The Crooked Sixpence (14 page)

Ethel sighed. ‘It's not that simple, love, I'm afraid.'

Seb dropped his head into his hands. The sarcasm was gone. Ivy realized that he was in the same state of panic and desperation as her. She tried to think. ‘The black feather wrote:
You have something that is valuable to us
,' she reminded everyone. ‘Does anyone know what the Dirge are talking about?'

Valian shook his head. Ethel shrugged. ‘It could be anything. The Dirge did everything in secret. No one knew any of their real plans. It was all rumour and speculation.'

Granma Sylvie sighed. ‘It's useless me trying to remember. I have no idea.'

Ethel reached for the uncommon alarm clock again. ‘By the looks of this you've got till the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve to get an idea,' she said, not unkindly.

Two days to change the future
, Ivy thought. That was it.

‘We need a plan,' Ethel went on. ‘There's no use moping around 'ere, the three of you, trying to figure it out. We need answers and there's only one place we're gonna get those.' She straightened, her hands on her hips. For the second time that day Ivy got the impression of a formidable woman; a warrior, with the battle lines drawn on her face to prove it. ‘Ivy, Seb? You're coming back to Lundinor with me. I 'ave old friends there – people I trust – you can stay with them.'

Seb looked at Ivy. ‘I'm not so sure that's a good idea. We don't fit in there. Won't we be in more danger?'

‘There'll be no arguments about it,' Ethel insisted. ‘If your parents 'ave been kidnapped by the Dirge, you're not going to save them from this hospital room. Besides, who's gonna protect you 'ere?'

Ivy snuggled closer to Granma Sylvie. She didn't want to leave her again, she really didn't.
But Ethel was right.
They couldn't just hang around the hospital for two days waiting to see if Granma Sylvie remembered anything. Her mum and dad were going to die if they didn't act.

Her granma frowned. ‘I – I don't know . . .'

Ethel gestured around the room. ‘You're safe 'ere, Sylv. The underguard 'ave already been to question you and left with nothing. The Dirge won't come after you again until the deadline's up.'

Granma Sylvie put a hand on Ivy's shoulder. ‘If only I could remember . . .' She sniffed and wiped her eyes. ‘What have I done? What
did
I do?'

Ivy's spirits continued to plummet. Ethel and Valian were looking at each other bleakly; whatever they were thinking, it wasn't good. Ivy had to hope she could save her mum and dad by working out what it was the Dirge wanted from Granma Sylvie. The trouble was, she didn't have a clue where to start.

She glanced over at Seb. Sometimes, when she was upset or worried, she'd look at her mum or dad and all her worries would just fade away.

Seb's head was lowered. Ivy couldn't see his eyes – but it didn't matter because she had already noticed the two dark patches that had formed on his jeans. He was crying.

Ivy rolled her shoulders back and groaned. Her whole body was still sore from yesterday's bike crash, and the lumpy mattress she was laying on only made things worse. She looked around at the walls of an unfamiliar bedroom. There was a single window draped with spotty yellow curtains, and an empty fireplace set between two wardrobes painted in peeling duck-egg blue.

Only the chimney breast had been wallpapered – a thick white paper veined with hundreds of different fold-lines. As Ivy watched, one corner of the paper peeled away from the wall with a loud crumpling sound and folded over into a triangle. She sat up in bed, looking on with wide eyes as the rest of the wallpaper did the same, lifting and folding, crimping and twirling. Ivy had once seen a boy at school do origami, but it had never looked this fast or intricate. In the end, the paper had rearranged itself into a vase of huge white orchids perched on the mantelpiece.

‘Whoa . . .' Ivy whispered. Impressed didn't even cover it.

‘You're awake then?' Seb asked from above her.

‘I'm awake,' she called, yawning. They were in bunk beds. Ivy had a vague recollection of climbing some creaking wooden stairs and being escorted into the bedroom by Ethel and a kind man with a doughy face and blue eyes.

‘I've been awake for an hour, listening to music,' Seb continued. ‘Couldn't get back to sleep. And it's not just because this mattress seems to be filled with marbles. I can't stop thinking about Mum and Dad . . .'

Ivy's stomach turned over. For a second – for a tiny blissful second – she'd forgotten about the Dirge and the parent-napping. Her heart sank as she saw her duffel coat hanging over the back of a chair by the bed; on the cushion was Granma Sylvie's handbag, Scratch and the uncommon alarm clock.

