“Stop!” His voice was deep and commanding. “Stop, I say!”
Which was ridiculous. Why would I stop when one of Miss Always’s henchmen was chasing me down a darkened street? The fever had turned my body into a boiling cauldron; the heat seemed to steam off my skin. But I quickened my pace and turned the corner. Bolting down a narrow street, I passed a crowded tavern and was forced to jump majestically over a sleeping dog.
“Stop, Ivy!” he shouted, his breaths short and rapid. “I don’t wish to hurt you!”
“Stuff and nonsense!” I called back.
Despite being on the very brink of some glorious disease, I darted across the street like a stallion. Braved a look over my shoulder. The man in white threw off his hat, charging toward me like a bull. I glimpsed the faintest hint of a smile. The brute was enjoying this little game of cat and mouse! But I wasn’t. My chest was painfully tight now, every breath a struggle.
At the end of the street, I took a sharp left. Found myself at the bottom of a steep road—which was beastly. But I ran on, passing an elderly fellow pulling his cart from a small penny-pie shop. With a fleeting glance, I noticed that it was stacked with freshly baked pies of all varieties. Which gave me a magnificent idea.
I stopped and turned back. The man in white was now racing up the hill after me.
“May I borrow your cart for a moment?” I asked the old man.
“Not likely,” came the muttered reply.
“Terribly sporting of you,” I replied, pushing him out of the way and grabbing the cart.
“Help!” he yelled. “I’m being robbed!”
I took off, pushing the cart down the hill. Right at the man in white. He tried to swerve out of the way, but the footpath was too narrow and the cart too wide. So I was able to smash the cart right into the scoundrel. It sent him reeling back. He hit the ground with a thump. The cart was rather unstoppable at that point and, in a wondrous stroke of good fortune, flipped up, hurling its entire assortment of hot pies over the wicked man’s gloriously white jacket.
“My suit!” Then he groaned like a man who’d just been run over by a pie cart. “My back!”
“You horrible imp!” said the old man, shuffling toward me and shaking his fist. “That’s a week’s worth of pies you’ve destroyed. I’ll have you arrested, I will. Police! Police!”
“Calm yourself, you hysterical nincompoop.” I fished out the last of my money (two pounds and some change) and handed it to him. “This should replace most of the pies you’ve lost.”
Which seemed to calm the grumpy fossil slightly.
The man in white was now climbing rather clumsily to his feet—he looked to be in a splendid amount of pain. So I took off again, running up the hill as fast as my tired legs would allow.
“I’ll find you, Ivy Pocket!” he hollered. “You can’t hide forever!”
“Of course I can, you hideous henchmen,” I called over my shoulder. “I have a gift for hiding—possessing all the natural instincts of a lost sock. You tell Miss Always to leave me alone or I’ll knock the stuffing out of her too!”
I ran for several blocks, then turned into a narrow alleyway. Ran past a set of stables. Then a barbershop. That’s when I stopped—spotting a path running down the side. It was awfully dark, but I followed it and came upon an unkempt yard. A tattered sofa lying on its side. A broken carriage wheel. A maple tree. And that is where I took shelter, sitting with my back against the trunk. I willed my eyes to stay open, intending to keep watch all night. Not to sleep a wink. As luck would have it, I failed miserably.
A dog woke me at first light, barking in an outrageous fashion. My bones still ached. My neck was impossibly stiff. The Clock Diamond felt icy cold beneath my crumpled dress.
All in all, it was a miserable start to the day. I didn’t feel even slightly hungry, yet I knew it was important that I eat. The fact that I was ill, truly ill, still confounded me. Thanks to the Clock Diamond, I was half dead. Blood no longer coursed through my veins. I supposedly couldn’t be hurt or injured as an ordinary girl might. So how was it that thanks to one night spent in a damp well, I was now as sick as a dog? Nor could I fathom why the Clock Diamond no longer worked as it had before.
I got up and headed into the alleyway—looked left and right for any sign of the man in white. Or Miss Always. A young boy was carrying a box full of apples up the road. A woman stood at an open window, drying bedsheets in the cool morning air. She smiled at me. I smiled back, though my heart wasn’t in it.
At the end of the narrow lane, I passed into a busy street. But where was I to go? Fortunately, being a marvelous sort of girl, an idea or two was soon bubbling in the wondrous soup of my mind. Which is why I shouted, “Well done, Ivy!”
