The Crooked Sixpence by Jennifer Bell

– her heart sank – none were carrying candles. Valian had said that this candle trader would find
her
. She wondered if she should go and wait somewhere.
    Everyone was funnelling into the mouth of a tunnel in the far wall, positioned between two colossal iron gates. The vast hinges were set into the statues of two figures who held hands, forming an arch over everyone below. One was a stately man in a long-sleeved jerkin with a garland of oranges around his neck; the other an elegant woman wearing a tasselled dress decorated with lemons. Ivy stared at them. They looked grand, like the statues of ancient gods she’d seen on trips to the V&A with her dad.
The one with the oranges must be Sir Clement
, she thought,
and Lady Citron has to be the one with the lemons.
She wondered what her dad would make of them.
    Between the two statues stood the Great Gates – which, according to Valian, meant the ladders would be close by. Ivy hunted around and, sure enough, spied a shadowy gap between two stacks of cases, where silvery rungs glinted against the wall. Her shoulders tensed. That was her and Seb’s way out.
    Turning up the collar of Valian’s jacket, she curled her trembling hands into fists.
    Here goes . . .
    She stepped out.
    It was like being trapped in the middle of an enormous school reunion where everyone had come in fancy dress.
    â€˜Kitty, I haven’t seen you in ages! Your chain mail looks great – is it new?’
    â€˜How’re the kids, Arthur? I heard your two’ll be trading this season.’
    â€˜Ooh, yes. I saw those floods on the news. Must have been
terrible
for you down at the bottom of the country. How did your robes survive?’
    Ivy slipped carefully between the puffed sleeves and flouncy skirts, a cold, heavy feeling settling at the bottom of her stomach like wet cement.
Keep it together
, she told herself.
This is real. You’ve got to rescue Seb.
She fixed her eyes on the ladders ahead.
    â€˜You read the
Chronicle
this morning?’ Ivy heard one of the traders say. ‘’Eard there’s been some sort of scandal at the Ug station. Something to do with the Wrenches.’
    â€˜Wrench? I haven’t heard that name in years.’
    â€˜Well, it’s hardly surprising . . .’
    The name
Wrench
tripped alarm bells in Ivy’s head, but the din of the crowd was so overwhelming, she couldn’t think straight. A trader in an embroidered tunic and a kilt swished past carrying a basket of brass kettles. Everyone was hefting something – muddy bicycle wheels slung over shoulders, dusty wine bottles stuffed under armpits.
    Suddenly something swooshed close to Ivy’s head and she looked up as a dark shape passed over her. It zoomed towards the Great Gates, before slowing down so that Ivy could identify it:
a man riding a flying vacuum cleaner.
She looked back up to discover a multitude of other traders flying in and out of the stalactites. Some were straddling broomsticks, mops or feather dusters, while others knelt on flying rugs or doormats.
    â€˜Hello, missy.’
    Ivy froze as she felt a hand on her shoulder. She spun round and came face to face with a toothless, wrinkled old man.
    â€˜Bleedin’ vacuum fliers,’ he croaked, rubbing his hunched back. ‘No care for pedestrian safety, absolutely none!’ He was holding the broken pieces of a cardboard sign mounted on a long wooden stick. Ivy could just about make out what it said: INVISIBILITY CANDLES: 8 GRADE .
    The man raised a fist towards the roof of the cavern. ‘Broke three signs this week!’ he shouted. ‘If I ever get my hands on one of you ruffians . . .’ He shook his head and turned his foggy turquoise eyes towards Ivy. ‘Don’t suppose I can interest you in a candle, dearie? Eight grade’s an awful good price, honest.’ As he smiled, his tanned skin creased like baked mud.
    Ivy didn’t say a thing.