The Crooked Sixpence (30 page)

She dived to her left and, in one swift movement, smashed the ebony-framed glass case with her knuckles. Ivy ignored the pain and grabbed the rope at the bottom of each bell, shaking them violently.

A shrill voice coughed. ‘
Cerberus!
' the bell on the left called.

‘
Erebus!
' the right bell added.

Then together: ‘
WAAAALLLLKIES!
'

Ivy slumped back against the wall as the ground shook. A sound like an approaching train filled the room. Cartimore scrambled away, trying to control the snake, which was squirming in his hands, desperate to escape. His face paled, and as Ivy watched in horror, the blood vessels in his eyes burst.

‘Selena! What's happening . . . ?
Argh!
' he screamed as the serpent finally broke free and slithered off across the floor and under the front door. ‘You idiot girl!' he shouted, and dived towards Ivy, lashing out with his gloved hand. She gritted her teeth as his knuckles met her cheek.

The grim-wolf howled. Selena swept up her skirt into one hand, revealing air between her and the floor. She turned towards the wall, aiming for a quick exit. ‘Cartimore, there isn't time! Go! Get out of here! The beasts will be—'

But before she could finish her warning, the dogs arrived. Now Ivy realized why the bells were called hell's bells: they had summoned the
hounds of hell
. Two dogs, each the size of a horse, smashed through the back wall. They steamed with heat, and around their feet the wooden floor was smoking. The air filled with the noxious smells of sulphur and charcoal. Shards of wood pierced the gunge that had imprisoned the bells, which immediately started screaming, ‘ETHEL!' ‘GUARDS!' ‘HELP!'

Ivy looked down. The hellhounds had missed her by inches, but Cartimore was lying in a heap, covered in slime. Goblin took one look at the hounds, gave a whine, and disappeared into the folds of Selena's black skirt.

‘S-Selena!' Cartimore shouted, his voice wobbling. ‘H-help me!'

Selena glanced at the hounds and glided halfway through the wall. Only her head and shoulders remained in the room.

Cartimore didn't seem surprised by her betrayal. He simply stuck his hand inside his coat and pulled out what looked like a glossy celebrity magazine.

‘Don't look at it, Ivy,' a voice urged. ‘Uncommon magazines stun people. He's trying to paralyse the hounds.'

Ivy turned. The desk bell was talking to her again, though this time not in her head – the slime that had encased the bells was dissolving now that the hell-hounds had arrived.

‘It won't work,' the bell insisted. ‘The hounds are impervious to uncommon objects. Only the bells can order them back to hell.'

The hellhounds assessed the room with their fire-pit eyes. At the sight of Cartimore their growling intensified. They sniffed the air and opened their mouths, forked black tongues rolling out over their colossal teeth. Ivy was fairly certain that they wanted to eat Cartimore and then destroy the entire place before running out onto the streets of Lundinor.
Just a nice little walkies; sure.
She looked over her shoulder. The two hell's bells were still swinging slightly on their hooks.

The desk bell spoke. ‘Ring them again.'

Ivy heard angry knocking. She looked over the top of the counter to see Selena disappearing through the wall.
Damn
. Ivy couldn't believe she'd escaped. She turned, and through the front door saw Officer Smokehart, Ethel and Valian.

She was so relieved, she almost forgot to ring the bells. Then the hellhounds barked. The glass in the front door and window shattered, sending the visitors tumbling backwards. Ivy came to her senses, grabbed the cord beneath each bell and shook them frantically.

‘
Cerberus!
' the first bell yelled. ‘
Erebus!
' the second followed.

‘
HOME TIME!
'

The hellhounds groaned and stamped their feet, sending a shower of flames around the room. Ivy started coughing. It was growing difficult to breathe.

Tendrils of black smoke crept up through the floorboards and wrapped themselves around each hound. The floor opened up, the wooden boards splitting apart, revealing only darkness and flames beneath. The hounds barked loudly before leaping into the pit.

The shop was left sizzling and stinking of sulphur. The bells shook off slime to douse the small fires, and through the thick smoke Ivy saw the unmistakable outline of her brother.

In the centre of the room, Cartimore groaned as a tall figure in black loomed over him.