I waited for a wagon to pass, then crossed the road. While my new ideas were frightfully brilliant, they wouldn’t succeed as long as I remained a penniless, homeless waif. Which is why I quickened my step as I reached the footpath. For I now knew exactly where I was headed. Salvation was at hand—and there wasn’t a moment to lose.
Returning to Thackeray Street wasn’t something I had ever imagined doing. After all, the Snagsbys lived there—and they were the murderous nutters who had adopted me for the very worst of reasons. Yet here I was, standing across the road from their house.
And it was all on account of one thousand pounds. That was my payment from the Duchess of Trinity—that vengeful blubber guts—to deliver the Clock Diamond to Matilda Butterfield on her twelfth birthday. Actually, the amount was five hundred pounds. But the Duchess’s lawyer, the grumpy Mr. Banks, had paid me double. I felt a wave of sorrow as I thought of Mr. Banks—who had been as kind as he was stern, and who had died so awfully at the hands of Miss Always.
Mother Snagsby had taken the one thousand pounds when I first came to live in Thackeray Street—for safekeeping, she said. Now I needed it back. After all, it was mine. I had earned it fair and square.
I had another motive for visiting the Snagsbys. Anastasia Radcliff. She had lived with them for a time, after Miss Frost helped Anastasia cross into our world. And they had loved her like a daughter, having lost their own beloved Gretel when she was just a little girl. The Snagsbys believed that Anastasia had returned to Prospa. But if they knew that she was here, in London, locked up in a madhouse—well, they would move heaven and earth to get her out.
As I walked toward the Snagsbys’ house, I noticed a carriage parked outside. It was loaded with trunks, the driver fastening them with straps. The front door was open, and Mother Snagsby stalked out, lifting her parasol like a weapon and aiming at the driver.
“Mind my valuables, you clumsy oaf,” she commanded sternly. “If anything is broken, I will bill you personally, is that clear?”
The driver looked rather vexed but nodded. Mother Snagsby turned back toward the house. Fearing she would vanish inside again, I stepped around the carriage and blocked her path. “Hello, Mother Snagsby—going somewhere?”
The old crow was a splendid sight. Lumpy skin concealed beneath inches of white powder. The wondrous mole on her upper lip. And that hair—dark as night with a streak of white at the temple. “It’s you!” she hissed.
It wasn’t the warmest of welcomes.
“I realize we had a small falling-out,” I said, “on account of you being a crazed fossil with a deadly secret. But I was rather hoping—”
“What were you hoping?” she snapped. “That we would take you back?” Her lip curled into an unsightly sneer. “I’d sooner cut my own throat.”
“What a glorious idea. But actually, I’m here about the money.”
Mother Snagsby lifted her imperious head. “Money?”
“That’s right. The one thousand pounds you’ve so kindly been keeping for me.” I put out my hand in a winning fashion. “I’d like it back now, please.”
The old woman’s eyes sparkled darkly. “Living with you, young lady, was an experience of unspeakable suffering. And do you know what the price for that suffering is?” She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “One thousand pounds.” Which was monstrously unfair!
“I sincerely hope,” Mother Snagsby went on, “that you are as destitute as you look.”
I made no reply.
“In fact, I hope you . . .” Then Mother Snagsby paused. Glanced quickly at the carriage, then back at me. Her craggy face softened. A smile bloomed on her lips. She put a hand around my shoulder, which was most unexpected. “If it’s money you need, perhaps you would be open to a business arrangement?” she purred. “Something that would benefit us both?”
What a smashing idea! “Spit it out, dear,” I declared.
“Sell me the necklace,” she whispered, gazing hungrily at the top of my dress (fully aware that the stone was hidden beneath it). “I will return your one thousand pounds and pay another on top of that. Just think of what you could do with two thousand pounds.”
“Have you lost your mind?” I spat. “There is no amount of money that would convince me to give you the Clock Diamond. You would use it to kill even more innocent souls!” I folded my arms. “Besides, it’s not working as it used to.”
It was as if a light had been switched off in her eyes. “Then we have nothing more to discuss.”
“All done, Mrs. Snagsby,” said the driver. “You ready to go?”
The old bat gave me a final withering look, then strode toward the waiting carriage.
“Wait,” I said quickly, “I wish to speak to you about Anastasia.”
Mother Snagsby stopped. Her glare was ice cold. “What about her?”
I looked at my former mother for a moment or two. Then I shrugged. “It’s not important.”
