The Uncommoners #2 Page 17

  Seb shifted his weight, eyes down. Ivy didn’t bother offering a defense; Smokehart wasn’t going to believe her.

  Remembering something, she felt for her satchel and clicked the clasp shut….Amos’s journal was inside.

  One of the castleguards approached the inspector, clearing his throat. “We think it’s some kind of time-delay blackfire concoction, sir. Never seen the formula before; must be the work of a highly skilled mixologist. It’ll take a good ten minutes to get those flames under control with our buckets and spades.”

  The alehouse thatch was still smoking and the walls were charred, but the majority of the strange purple flames had disappeared.

  Drummond and Alexander appeared in front of Brewster’s. “Well?” Drummond cried, charging up to Smokehart. “Have you found out who did this?”

  The inspector stiffened. “We are just beginning our investigation, sir,” he said tightly. “You need to step aside and let us continue.”

  “Step aside?!” Drummond thrust his charred photo in front of Smokehart. “Have you seen what has happened here? My reputation, my livelihood! I will not step aside! What are you doing just standing there?”

  Ivy noticed that Smokehart’s neck was now speckled with blood-red dots, which only happened when he was seriously angry. She shuffled back.

  The sound alerted Smokehart. “You!” His head shot around. “Don’t think you’re getting away. I want you searched.” He pointed to one of his constables, who promptly strode up to Ivy and patted her down before lifting her satchel over her head.

  “Wait!” she said, pulling it back. “That’s mine! You have no right to do this!”

  Seb tugged on the strap. “Oi! Give it back!”

  “Excuse me,” Granma Sylvie said in a firm voice, stepping forward.

  The constable scowled and swept aside his black cloak, giving a glimpse of his uncommon toilet brush. Ivy hadn’t forgotten the horrific pain she’d felt when she was attacked with one before. She hesitated before laying a hand on Seb’s elbow.

  “Let him have it,” she said softly. “It’s not worth it.”

  Smokehart snatched Ivy’s satchel, ripped it open and yanked the uncommon photo frame out first.

  “Hold this, boy,” he barked, shoving the satchel into the arms of the closest bystander, Alexander Brewster. Ivy tried to attract the boy’s attention, but he was looking at his father. She tensed as Smokehart inspected the photo frame.

  “Really, Inspector! Is this all you can think of?” Drummond protested. “Examining the contents of a little girl’s bag? You should be hunting for the real culprit. This is the work of a master criminal, not a child.”

  The insult bounced off Ivy; she was much more concerned about Smokehart finding Amos’s journal. He took the satchel back from Alexander and rooted through it, dropping Ivy’s belongings one by one. She flinched when Scratch hit the dusty ground; she could see him trembling. Finally, Smokehart turned the bag upside down and shook it. Ivy studied the pile at his feet. The journal wasn’t there.

  Had she lost it? If Smokehart had found it, the smoking hourglass would be all the evidence he needed to connect her with the memorial murders. More worryingly, in the wrong hands the journal could be dangerous. Amos might have recorded any number of powerful secrets inside.

  Ivy tried to think back. The last time she’d seen it was when Alexander had handed it back after it had fallen out of her satchel, but in all the commotion she could have dropped it again. She scrutinized the closest bystanders; perhaps one of them had picked it up.

  Seb nudged her in the ribs and nodded at Alexander. Ivy spotted the corner of Amos’s journal protruding from the pocket of his dirty apron. She relaxed and tried in vain to catch his eye. She couldn’t understand why he’d helped her, but she was thankful that he had.

  Smokehart clenched his teeth, his dark glasses fixed on Ivy.

  Drummond Brewster gave an exasperated sigh. “Well, I could have told you you’d find no evidence in there. Whoever’s behind this has obviously been plotting my downfall for some time.” He waved the framed clipping in Smokehart’s face. “They’re jealous of my success! See!”

  The inspector looked at the uncommon photo frame in his hands. “I have a suggestion,” he said, snatching the burned newspaper cutting out of Drummond’s grasp. “Why don’t we put your special picture in this, if your frame is too damaged?”

