Somebody Stop Ivy Pocket (15 page)

Rebecca was in grave trouble. Frightful peril. She was being treated monstrously. Who knew where that brute was dragging her away to? Nowhere pleasant, I was sure of that! A great ocean of fury churned and crashed inside me. Never had I felt such blinding anger.

As I turned down Winslow Street, the air appeared to thicken around me. It began to buzz urgently and somehow slow, though I continued to move with ease. The Clock Diamond was so hot against my skin I was certain it was blistering my chest. The stone’s glow erupted from under my nightdress, an orb of orange and yellow, lighting the footpath before me. I must have looked positively ghostly. Luckily, there was no sign
of that tomato-headed constable.

Rebecca was a constant in my thoughts. But I did not think about where she was. Or if I would be able to reach Prospa House. For as I prepared to cross the street, the lamp post beside me melted into the footpath. The road beneath my feet, with its damp cobblestones, dissolved like mud and sank into the darkness, as thick blocks of silvery stone took its place. An empty carriage fell away. Number six of Ambrose Crabtree’s rules promised that
strong emotion … lifts the veil
. He was awfully clever for a crackpot.

Before I even reached it, the shoe factory and the boarding house on either side of the empty lot began to ripple and bend and blur. Then they vanished as if the earth had opened its mouth and swallowed them up. The ground shook, the buzzing intensified, and I was not even slightly shocked when Prospa House rose before me, with its ribbed columns, high white walls and countless windows. This time pale woodlands grew up around it, like thousands of ghostly guards surrounding the building. The effect was rather chilling.

Not that I had anything to fear. As I had learned on my last visit, I was something of a ghost in this world. Couldn’t even hold a door handle. As I walked the path between the blood-red hedges, I looked up to see if any of the windows had a light burning in them. As I did, I looked for the first time at the night
sky. It was dark and empty, save for the three-quarter-moon. I might have wondered whether it was the same moon I had seen above London just moments before – if not for the fact that
this
moon had an emerald hue.

All the windows were darkened. I walked around the side of the building. Glanced up again. The warm yolk of candlelight glowed from a window on the first floor. It was open, the curtains fluttering gently in the night air. Even better, there was a rather large white tree close by, allowing perfect access to the window from a helpful branch. What a stroke of great fortune!

I heard the sound of muffled voices, the stomping of feet. But it sounded as if they were coming from the other side of the building. I felt safe enough to begin.

But how? How was I to climb a tree if I were little more than a spirit in Prospa? In a display of hot-blooded frustration, I hit the tree trunk with gusto and kicked it once or twice. Then gasped with delight. Reached out again and touched the tree trunk. It felt strangely warm beneath my skin. For whatever reason, I seemed to be more fully in Prospa on this visit.

I hitched up my nightdress and, gripping the trunk as if it were a rich aunt with no dependents, began my ascent. The tree was wonderfully knotted, so there were plenty of places to grasp. When it was within reach, I grabbed the lowest branch
and moved from limb to limb, clambering up with ease.

When I was high enough, I crawled along the thick bough towards the window. Unfortunately, the branch stopped short of the window ledge. A certain amount of jumping would be required. I was now looking directly through the window and couldn’t see anybody about. Perfect. I tastefully assumed a squatting position, took a deep breath, then leapt into the air with all the enthusiasm of an ill-tempered kangaroo.

My landing was slightly clumsy. I heard something snap as my left leg hit the narrow stone ledge. Luckily, being half dead I am immune to such injuries and the pain dissolved in no time. I grabbed the sides of the window casing. Quickly found my footing. Slipped through the open window. The room was dark. Walls a gloomy shade of purple. Door shut. A half-burned candle sat on a low table.

I grabbed it to help me have a look around. The room was bare. An iron bed. Single chair against the wall. White floor. Apart from the wall colour, it was just like the room I had seen Rebecca in. Which meant my friend must be close by. I strode towards the door with the kind of confidence only an invisible girl in a strange house can muster.

‘No more,’ came a rasping voice. ‘Please, not another one.’

I jumped. ‘Who’s there?’

The voice had come from the corner of the room. Naturally,
I hurried there, candle extended. ‘It’s plain bad manners to skulk about in the shadows. Show yourself this instant!’