She let her head fall back against the pillow as the vision of her parents' decaying faces swirled in front of her eyes.

The bunk bed creaked. Ivy watched Seb's legs swing over the edge, and then he landed with a thud on the polished floorboards. ‘I've been thinking,' he said. ‘That thing the Dirge want . . . it must be something Granma had before she disappeared on Twelfth Night 1969, so we have to find out more about her life when she was here.'

‘Ethel was her closest friend,' Ivy reminded him, ‘but even she doesn't know what they're after, so . . .'

‘So we'll have to do some digging,' Seb decided. ‘There must be other traders here who knew Granma.'

Ivy looked closely at her brother. There were dark circles around his bloodshot eyes, and after the rain yesterday, his thick blond hair was a mass of bedraggled curls.

‘We're Mum and Dad's only hope, Ivy.' He grabbed a towel hanging over the end of the bunk bed. ‘I'm gonna go wash my face. Let's start as soon as you're ready.'

There was a small bathroom leading off the bedroom. While Seb was getting ready, Ivy sat on the edge of her bed, thinking. So much had happened yesterday that she hadn't had time to address what was going on with
her
. She picked up Scratch and gazed at him. Her palms tingled pleasantly.

‘Scratch,' she whispered. ‘I need to ask you something.'

Scratch stirred. ‘Ivy mornings.' He sounded as if he was yawning. ‘Helpings Scratch can will.'

‘Do uncommon objects ever feel . . . warm at all? Kind of like body temperature.'

‘Guessings the object what depends it. Normal to no.'

Ivy bit her lip. ‘It's just . . . Whenever I touch something that's uncommon, it feels warm, like it's been left out in the sun; and then the feeling spreads and starts to tickle . . . And then sometimes, if I concentrate really hard, I kind of' – she hesitated – ‘hear voices coming from it . . .'

Scratch was still. ‘Ivy,' he said quietly. ‘Scratch meanings to know.' He turned warmer, vibrating strongly in her hands.

‘What is it?' She could sense his fear. ‘It's OK, Scratch. You can tell me.'

The bell spoke softly. ‘Ivy beings a . . . a
whisperer
.'

‘A what?'

‘A whisperer.' Scratch sounded terrified. ‘Whispering gift of sensing soul a part trapped inside.'

He fell silent for a moment. How strange it must be for him, she thought; after all,
he
was uncommon. She tried to still her hands, but she was too overwhelmed. Whispering seemed like a very dangerous gift; a gift she hadn't asked for. ‘Do you know anything else about it? Like, can I turn it off?'

Scratch quivered. ‘Strong must beings Ivy's whispering, voices hearing because only if strong. But . . . Scratch does understandings not enough: whispering beings impossible to children.'

Ivy tried to decipher what Scratch was saying. He was talking fast, sounding nervous, which made it more difficult for her to understand. ‘Whisperers are normally adults, then?'

‘Yes's. Running it through family normals. Bad things to whisperers happen long ago.'

‘Bad things?' Ivy asked uneasily.

‘Whisperers forcing to work,' Scratch said. ‘Chased whisperers throughout history. Must be whisperers quiet.'

Ivy held her breath. Being a whisperer sounded like more of a curse than a blessing. She would have to be careful who she told. Before she could ask Scratch any more, Seb burst through the door.

‘Bathroom's free,' he said, swinging a towel over his shoulder. He was wearing a fresh hoodie and jeans, and his trainers had been cleaned. Ethel must have been back to Granma Sylvie's house and picked them up last night.

‘I hope you actually washed,' Ivy said with a frown. He never did at home. His bedroom always smelled of sweat.

Seb threw the towel at her bed. ‘I hope you can actually reach the basin, titch.'

Valian was waiting on the landing when they emerged from their room. Against the light from the second-floor window, his slim, black silhouette looked like a ninja. Ivy saw that he was scowling.

‘You're still here?' Seb grunted. ‘Aren't there some other people you can go and annoy?'

Ivy headed towards the stairs. ‘He has to be here,' she said.

‘Don't think I don't have better things to do with my time than babysit you losers,' Valian muttered, following them. ‘But I shook on it with Ethel, so I have to be your bodyguard till the end of trade.
Every waking moment
, she said. Brilliant.'

Seb looked at him. ‘Do you see us bringing out the party poppers?'