  Ivy could only watch in stunned silence as he inserted the clipping into the uncommon frame.

  Instantly the dusty street was covered with an image of a stainless-steel kitchen. The crowd hushed, and Smokehart’s eyebrows disappeared below the top of his dark glasses.

  The ghostly image of a fresher, thinner Drummond Brewster popped up from behind a countertop. He was carrying three bottles of different-colored liquid.

  “What else do you need, son?” he called. “How about some of this silver stuff?”

  Alexander walked into the room, carefully balancing a cauldron in his arms. He put it down on the stove. “No thanks, Pa,” he said. “That will dull the effect of the fire. You need just the right balance of ingredients for it to work. I’ve been experimenting with this formula. We need it to be fiery but not to burn the drinker’s throat.” He added two drops of a fizzy black liquid. The cauldron started to emit steam. “Almost there.”

  Drummond peered in and rubbed his hands together. “If this works, I’ll be famous. We could take the alehouse around the world. Quick—let’s get a picture of the moment I invent it.”

  Alexander kept his eyes on the contents of the cauldron, but Ivy noticed a line appear on his brow. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Drummond hadn’t invented the ale at all. Alexander had!

  Drummond left the scene and came back carrying an uncommon snow globe while Alexander stirred the mixture with a spatula. Ivy gathered it was uncommon because the cauldron started floating.

  “OK, it’s done,” Alexander said with a sigh.

  Drummond grinned. “Move out of the way, then—let’s get this picture.”

  Alexander stepped back, head down, and aimed the snow globe at his dad.

  At that moment the scene evaporated and there was only the road before them. “That is PRIVATE!” Drummond raged, snatching the frame from Smokehart and pulling out the newspaper clipping. “How dare you!”

  There was a smirk on Smokehart’s face. “My apologies,” he said. “Though I must say, that was illuminating.”

  Granma Sylvie stood in the doorway, the amber light from the landing spilling over her shoulders. She tapped her slipper against the floor. “I understand that you want to stay up, but you’re both getting an early night. No arguments.” A loud scratch reverberated around the room. Granma Sylvie’s gaze flicked to the chimney breast. The uncommon wallpaper was busy rearranging itself into an elaborate re-creation of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers. “The rest will do you good,” she continued in a taut voice. “You’ve had a long couple of days. I’ll see you in the morning. Good night.” She blew them each a kiss before shutting the door.

  Ivy heard Seb shuffling in the bunk above. “Hang on. Give it a few seconds.”

  She waited for Granma Sylvie’s footsteps to fade away before pulling back her covers and tiptoeing across to the window. She drew back the curtain and looked out. It was dark outside; Brewster’s Alehouse had stopped smoking. A quiet stream of people flowed down the Gauntlet.

  There was a dull thud and the Great Uncommon Bag appeared in the middle of the bedroom floor. It rustled as a shape appeared within it.

  “All clear?” Valian asked, poking his head out.

  Ivy raised a finger to her lips. “Keep your voice down.” His straggly dark locks hung in front of his face as he padded out softly on hands and knees. Behind him, a head of shiny dark hair popped out, followed by a pair of almond-shaped eyes.

  “That
bag is unbelievable!” Judy whispered, smiling broadly. Her tutu sprang out as she got to her feet. She was wearing bright purple leggings and a gray T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The wheels of her roller skates thrummed as she glided into the center of the room and plonked herself down on the rug. “Thanks for the invite. I love a good emergency meeting.”

  Seb leaped quietly down from his bunk. “Glad you came,” he said, flashing her a smile. He sat cross-legged on the floorboards next to her.

  “First things first,” Ivy began, shuffling up between Valian and Judy. “How are you feeling? That injury in the Skaptikon looked really serious.”

  Valian tapped his jacket. Ivy heard the clink of metal. “The Raider’s Tonic has been helping,” he said. Ivy realized he had a flask tucked inside. “When I got back to my room, Miss H and Miss W had left me several bottles of the stuff. They must have heard about me being admitted to the infirmary.”