‘Not another one,’ said the voice again. ‘I haven’t … I haven’t the strength.’

The candle’s flame threw golden shadows upon the wall. It took a moment or two to find him – huddled in the corner, sitting upon the floor. I crouched down. Lifted the candle to get a better look. But the light made him flinch, his hands flying over his eyes. The man’s skin was terribly pale, almost transparent. It was as if you could see
through
it, to the purple wall behind. Which was most peculiar.

And just like Rebecca when I saw her in the stone, the poor man seemed to give off a faint glow. Not enough to brighten the gloomy corner of the room, but more like the last embers of a fading light burning within him.

‘Please … no more.’

‘I’m not here to hurt you, dear. I have come in search of my friend – her name is Rebecca Butterfield. Do you know where I might find her?’

‘You aren’t one of them?’

‘One of
who
?’

The man slowly lowered his hands. Lifted his head. Opened his eyes. He had sunken cheeks. Grey whiskers. A vacant stare. Still, there was no doubt. It was him.

‘Mr Blackhorn?’

Tears pooled in his eyes as they roamed my face. I cannot say if he recognised me or not. My thoughts were a tempest. How could I be face to face with Mr Blackhorn? The same Mr Blackhorn to whom I had read a charming bedside poem. The same Mr Blackhorn whose wife had a delightfully unruly wig. The same Mr Blackhorn who was to be buried by the Snagsbys tomorrow afternoon!

‘What happened to you, dear?’ I said urgently. ‘How on earth did you get here?’

I heard the jangle of keys just moments before the door flew open. Acting with lightning speed, I quickly blew out the candle and rolled under the bed. A set of black boots stalked into the shadowy chamber and crossed to the window.

‘Justice Hallow must be awful fond of you, Mr Blackhorn.’ The woman had a voice of the deep and booming variety. ‘None of the others get their room aired out every night.’

I heard the window being closed and took the opportunity to slide out and hide behind the door. From there I got a good look at the intruder. Her hair was dark and shorn close to her skull. Her face battle-scarred and boorish. She wore a stiff white dress with a high neck and the same revolting orange coat I had seen on those two men during my first visit. A dagger hung from her belt.

‘Bed for you,’ she said, crossing the room. When the frail man stumbled as he tried to stand, she lifted him as if he were an infant and carried him to the bed. ‘You’ve got work again tomorrow, so rest up.’

Mr Blackhorn began to whimper and sob. Which was heartbreaking. But I could not forget my mission. Nor could I forget number eight of Ambrose Crabtree’s rules –
do not stay longer than thirty minutes.
Time was against me.

With the bald barracuda occupied tucking Mr Blackhorn into bed, I shot out from behind the door and tiptoed from the room. Well, that was the plan. Alas, the unsightly creature seemed to have the instincts of a jungle cat. She spun around and was charging at me before I crossed the threshold.

Luckily, she had left her keys in the lock. So I slammed the door shut and locked it. Naturally, she did a great deal of thunderous banging. Quite a bit of yelling. Something about pulling me limb from limb and roasting me slowly on a spit.

By then I was already charging down the vast hall, her set of heavy copper keys clutched in my hand (it was my firm belief that
one
of them would unlock the door of Rebecca’s room). All I had to do was find it.

As I ran, I noticed something remarkable about the wide hallway – while its walls, ceilings and floors were white, each unmarked door was a different shade of purple – from the
deepest, darkest hue at one end, to the faintest of lilacs at the other.

At the far end of the corridor, I found a grand staircase. As the building was seven or eight storeys high, I decided to head up not down, taking two steps at a time. The next level was another enormous hallway, dotted with unmarked doors. All in shades of blue. The floor above that, green.

Despite the tightness in my chest, I tore up the stairs again to the next floor. And stopped. Panting. Relieved. For it was another hall, filled with a great bank of doors on either side – in every shade of yellow. At last! Now all I had to do was try and recall the
exact
hue I had seen in the vision of Rebecca’s room. Then I would find my friend.

I ran down the hall, past the deeper shades, only stopping when the golds began to soften. From there, I felt the safest thing to do was bang on all the doors calling Rebecca’s name. And I would have too (it was a perfectly good plan), if not for the Clock Diamond. It began to flare under my nightdress. I scooped it out and when I looked within the stone it was wondrously, marvellously yellow. Surely it
must
be the shade I had seen in Rebecca’s room?

