The Uncommoners #2 Read online

  Ivy had no recollection of seeing anything like that before. She studied the nearby stalls and carts. The phrase Beware: this vendor station is alarmed appeared on several chalkboards.

  “Seems a bit less friendly than last time,” Seb commented. “Like everyone’s nervous about something.”

  Ivy tuned in to the buzz of gossip, hoping it might reveal more.

  “Four grade ’e’s trying to flog ’em for! Good luck. I know a lot of folks ’oo won’t even be coming this season.”

  “Come on, quick! The Timbermeal will ’ave started by now.”

  “I ’eard it almost got canceled. You know, because of Jack-in-the-Green. If ’e’s been seen, it can only mean one thing.”

  Ivy only caught fragments of conversation, but the trader’s mention of Jack-in-the-Green made her shiver.

  At the Market Cross, the stone courtyard had been transformed into a vast village green, complete with bandstand. An area in the center of the grass was sectioned off by a wicker fence, and a group of underguards with tricorne hats were stationed outside, checking off the names of those lining up to get in.

  “Alexander!” a voice boomed.

  Ivy stumbled aside as a burly, broad-chested man with a thick beard plodded past her.

  “Slow down or you’ll make fools of us both.” There was an American twang in the man’s deep voice. “I don’t see anyone else here running. Do you?”

  A skinny boy in smart gray trousers, antique leather gym shoes and a colorful tasseled waistcoat was hurrying ahead of him. They both had the same fiery orange hair.

  “Sorry, Pa,” the boy said with a similar accent, slowing immediately.

  “You will be sorry if you ruin this for us,” the man warned, yanking on the sleeve of his son’s shirt. “One look at you and everyone here will think we don’t do things properly where we come from.”

  Poor kid. Ivy watched as the man lumbered into a line, dragging his somber-faced son behind him.

  “That must be the Timbermeal,” Seb said.

  Ivy felt Scratch whirring excitedly in her satchel.

  “We’d better get it over with,” Granma Sylvie decided nervously. “Stay close to me.”

  As they headed over, Ivy heard music coming from the bandstand. An underguard with a toilet brush in his belt stopped them on their way in.

  “Name?” he asked, making a note in the air with a feather.

  Granma Sylvie hesitated. “Sparrow.”

  The officer paused, making a second assessment of Ivy and Seb. “I see.”

  “We’re Sparrows too,” Ivy said.

  The officer’s mouth twitched. “Oh, I know who you two are.”

  Ivy pursed her lips and tried her best not to scowl. Perhaps the officer had been one of those assigned to monitor her and Seb over the past few months.

  The guard allowed them through and Ivy saw that, beyond the fence, a gigantic tea party was taking place. Traders in elaborate Hobsmatch sat at circular white tables, each seating four or five on a range of different chairs. She spied a moth-eaten armchair, an executive leather recliner, a wooden milk stool and a striped deck chair, among others. Gleaming silver trays of finger food surrounded the centerpiece of each table: a wooden sculpture of either Sir Clement or Lady Citron.

  Ivy noticed Granma Sylvie tapping her fingers against her hip as they navigated their way between the tables, trying to find a seat.

  Seb lowered his mouth to her ear. “That Jack-in-the-Green guy could be here already, looking for the jar.”

  Ivy had to hope that the heightened security had slowed down Jack-in-the-Green a little. They needed all the help they could get if they were going to find that jar before he did.

  In the distance, at the edge of the green, she spotted a familiar face. “Ethel’s over there, Granma.”

  Ethel Dread was sitting on a velvet chaise longue beside Violet Eyelet, a button trader, and Mr. Littlefair, the innkeeper of the Cabbage Moon, who was perched on a barstool.

  “ ’Ere, quick—nab a seat before they go,” Ethel told them when they were close enough. She was wearing her normal outfit—well, normal for Hobsmatch: long dark pilot’s overalls, fingerless gloves and a brightly colored silk headscarf, under which sprouted tufts of spiky black hair.

  “Delighted to have you staying at the Cabbage Moon again,” Mr. Littlefair said with a cheery smile. “Your things arrived yesterday via bag travel.”