  Ivy could have sworn she’d seen Ethel sending them a featherlight earlier, but she decided not to bother mentioning it.

  “What about you two?” he asked.

  Seb rubbed the back of his neck. “Feels like I just played a really hard game of football…and I was the only player on the team.”

  It was Ivy’s head that hurt more than anything. Sensing the broken soul inside the Jar of Shadows had been like standing next to the speakers at a gig by Seb’s band. Her head was still buzzing. “Something like that.”

  “What about that Alexander Brewster kid?” Seb remarked. “Can you believe it? It was him all along—he’s the real genius behind Dragon’s Breath Ale.”

  Ivy looked at her satchel, which was lying on the floor by her bunk. “And he helped me. After the underguards had gone he gave me back Amos’s journal. He didn’t ask any questions either.”

  “Maybe he didn’t care,” Seb said. “His dad’s just been exposed as a massive liar. That’s probably his biggest concern right now.”

  “I suppose so.” Ivy was shocked to find that Alexander’s own father had exploited him so callously.

  Judy’s hazel eyes sparkled. “I’m still getting over the fact that you three have been into the Skaptikon and survived!”

  “We failed, though,” Ivy said glumly. “Selena and Jack-in-the-Green got away with the Jar of Shadows, and they’re planning to open it at the Grivens contest tomorrow night. How are we going to stop them now?”

  “If we even survive till then.” Seb propped an elbow on his knee, and rested his chin on it. “Selena’s gonna try to get rid of us before then, I just know it.”

  “There’s still hope,” Judy told them. “There’s always hope.” She pushed a small brown paper bag into the middle of the floor. “I made these. Try one—they’re meant to be good for thinking.”

  Ivy peered closer. The bag was stuffed with dusty white cubes. “Are they…marshmallows?”

  “Made with mixology,” Judy explained, grabbing one and holding it in front of her nose. “Mr. Littlefair gave me the recipe when I was practicing for my exams.”

  Ivy reached into the packet and took one. It felt just like a regular marshmallow. She gave it a sniff. Vanilla. “What do they do?”

  “I don’t know,” Judy said. “I was too busy studying to make them before, but like I said—they’re meant to help you think; to give you ideas. That’s why I’ve made them now.”

  Valian and Seb grabbed one each. “It can’t make our situation any worse,” Seb decided. “After three? One, two…”

  On three, Ivy took a bite of her marshmallow. At first it was just gooey and sweet, but then it started fizzing. With a whoosh, her bottom lifted off the floor as a dense pillow of steam appeared beneath her.

  “What is this stuff?” Seb was wobbling around on the small white cloud that had formed under him.

  Judy dipped a gloved forefinger into it and rubbed it against her thumb. “Not sure. Perhaps it’s meant to be a cloud of thought….” She took another bite of marshmallow. Ivy, Seb and Valian copied her.

  A ball of cloud now appeared under Ivy’s satchel, tipping it up and spilling out the contents for the third time that day. Amos’s journal and the postcard were lifted up and carried into the center of the room.

  Ivy watched them as she bobbed up and down. The movement was soothing, helping to focus her mind. Floating toward her on a soft white wave, the journal seemed to be calling out to her. “When we were in the Skaptikon, even though she’d already found the Jar of Shadows, Selena still wanted to know where the journal was,” Ivy remarked. “It must have another value that we don’t know about.”

  Valian’s face brightened. “First Selena tries to destroy the postcard, and now she desperately wants the journal. The only connection is Amos Stirling. He’s the key to the whole mystery.”

  The postcard bobbed over to Judy and she picked it up. “Oh, now that’s interesting,” she commented, reading the message again. “Before my mum began her training in the Featherlight Guild, she worked at the Lundinor Registry, where the births and deaths of every uncommoner are recorded. You didn’t mention the posting date before—the twenty-seventh of December 1967. That’s two days before Selena Grimes died.”

  Ivy’s skin prickled; she thought they might be close to a breakthrough. The rocking motion of the cloud allowed her imagination to drift.

