands, that it looked like one huge scribble.
“The crooked sixpence,” Ivy said shakily. “Look.” The coin appeared six times in a circle, the face of each featuring the masked head of a different member of the Dirge, with their code name written below.
“Over here—there’s something written on the other wall.” Seb lifted his phone to illuminate words etched into the steel.
Sing a song of sixpence
A pocket full of spies,
Tell us what you’re seeking
And someone shall reply.
“It’s like the creepiest answering machine message ever.”
Valian scrutinized the tunnel. “This has to be where the Dirge’s followers came to contact them. They had a whole army working for them in the sixties—a pocket full of spies, like the message says. They must have built secret gateways like this all over Lundinor in order to communicate.”
“So that’s what Selena was doing down here—trying to contact the Dirge.” Ivy picked up a jagged piece of flint and held it to the wall. “You must have to scratch your response; that’s what all this writing is. If only Selena’s wasn’t lost with the others.”
Valian patted his jacket pocket. “I might have something that can help with that.” He retrieved a small plastic
flashlight and aimed it at the wall. “People claim you can find a needle in a haystack with an uncommon flashlight. I’ve only ever found stuff that I’d misplaced in my room.”
Seb folded his arms, impressed. “I swear you’ve got more gadgets in that pocket than Q from the James Bond films.”
“Who’s James Bond?” Valian asked, flicking the flashlight switch back and forth.
Seb stared at him. “You’re kidding, right? First Scratch doesn’t know about Star Wars, and now this?”
“Valian, is it working?” Ivy asked. No light was coming from it.
“Shhh.” Valian flicked the switch one last time. “It works with sound, not light. I’ve told it to find Selena’s handwriting.”
Ivy listened carefully. The flashlight was clicking. As Valian waved it over the walls, the clicking sped up or slowed down depending on where he positioned it. In no time at all he’d pinpointed Selena’s response.
“I still can’t see it,” Ivy said, shuffling closer. “There’s too much other writing here.”
Valian flicked the flashlight switch again, and the pattern of clicks changed. “It’s in Morse code now; it should spell out the message for us. Seb—write this down.”
Seb made notes on his phone as Valian deciphered a string of letters from the pattern of dots and dashes.
“I ask the masters of death to change my future,” Seb read when the flashlight had finished. “The ‘masters of death’ must mean the Dirge—it’s as if Selena wanted their help.”
The sound of a knife being sharpened filled the tunnel, and the floor trembled. Ivy steadied herself. “What’s happening?”
The walls drew back and the tunnel got bigger. There was a loud clang and the end of the passageway expanded like the pupil of an eye into a dark cave with a low ceiling. The three of them got to their feet and edged in slowly.
The air was cold and damp. Pillars of sandy rock stood sandwiched between floor and ceiling, casting strange shadows. Somewhere in the distance, water was dripping. Ivy flinched as the tunnel entrance closed behind them with a loud scrape. “Where are we?”
Valian stuffed his flashlight back into his pocket and retrieved his uncommon trowel. It was glowing. “Dead here. Hide.”
They managed to dive behind the nearest pillar just in time.
A man in a long-tailed velvet coat stepped through the cave wall close by. He had a handsome face with deep-set dark eyes and thick black hair. His high leather boots didn’t touch the ground.
Ivy squinted. There was something familiar about the line of his jaw.
Amos Stirling…?
She studied him carefully. He was much older than the boy from the postcard, but it was the same person—except that now he was dead. The Great Uncommon Bag must have delivered them to Amos; he’d just been following Selena.
Amos crouched, his eyes shifting from side to side. From his pocket he produced a glass conical flask containing a measure of glittering blue liquid and placed it on the cave floor. Out of his other pocket he took a lightbulb, which he balanced in the neck of the flask. Protecting his fist with his sleeve, he smashed the bulb.
Two streams of white light shot out, twirling in midair. They contorted into the shapes of two people—one hooded and wearing a mask, the other a woman with a long dark braid.
“A mixologist’s lightprint,” Valian whispered excitedly. “I’ve never actually seen one before. The light re-creates whatever just happened in this room.”
The hooded person began talking. “There will be no turning back, Miss Grimes. The process is irreversible.” He had a deep, coarse voice that set the liquid in the flask trembling. “The trade is simple: we will turn you into a ghoul and, in payment, you will serve us in any way we require.”
Ivy shuddered. Why on earth had Selena Grimes asked the Dirge to turn her into a ghoul? She watched curiously as Selena’s figure handed over what appeared to be a violin.
“Your soul will fracture in two,” the masked man told her, holding the instrument aloft. “The larger part will form a ghoul, but the other piece will remain trapped inside this object, which we shall keep. If you decide to break our agreement at any time, we will reconnect the two parts of your soul and you will become Departed. You will cease to be.”
Ivy couldn’t believe it. The Dirge could turn the living into the dead and they had mastered the secret of turning the dead into the Departed! Perhaps that was what all their forbidden research had amounted to.
Amos shook his head.