  Ivy beamed at him. It was good to see them all again. She took a plastic egg-shaped chair; Seb plonked himself down on a metal patio seat beside her. Ivy noticed a price tag hanging from the arm. It had been stamped with the logo of a shop, François Filigree’s Furniture Jamboree.

  “Well”—Violet nudged her thick spectacles higher on her nose—“I must say, it’s lovely to see you two again.” Her lenses were foggy. As always, Ivy doubted whether she could see them at all. “And good to find you safe and well too,” Violet added, reaching for Granma Sylvie’s hand. “It’s been a long time.”

  Granma Sylvie gave a forced smile. “Very long.” She sat with her back ruler-straight, her hands cupping her knees, as if she was under inspection. Ivy wondered if that was how it felt to meet friends you didn’t remember.

  “I only wish it was under better circumstances,” Ethel said, pursing her lips. “News that Jack-in-the-Green ’as been sighted ’as sent shockwaves through Lundinor. Nasty piece of work, ’e is.”

  “What do you know about him?” Ivy tried to sound casual. “Has he been in Lundinor before?”

  Ethel folded her arms. “ ’E used to work for the Dirge; and since Ragwort’s arrest last season, their name’s on everyone’s lips. People ’ave started to believe they’ll return.” She lowered her voice. “A possibility the six of us know is all too real.”

  “Is it a surprise everyone’s terrified?” Violet asked. “These Fallen Guild rumors have got people spooked.” She looked over her shoulder at a table of dead diners. “If you’ll pardon the expression in present company.”

  Ivy could understand the traders’ paranoia. For all they knew, there were four Dirge members still unaccounted for—Nightshade, Blackclaw, Hemlock and Wolfsbane. And they could be anyone—your friend, your neighbor, your employer…No wonder people were suspicious of one another.

  “Apparently Selena Grimes ’as issued the underguard with a new set of powers to combat the Dirge.” Ethel snorted.

  “I wish you wouldn’t use that word so much,” Violet said, looking around. “Can’t you just say Fallen Guild, like everyone else?” She pushed her glasses back up her nose with a shudder.

  Ivy appreciated why people preferred not to use Dirge: the word seemed to turn the air cold whenever anyone said it.

  “Let’s not think about all that just now.” Ethel glanced sympathetically at Granma Sylvie, who was shifting in her seat. “Why don’t we ’ave a toast, eh?” She raised her glass toward Ivy, Seb and Granma Sylvie, who each grabbed one of their own. Violet and Mr. Littlefair copied her. “To friends old and new!”

  After they’d taken a sip, Ethel nodded at Ivy and Seb. “Bet you two’ve been lookin’ forward to getting to know Lundinor more this season. You must be itching to go off and explore.”

  Ivy gave Seb a meaningful look. They needed to begin their search for the Jar of Shadows as soon as possible.

  “Are you sure it’s safe for them to be exploring with this Jack-in-the-Green around?” Granma Sylvie asked. “I was thinking Ivy and Seb could work with you in the House of Bells.”

  Ethel batted a glove through the air. “Nonsense. The very essence of being an uncommoner is the pursuit of the unexplored, the spirit of adventure. For thousands of years, our kind have been hunting uncommon objects and discovering what they can do.” Her eyes softened. “They’ll be fine, Sylv, I promise.”

  “We won’t go far,” Ivy a
ssured her granma. “We can stay in touch via featherlight.”

  “Yeah,” Seb agreed. “Please?”

  Granma Sylvie stared at them for a long moment. Finally, she sighed. “OK, but any more sightings of this Jack-in-the-Green and you stay inside at the Cabbage Moon. Understood?”

  They both nodded.

  Seb assessed the spread of food on the table. “Now, what to have, what to have…”

  There were bowls of fresh raspberries and glistening melon balls, plates of miniature Victoria sponges, tiny Scotch eggs, cucumber sandwiches…And among the regular food, Ivy spotted the occasional uncommon dish—a tier of fighting scones that kept turning one another to crumbs and a bubbling jar of lemon curd that made a sound like a trumpet every time it popped.

  Seb reached for a miniature pork pie and took a large bite.

  Ivy nudged him in the ribs. “There’s no time for this; we’ve got to get going.”

  He scowled at her, his cheeks bulging, then gulped.