I ran past the last two dozen doors holding the clock diamond against each one. Found a perfect match in mere seconds. Tucked the Clock Diamond away and tried to open
the door. Of course, it was locked.

‘Rebecca,’ I called, banging on the door, ‘are you in there, dear?’

I didn’t wait for a reply. Just lifted the great bundle of keys and began trying each one, praying every time that it would unlock the door.

‘You are no doubt stunned that I have found you,’ I went on. ‘Much of the credit must go to a kindly wizard I met at Covent Garden Market by the name of Ambrose Crabtree. For the princely sum of three lemon tarts and a poodle, he taught me a frightfully mystical technique called “Lifting the Veil” – and it would seem I’m rather good at it.’

‘Ivy –’

‘And I had little trouble breaking into this beastly house thanks to an open window and a handy tree – the Pockets are prone to such timely strokes of good fortune. I have a distant cousin by the name of Jack who had the most thrilling luck with a handful of beans.’

‘I knew you would come, Ivy.’

Rebecca! I heard movement from the other side of the door and I was certain that my friend was pressed against it. Only a piece of wood separated us now.

‘Of course I have come,’ I said, trying another three keys with rapid speed. ‘I know you have been suffering horribly,
dear, but that is over now. We will be back in London in no time.’

‘You have done just as they hoped,’ said Rebecca, her voice so faint I had to strain to hear it. ‘They wanted me to draw you here … but I
tried
to warn you, Ivy. Why did you not listen?’

‘Was I supposed to leave you in this place?’ I said, pulling out another key and replacing it with the next.

‘Yes, that is just what you must do.’ Rebecca’s voice found new strength. ‘Oh, Ivy, you must go – no good can come of this.’

‘
Every
good can come of this. You belong at home with your family – they will be beside themselves with joy at Butterfield Park when you return.’

‘Stop it!’ The harshness in her words stung me. ‘You don’t understand, it is too late for any of that.’

Silence. I could hear her breathing through the door. Or perhaps I imagined it.

‘Rebecca, what are they doing to you? What is happening in this house?’

‘The end of hope,’ she replied, ‘for it cannot survive here. I have accepted my fate, Ivy, and now you must too. If you come again, it will only make things worse for me. Leave Prospa and do not come back.’

‘I am not leaving without you.’

‘You
must
, for if they find you they will –’

‘There she is!’ Then a loud whistle.

I turned, the keys tumbling from my hand. Coming towards me was the hulking beast I had locked in Mr Blackhorn’s room downstairs, and beside her, a rather enormous man with the same buzzed haircut and orange coat.

‘I may have to delay your rescue, dear,’ I called out with tremendous calm.

Rebecca pounded on the door. ‘Run, Ivy! Get far away!’

But I didn’t. ‘Fear not, Rebecca. Number seven in Ambrose Crabtree’s list of rules states that only my soul has crossed into Prospa and I cannot be harmed. I am safely back in London, even as we speak. So you see, nothing at all to worry about.’

Which made it something of a shock when the two burly guards grabbed me by the arms and threw me against the wall.

The female ruffian gawked at me. Then gasped. ‘It’s
her
.’

‘She’s awake,’ trumpeted her male counterpart. ‘Justice Hallow will gives us medals for this.’

‘Unhand me this instant, or I shall administer the cruellest of thrashings to you both!’

In response, they began dragging me down the hallway. I did the reasonable thing – screamed, tried my best to bite them viciously, kicked with great enthusiasm. My captors barely flinched. We had just reached the stairwell when I stomped on the woman’s boot. It helped. The mean-spirited cow bellowed
and released her grip on my arm. Which I quickly put to good use, poking her pigeon-brained sidekick in the left eyeball. He let out a cry that would shock a midwife and stumbled back.

I took off like a light, racing towards Rebecca’s room. Scooped up the keys and began another feeble round of roulette, hoping against hope that I might find the right key and free her.

‘Hold tight, dear!’ I called out.

‘Go, Ivy! Go this instant!’

‘Stuff and nonsense. I cannot leave you here and I won’t.’