Mother Snagsby had loved Anastasia, I knew that. But I suspected that her love, rather like her loathing, would be awfully hard to take. The old goat entered the carriage. As she did, I caught sight of Ezra. He had been sitting there the whole time. He looked older than I remembered. Frailer too. He did not look at me. Not even a glance.
Mother Snagsby pounded on the roof with her parasol. “Away, driver!” As the carriage took off, she stuck her head out of the window. “I hope you get what you deserve, young lady!”
“What a coincidence,” I called after her. “So do I!”
I was about to set off, in search of a place to sit and think about what to do next, when I heard it. The distinct sound of weeping. Coming from inside the Snagsbys’ house. So I stuck my head in the doorway and found poor Mrs. Dickens on her hands and knees, scrubbing the hall floor. “Mrs. Dickens, whatever’s the matter?” I asked.
The housekeeper looked up, and there were tears falling down her pudgy cheeks and mucus oozing from her purple nose. She jumped up and greeted me like an old friend. “It’s good to see you, lass,” she wailed. “Oh, but what a day!”
I glanced into the darkened hall and saw that it was bare—the carpets were gone; so was the chair by the stairs and the portraits of Gretel that Mother Snagsby had painted. “The Snagsbys have sold up?”
This made the poor creature weep like a spinster at her younger sister’s wedding. “Gone for good,” she cried. “They shut the funeral home after . . . after that business with Mr. Grimwig. The house has been bought by a rotten lot from Scotland.” Mrs. Dickens blew her nose loudly. “They have a housekeeper of their own, so I’m to be out on the street in three days’ time!”
“Haven’t you got a new position?”
“Not yet, lass.” The housekeeper wiped her eyes. “No one wants a woman my age, half worn out and slow on her feet.”
“That’s true enough,” I said tenderly. “What will you do?”
She shook her head. “I’m not rightly sure. I haven’t two pennies to rub together.” Then Mrs. Dickens gasped. “You look a fright, lass—are you ill?”
“Horribly so,” I replied. “Moments from death, I should think. Homeless too.”
Mrs. Dickens looked me over and nodded her head. “You’d better come inside, then.”
We sat in the empty kitchen on the only two chairs remaining. Mrs. Dickens served me a glorious bowl of broth, and I forced myself to eat it.
“Where have they gone?” I said between spoonfuls. “The Snagsbys, I mean.”
“Arundel,” said Mrs. Dickens, getting up to stoke the fire.
She didn’t need to say anything more. I had once followed the Snagsbys to Arundel, thinking they were up to some underhanded business. But what I discovered was that their beloved daughter Gretel was buried in a churchyard there. They visited her every week and sat by her grave. It made sense that the Snagsbys had chosen to settle there and live out their days.
As night rose up around us, Mrs. Dickens and I talked of many things. I told her of my adventures. Of Miss Frost. And Anastasia. She was shocked by what she heard, but did not seem to doubt my fantastic tale for a moment. Delightful creature!
When I had said all there was to say, Mrs. Dickens stood up and announced, “You must stay here with me.”
Which was a great relief. But not exactly a solution. Which is why I said, “Are you not being tossed out in three days?”
Mrs. Dickens nodded sadly. “But let’s not fret about that tonight. Besides, a girl your age has no business wandering the streets.”
After supper we retired to Mrs. Dickens’s bedroom—it being the only sleeping chamber with any furniture left in it. My fever had returned, and the kindly housekeeper settled me in her bed and placed a cold cloth upon my forehead. Then she lit a candle, opened a drawer in the bedside table, and pulled out a clock. “I kept this for you,” she said, placing it beside me.
It was silver. Dented and scratched. And it had belonged to Rebecca—a relic I had rescued from her bedroom at Butterfield Park. I could still picture that room in glorious detail, filled with hundreds of clocks of every shape and size. I let my hand rest upon the cold metal and felt such yearning for my friend. “Thank you, Mrs. Dickens,” I whispered.
The housekeeper arranged herself in a tattered chair by the window, a blanket over her legs. She reached for her cup of tea—which was flavored with a drop or ten of whiskey—and sighed. “Sleep tight, lass,” she said. “Though I can’t guess what tomorrow will bring.”
“I can,” I told her. “We are going to a madhouse.”
“A what?”
“Drink your whiskey, dear. We’ll talk in the morning.”
Then I blew out the candle.