Ivy gritted her teeth. Valian was going to get in the way of their digging, and besides, she didn't trust him. The way his eyes had lit up yesterday when they'd been talking about the Dirge . . . Just the thought made her skin crawl.

As they went downstairs, Ivy stuffed her hands into her empty coat pockets. She'd left Granma Sylvie's cumbersome handbag and all its contents in the bedroom, along with the uncommon alarm clock and Thaddeus Kandinsky's useless guide. She almost put Scratch in her pocket, but in the end it seemed safer for him to stay behind.

Down in the hall, Ivy quickly remembered everything from the previous evening – the threadbare patterned carpet, the worn leather sofas, the set of sun-bleached watercolours. It looked like a crummy seaside hotel, badly in need of refurbishment.

Valian gestured around. ‘Welcome to the Cabbage Moon Inn,' he announced sarcastically. ‘Best guestrooms in the land.'

They walked into a large dining room that echoed with the clink of glasses and laughter. Delicate paper snowflakes dangled from the ceiling and wreaths heavy with berries hung on the walls. Ivy could smell bacon and baked beans. Long wooden tables seated all manner of Hobsmatched guests, and behind a bar at the back, the doughy-faced man was busy polishing some cutlery.

‘That's the innkeeper, Mr Littlefair,' Valian whispered in her ear. ‘Old friend of Ethel's.'

Ivy did a double take as she approached the bar. There were bottles and flasks of different coloured fluids, some steaming and bubbling, and above, where the pint glasses and wine glasses would have been stored in a normal pub, hung rows and rows of spectacles, sunglasses and reading glasses.

‘Why is th—?'

Her question was lost as Seb bumped into her, knocking her aside.

‘Mind out!' he called, ducking his head and swatting at something. Ivy looked up and saw a meringue-topped pie crust bouncing through the air. ‘Don't tell me you eat stuff that moves now,' Seb groaned. ‘Doesn't that give you indigestion?'

‘
That
is Lemon Meringue Sky,' Valian corrected him. ‘A speciality in Lundinor. You should try some.' He nodded at the nearest table, which had been taken by a large family wearing matching zookeeper uniforms. In the middle were bowls of cinnamon porridge and cereal, racks of toast and tiny jars of jam. ‘Breakfast comes with the room so you might as well eat.' He pointed to a table at the back. ‘There's space over there.'

Ivy flashed a look at Seb. She wondered if he had any appetite; she certainly didn't. Still, they could try asking the diners about Granma Sylvie.

She glanced back at the family in zookeeper uniforms. The youngest, a toddler with an Elizabethan ruff around his neck (which also doubled as a bib), was throwing something lumpy and glittery at his siblings. Ivy couldn't believe that this – that Lundinor – was part of normal life for some families.

As they headed across the room, a few dishes caught Ivy's eye. There were pies with jumping crusts, muffins that sprouted fresh strawberries and even pots of honey that buzzed like a hive itself. ‘I didn't expect food to be uncommon,' she admitted.

‘It isn't,' Valian told her. ‘What they prepare it with is – ladles, terrines, ovens, hot plates – they make normal recipes turn out crazy.' He whipped a paper napkin off a table and laid it out on his other hand. ‘Special Branch are always arresting uncommoners for cooking with uncommon objects outside undermarts. It's illegal, but so tempting.'

Ivy frowned as she watched him take item after item off people's tables, laying them delicately on his serviette, as if it was some kind of buffet.

She looked at the other customers. By the far door a group of men in football shirts, fishing waders and feathered hats were toasting each other with champagne glasses full of something green and sparkling. On the benches opposite them, a couple of traders in baseball caps and choirboy robes shared a dark bottle of something that appeared to be smoking. Ivy wondered what uncommoners' lives were like when they weren't in Lundinor. ‘Where do uncommoners live the rest of the year?' she asked.

Valian pinched a slice of toast and deposited it on his napkin. ‘Same places muckers do. Your neighbour could be an uncommoner – you'd never know. Uncommoners learn to live secret lives, keeping their collections hidden. Special Branch monitor the use of uncommon objects outside undermarts. Lundinor's only open three times a year; most uncommoners have regular jobs the rest of the time. The big traders spend months building up their collection or getting someone to do it for them.' He pointed to his chest with his thumb, carefully balancing his mountain of food. ‘That's my job. I'm a scout. People pay me to find stuff for them.'