‘Cartimore Edward Wrench,' Officer Smokehart announced, ‘I arrest you in the name of the four quartermasters of Lundinor. You have the right to remain silent, but anything you do say can be used against you in an uncommon court of trade.' He bent down and used a paperclip to fasten Cartimore's hands together.

Seb reached to help Ivy up. ‘Seb – the alarm clock,' she whispered. ‘We have to check it.'

She got it out of her pocket. The glass was still dirty and the bells rusted, but the hands were no longer black. They had turned white now, and had moved past midnight. Ivy saw her reflection in the glass. Her face was black with soot and splattered with slime, and her hair plastered to her forehead. But she wasn't dying, and the rotting faces of her parents were no longer visible. The countdown to their death had stopped. The Dirge had failed.

Ivy threw her arms around Seb.
It's over
, she thought.
It's really over.

She spied Officer Smokehart looking right at her. ‘Charges relating to you and the wraithmoth attack are dropped,' he said. His voice sounded detached, although there was the hint of a smile on his lips. She noticed the other underguards, gaping at the man Smokehart had just called Cartimore Wrench.

For the first time ever, Ivy thought, Smokehart actually looked happy. He had solved part of the Twelfth Night mystery, after all.

Ivy stood gazing up at a pointy-roofed, two-storey building with leaded windows and fig-purple walls. Around her, uncommoners were emerging from shops and taverns into the morning hush. There was a buzz of conversation – as there had been every morning since the arrest of Cartimore Wrench. Ivy spotted a skinny boy on a flying rug zipping around the chimney tops, throwing newspapers down onto the doorsteps below. She wondered if yesterday's trial would be on the front pages . . .

She stretched contentedly. Last night, which she had spent in her own bed at home, had been untroubled by dreams of the uncommon alarm clock. Her body was healing, even though she'd probably still have the bruises when she went back to school next week. She wondered if her friends would ask her what she'd done for New Year's Eve.

She'd have to lie, if they did. The truth was a secret only she, Seb and Granma Sylvie could share.

Ivy climbed the steps to the front door of Mr Punch's Curiosity Shop. The leaded windows sparkled; behind them, seashells, mirrors, teacups and other trinkets danced around at the end of silver chains. Above the door was a large wooden sign showing a black top hat – like the one Mr Punch had worn to deliver his emergency announcement. She paused as she wondered again why he had sent a featherlight to invite her here today. He was the most important man in Lundinor, after all, and she was a nobody.

The hanging objects jangled as Ivy pushed the front door open and stepped inside. Immediately she sensed that there was something different about this shop. Huge apricot-coloured ceiling lamps filled the room with warm light, and the air was perfumed with incense, which made her nose tingle. Bizarrely the floor was covered in sand, which crunched underfoot. The room was full of glass cabinets and metal trunks; the counters were crammed with the widest selection of
stuff
Ivy had ever seen in one place.

She carefully made her way forward, gaping at the objects on display. She could see why it was called a
curiosity
shop. She wondered what abilities each of the items possessed. Perhaps uncommon fountain pens were mightier than swords and uncommon pocket watches could turn back time. She doubted you wore uncommon ice-skates on your feet.

One object in particular caught Ivy's eye. Next to a white-lace parasol was a fur-trimmed tabard. She picked it up and saw that it was embroidered with gold flowers.

She frowned. She'd seen it before – on that bony man who had helped her escape from the underguard coach.

Next to the tabard lay a wooden sign. One edge was splintered, but she could tell that it wasn't uncommon. She read the words painted on the front:

INVISIBILITY CANDLES: 8 GRADE

Wait a sec . . .

Ivy was puzzled. The candle trader had been holding this sign, the morning she first arrived in Lundinor. Why on earth would it be here, in Mr Punch's curiosity shop?

Her mind buzzing, she jerked as a voice broke the silence.

‘Hello there.'

Ivy turned round, the tabard flapping in her hand. She squinted into the shadows at the back of the shop. ‘Hello?' she called uncertainly. ‘Uh, my name's—'

‘I know who you are.' It was a voice Ivy had never heard before: well-spoken but warm, like that of your favourite teacher.