With a loud crackle, Selena’s form dissolved and another stream of light surged out of the broken bulb, shaping itself into a different person in a hood and mask.
The original masked man lowered his head. “My leader, Blackclaw. The contract with Selena Grimes is done.” Ivy realized with a sinking feeling that they had been joined by her great-grandfather Octavius Wrench: he was the Fallen Guild’s leader! “I am also pleased to announce the successful capture of two additional members of the Rasavatum. As with the others, if they will not swear loyalty, they will be disposed of.”
“Good work, Monkshood,” Blackclaw remarked in a clear, rich voice. “Pity about Amos Stirling. So talented a person would have been useful. Still, the library is the only prize of interest. Given access to a thousand years of mixology, we can master the art ourselves.”
Ivy swallowed. The Dirge hadn’t persuaded the Rasavatum to serve them at all; they’d dismantled their guild, picking off members one by one—and Amos Stirling had been one of their victims.
A high-pitched metallic scrape resonated through the cave. Immediately Amos knocked the smashed bulb onto the floor and stowed the conical flask back in his pocket. The figures of light vaporized.
A circular stainless-steel panel appeared in the cave wall and started opening. Ivy pressed herself back against the pillar. The three of them were within sight of whoever was about to enter, but if they tried to move, Amos would see them. She pulled the Great Uncommon Bag out of her satchel, reminding herself that if they were discovered in 1967, the ramifications would be catastrophic.
“We’re going,” she decided. “Now.”
Crawling out into their room at the Cabbage Moon, Ivy found Seb and Valian glowering in the direction of the bunks.
“Johnny Hands?” she exclaimed, getting to her feet. The ghoul was sitting on her bed, his feet hovering a few inches off the floor. He glimpsed the Great Uncommon Bag and a line appeared between his brows.
“Welcome back,” he said, adding, “I’m here to escort you to my master. We don’t have much time.”
Valian folded his arms. “Your master? I thought you were an independent scout, like me.”
Ivy recalled her conversation with Johnny Hands in the infirmary. With everything that had happened since, she’d forgotten to tell Valian or Seb. “Why does Mr. Punch want to see us?”
Johnny Hands rose to his feet. “He will explain himself, but we have to be quick,” he said urgently. “Follow me.”
“Whoa—hold everything,” Valian said, gesticulating wildly. “You work for Mr. Punch? Since when?”
Johnny Hands counted on his fingers. “Let me see…Probably for coming up on two hundred years.” He went to open the door. After seeing him dissolve through the roof of the featherlight mailhouse, Ivy wasn’t sure why he was bothering. “Now please, come along.”
Seb scanned the room. “Hang on, where’s Judy? She was meant to meet us here.”
“Mr. Littlefair sent her on an errand,” Johnny Hands said dismissively, brushing a hand through the air. “Now, I really must insist: hurry!”
Outside Mr. Punch’s curiosity shop, a green silk ribbon was writing in the air:
Welcome, welcome, one and all! Curiosity awaits!
The last time Ivy had visited Mr. Punch’s shop it was a small brick house—painted fig-purple—with a slate ro
of and wrought-iron shop sign. Inside, Ivy had discovered a collection of uncommon objects stored in glass cabinets, wooden trunks and jeweled chests.
That was then.
Facing Ivy now was a colossal purple big top, the kind you’d see at a circus, the peaks so steep and tall, they looked like a mountain range at dusk. Waving furiously atop each one was a white flag decorated with Mr. Punch’s logo—a black top hat.
“I’ll wait here,” Johnny Hands said, hovering by the entrance.
Ivy smoothed down her kurta before heading in, Seb and Valian trudging along behind.
It was dark and quiet inside the tent. Boxes sat in shadow around the walls while, in the center, a white spotlight lit up the sandy floor. On either side stood two towers accessed by rope ladders, with a trapeze hanging between them. The sounds of Lundinor were muffled by the thick walls, so the crunch of their footsteps echoed loudly.
“Hello?” Ivy called.
There was a clatter, and then the spotlight moved slowly across the tent, coming to rest on a platform at the top of one of the towers. Ivy saw a man in a black top hat sitting there, his legs hanging over the edge.
“That’s him,” Valian said quietly. “Mr. Punch.”
“It’s safe to climb the ladder,” a deep voice called down. “I knotted it myself.”
Ivy surveyed the platform from a distance. It was a strange place to have a meeting—but, hey, this was Lundinor. At the foot of the rope ladder she swung her satchel around and began to climb, Seb and Valian following behind. From the top, the tent looked even bigger.
“Here you go,” Mr. Punch said, shuffling along to make room. The platform was crammed with cases and boxes stuffed with uncommon objects. “Sorry about my collection—it never seems to fit in here as well as it does in a proper building.”
Seb sat down beside a gray stone plinth, his knees drawn up to his chest. Valian shuffled up between a rusty oilcan and a large model sailboat. Ivy took the space beside Mr. Punch. “I was told that you were behind the transformation of Lundinor,” she said, letting her legs hang over the edge like his. “Can’t you just change the tent whenever you want?”
The Uncommoners #2 Page 18