  “This would be a whole lot easier if Amos Stirling wasn’t Departed,” Seb said, swaying gently. “He’d have all the answers. There’s nothing uncommon that lets you go back in time, is there? Then we could go and ask him what’s going on.”

  Valian snorted. “I wish.”

  Ivy’s thoughts were being guided by a gentle tide, pushing her in one direction. They gradually gathered themselves around a single extraordinary concept.

  She pondered the riddle they’d had to answer to get into the well at the World’s End.

  I have no wings and yet I fly.

  If you master me, you will never die.

  “You don’t think we could use the Great Uncommon Bag, do you?” she said.

  The other three turned to her.

  “To do what?” Judy asked.

  “To discover why Selena doesn’t want anyone to know about Amos,” Ivy said. “To travel back in time.”

  The next morning, the inn was quiet.

  “She’s gone,” Ivy said, trudging back into the bedroom. She closed the door behind her, sighing with regret. She’d wanted to see Granma Sylvie before they left. “There was a note on her pillow explaining that the underguard had called her in early again and she didn’t want to wake us. They’re exploring the bedrooms of the mansion today.”

  Ivy could tell from Seb’s expression that he was just as disappointed. As things in Lundinor grew more dangerous, spending a few moments with Granma Sylvie seemed even more important. Ivy knew that they might not see her again.

  “I’ve still got the saltshaker. We can check on her when we get back from…” Seb’s face hardened as he looked down at the Great Uncommon Bag.

  “I suppose so,” Ivy agreed. She thought about her mum and dad too; they were so far away. “According to the note, Ethel’s coming to collect us after breakfast.”

  Valian was sitting on the bottom bunk. “We’d better be quick, then. It’ll be easy to avoid Ethel afterward. There’s always a big sale along the Gauntlet today; the House of Bells will be packed.”

  “Hmm.” Judy held a faded denim shirt against Seb’s chest. “You can’t wear the L.A. Lakers shirt; it’s too modern. What about this one? It’s from the 1950s.”

  Smiling, Seb shrugged off his mandarin coat. “Good idea—thanks.” Judy’s cheeks flushed.

  Ivy smoothed down the long sleeves of the black kurta tunic Judy had given her, along with some khaki combat trousers and canvas pumps. Hobsmatch outfit number two. She liked this one because the tunic was loose-fitting an
d easy to move around in.

  “This won’t be like looking at the photo in the uncommon frame, will it?” Seb said darkly, arranging the Great Uncommon Bag.

  “If it even works,” Ivy pointed out. They still couldn’t be certain of the bag’s capabilities.

  Valian stood up and wiped his hands on the back of his vintage Levi’s. “But if it does, just imagine what we could do. I could go back to the day Rosie disappeared and find out what happened. I could even go back and stop my parents—”

  “This is dangerous,” Ivy cut in, glaring at Valian and her brother. “You’re right: this won’t be like looking at shadows of the past. This will actually be the past. We can’t afford to let anyone see us in case it changes the course of history. Anything we do could affect what happens now.” The back of her neck tingled. They were messing with things more powerful than any they’d encountered before.

  “All right,” Valian muttered. “If we risk disrupting the past, we’ll leave straightaway and come back to the present. Hopefully we can find Amos before that happens.” He took a luggage tag and pen out of his jacket pocket. “I’m using a label to be accurate.”

  “Are you sure I can’t come with you?” Judy asked. “I want to stop them as much as you three do.”

  “We need you to stay here in case something goes wrong,” Valian said, gulping. “You’re the only other person who’ll know what’s happened to us.” He scribbled on the luggage tag and tied the label to the side of the old burlap sack. “If this works, we’ll arrive in Lundinor two days after Amos sent the postcard—the twenty-ninth of December 1967, the night Selena died.”

  Ivy fiddled with her gloves as Valian and Seb crawled into the bag before her. If the experiment went wrong, she didn’t know what might happen to them….She gave Judy a thin smile before putting her head inside.