  Ethel was nibbling on a chicken drumstick. “So what do you think of Lundinor in the spring, then?”

  “It’s different,” Ivy said.

  Ethel pointed her drumstick toward the bandstand in the center of the green, where a single table of diners was being served by waiters in black-and-white Hobsmatch. “Got Mr. Punch to thank for that. Not sure how he does it, though. He’s over there at the quartermasters’ table.”

  Ivy spotted Mr. Punch deep in conversation under the bandstand. His wiry cinnamon beard fell over the lapels of a long scarlet ringmaster’s coat, and a black top hat sat proudly on his head. There were two other diners at the table who, Ivy deduced, were the quartermasters of the West End and the East End: a plump blond woman wearing a rust-colored dress and medieval veil, and a scrawny gentleman in a shabby brown suit, fedora and sunglasses. Between them a chair stood empty, where Selena Grimes should be sitting. Ivy wondered where she was.

  A tiny white plate appeared on the table in front of Ivy. Seb frowned at the identical saucer that had materialized before him. “That’s a bit small, isn’t it? For all this food…”

  Ivy regarded the other diners. Perhaps you were supposed to eat very little at the Timbermeal; all the portions looked small and no one had filled their plates.

  All of a sudden her chair vibrated. “What in the—?” She grabbed hold of the seat as, of its own accord, it rose and began moving to the left.

  She looked up. Everywhere, the chairs had started changing places. Heavy armchairs were lumbering on to the next table, while dainty barstools did pirouettes and ornate dining chairs waltzed their way forward. It looked like a strange, awkward dance, but the diners were eager to see where their chair might be taking them.

  “Ivy, what’s happening?” Seb shouted, dropping his pork pie into his lap and grabbing the arms of his chair.

  “I don’t know!” She saw that all the other diners had put down their empty plates before taking a firm hold of their seats. “This must be what uncommon chairs do.”

  Granma Sylvie dug her fingernails into the seat of the chaise longue as it started to move, her face flushing. “Ivy! Seb?”

  “It’s OK!” Ivy called. “We’ll meet you back at the House of Bells later! We’ll stay out of trouble!” She saw Granma Sylvie’s fretful expression, but Ethel gave her a firm smile and Granma Sylvie’s shoulders relaxed.

  “Way to give you indigestion,” Seb complained as his chair tap-danced off.

  Ivy’s chair strutted over to another table, this one laden with poached pears and tea cakes and…

  “Fondant fancy?” a lady asked, offering Ivy a plate of tiny square cakes. “They’re awfully light.”

  “Oh, er…No thanks.” She reached for the table edge to steady herself, but her fingers met the grubby digits of another. “Sorry,” she mumbled, turning to the diner at her side, “I didn’t mea—” Her words died in her throat.

  On her left, lounging in a straw beach chair, was a pale man in a tatty waistcoat, ripped jeans and sneakers. He smiled, showing broken teeth. “Pleasure to see you again, Ivy Sparrow.” He removed a wobbling jester’s hat from his head and offered her a little bow of greeting.

  Ivy smiled awkwardly. Johnny Hands. He was a ghoul like Selena Grimes, and over five hundred years old, if she remembered correctly.

  “What ever happened to that yo-yo I gave you?” he asked. “Make good use of it?”

  Ivy tried to swallow her shock at seeing him again. Johnny Hands was one of Valian’s Trade contacts—a scout who dealt in weapons. Remembering her previous dealings with him, she knew he could be trusted only so far. “I don’t have it anymore. I lost it in the basement of the Wrench Mansion,” she told him.

  Johnny Hands shrugged. “Things are rarely lost forever in Lundinor.” He picked up a tea cake and two segments of poached pear and put them on his plate. He looked at the fondant fancies, but the dish was out of reach.

  Ivy’s mind started turning. The last time she’d wanted information about something uncommon, Johnny Hands had given her a good lead. He was devious, though; she’d need to ask carefully if she wanted help this time.

  “Mr. Hands,” she began, idly stroking the edge of her plate. “There are a lot of doors in Lundinor that lead to all kinds of places. Have you ever seen a black door?”

  Johnny Hands took a bite of his tea cake. “There are many black doors, dear girl.”