She coughed and slowly slid the tabard back onto the shelf. ‘Um, Mr Punch asked me to stop by—'

‘Indeed he did,' the voice agreed, a little louder. Slowly a face appeared out of the darkness. Ivy inhaled with surprise. A middle-aged man with spectacles and a wiry white beard stepped forward. He was wearing a smart blue shirt with a black waistcoat and matching trousers. It was the kind of thing Ivy's dad might wear; definitely
not
the Hobsmatch of someone who traded in Lundinor. She looked at the man carefully. She didn't recognize him. Maybe he was Mr Punch's assistant.

‘Happy New Year, Ivy Sparrow,' he said, smiling. ‘I didn't get a chance to tell you yesterday, when I met you in court.'

Ivy frowned. She could swear she'd never seen this man before. ‘Uh – are you sure we met yesterday? I don't—'

Just then, she saw his face change. His white beard shortened, his spectacles disappeared and his skin turned the colour of milky tea.

‘Oh yes, I'm sure. I'm the one who thanked you, remember? For saving the citizens of Lundinor? For unmasking one of the members of the Dirge? It was a clever and brave thing that you and your brother did – and under so much pressure from that uncommon alarm clock.'

Ivy narrowed her eyes. It was Mr Punch who had said all those things to her yesterday . . .

She thought back to Cartimore's trial. It had been their evidence – hers and Seb's, along with the incriminating map and door that Smokehart had found in the featherlight mailhouse – that had helped convict Cartimore of organizing the wraithmoth attack and paying the selkies to sabotage the air filters. However, Cartimore had refused to answer any of the underguard's questions about his motives, so everyone in Lundinor was none the wiser about the Great Uncommon Good and the true reason for Granma Sylvie's disappearance.

At the end of Ivy's statement Smokehart had asked her if there was anything she wished to add, but she had shaken her head. Nobody would have believed her about Selena Grimes, least of all Smokehart. Ethel had agreed that she and Seb should keep the information secret until they could all find proper evidence. Still, Ivy couldn't help feeling that somewhere out there, Selena and the three remaining members of the Dirge were plotting to find the other four Great Uncommon Good.

The bearded man tilted his head. ‘Do you wish things had turned out differently?'

Ivy frowned. She didn't want to consider the
what if
s; it would only make her frustrated and bitter – like Cartimore had become after all those years. The truth was, Selena Grimes couldn't hide any more. Wherever and whenever she and the Dirge made their next move, Ivy, Seb, Valian and the others would be there, waiting for them. For all the death threats and danger, it seemed like everything had happened for a reason. Granma Sylvie now knew the truth about her past – which meant that Ivy and Seb had discovered their heritage as uncommoners, as part of Lundinor. Ivy wouldn't change that for the world.

‘No,' she answered finally. ‘Cartimore's gone now, that's what counts.'
Gone to a ghoul hole for life
, she reminded herself.

The man smiled. ‘Good. Now I have a gift for you.' He turned round and retrieved something from the counter behind him, then beckoned her over.

Ivy stepped forward nervously. She wasn't sure why he would be giving her anything – no one gave anything for free in Lundinor.

He handed her a pair of small white gloves.

‘These are for
me
?' On an impulse, she put them on. They were made of soft cotton with tucks over the knuckles, like smart dress gloves. A brown paper tag had been tied to one of the fingers. When Ivy held it up she discovered neat handwriting on the back:

Awarded to Miss Ivy Sparrow in gratitude for her highly commendable efforts in the fight against the Dirge.

Ivy smiled. She could feel the uncommon nature of the gloves – a gentle warmth – soaking through her fingertips and igniting her whispering. ‘But . . . these are uncommon,' she said. ‘Does this mean that I can
take the glove
?'

The man chuckled and looked at the gloves approvingly. ‘It means you have just taken it.'

Ivy stared down at her hands. The gloves were whispering in a way no other object had before. Her skin tingled and even her feet grew warm, as if she was standing in a hot bath. In her ears she could hear singing – not just one voice, but a whole choir, haunting and beautiful. She felt like she was being welcomed home.

Her eyes gleamed. ‘Thank you.' She watched the man curiously as his face changed again. His beard disappeared and a sprinkling of freckles spread across his forehead. ‘Um – are you . . . Mr Punch?' she asked.