  “Right,” Ivy said. “But what about a black door with a symbol painted on it? Say, a smoking hourglass.”

  Johnny Hands’s eyes glinted. “A smoking hourglass?” He fingered his chin. “I’ve got a hazy memory of a black door covered in smoke, but”—he stretched his neck toward the distant fondant fancies—“I’m not sure I have the strength to remember.”

  Ivy took the hint. She grabbed the plate of little cakes and slid them across. Johnny Hands grinned before selecting one, pinkie extended.

  “Yes, now I recall exactly where I saw it: there’s a black door in the middle of the carousel in Hangman’s Square, in the Dead End. I’ve seen smoke coming from it quite often.” He winced. “Smoke’s a bad omen in Lundinor.”

  “A carousel?” Ivy repeated. “Why would—?”

  “Any further answers I’m afraid you’ll have to pay for.” He eyed the fondant fancy. “Properly.” He reached into his trouser pocket and brought out a small black card, handing it to Ivy. There was gold text on one side that read:

  “Do you like it? I’ve had them printed with this new forwarding ink. You only have to hold the card and say, ‘I desire to inquire,’ and then I get the message. You can contact me with this if you want to make a deal.”

  Before Ivy could respond, she felt her chair rising off the ground again.

  Johnny Hands snatched up his plate and put it in his lap, grumbling. “They never give you enough time to try everything.” He lifted his fondant fancy into the air as if it was a sword and he was about to ride into battle. “Onward!”

  Ivy’s chair quickstepped with a garden bench on its way to the next table. Seb turned up opposite, his face flushed. “At least now we know why the plates are so small,” he said. “And I think the chairs move to allow everyone to meet each other.”

  Ivy smiled weakly, her mind churning after what Johnny Hands had said. Ensuring the other diners weren’t listening in, she told Seb what she’d learned.

  “I know Hands.” Seb nodded. “Dead guy, weird jester’s hat.” He allowed the end of one of his uncommon drumsticks to poke out of his sleeve. “Gave me these.”

  “But a door on a carousel in the Dead End…” Ivy had experienced uncommon doors before: they led to a different place each time they were opened. It could be one of those. “In Granma’s memory, Selena Grimes was behind the door. If this is the same door, it might lead us to the Jar of Shadows. We have to investigate it.”

  Seb sighed
and nudged his plate away. “Guess I’m done here, then.”

  Ivy’s chair reared back on its hind legs and began to tango off toward another table.

  Not again…

  “I’ll meet you outside!” she called, gripping the underside of her seat.

  “OK, OK, fine. I’ll ask.” Seb reached up and rang the nearest street bell. “Which way to the Well at the World’s End?” He looked at Ivy to check he’d said it right.

  The bell jangled. “Take the third left off the Gauntlet, go to the end of Rhubarb Lane and it’s in the square opposite.”

  Ivy thanked the bell before flashing Seb a smug smile. She had discovered on their last visit that the Dead End was entered via the well; Seb should learn to believe her.

  They walked on, hearing laughs and groans from the revelers—both living and dead—as they left the Market Cross and stumbled back to their shops and tents. Ivy thought of Scratch tucked away in her satchel. It seemed odd that her little friend was connected to the races of the dead, but all uncommon objects got their powers from the same thing—fragments of a broken soul. Somewhere out there, Ivy reflected, was a dead creature made of the other part of the soul inside Scratch.

  A little way down the Gauntlet they came upon a crowd gathering at the base of a white obelisk in the middle of the road.

  “The Great Cavern Memorial,” Ivy whispered to Seb. “Why are there so many people here?” She knew that the memorial had been erected in memory of those who lost their lives on Twelfth Night 1969, when the Dirge had led an army of the dead onto the streets. Ivy liked that it had remained unchanged after Lundinor’s grand spring transformation; it seemed more respectful.

  As she drew closer, she saw that the traders were in great distress. Some had tears running down their cheeks; others were clutching a hand to their chest, gasping and shaking their heads.

  Grabbing Seb’s arm, Ivy squeezed her way toward the front: a symbol had been sprayed across the immaculate alabaster in garish purple paint. It fizzed, giving off plumes of vapor. As Ivy identified the design, goose pimples rippled across her arms.