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Chapter One

The new babysitter was a stout woman with a moss-green head scarf, long trench coat and round spectacles. 

She was also dead.

“You must be Ivy,” the babysitter said curtly, dropping her bag on the welcome mat by the front door. The corners of her mouth lifted clumsily, as if she was unaccustomed to smiling. “Your mum and dad have told me all about you. You can call me Curtis.”

Ivy took a step back. Although she could sense the races of the dead, she’d never come across one on common land before. “My parents have just left to catch their train. . . . I’ll get my brother.” She dashed up the stairs two at a time and slammed her hand against his bedroom door. “Seb!” 

Dressed in a warm hoodie, jeans and sneakers, Seb appeared slouched against the doorframe, scowling at Ivy from under his wavy blond hair. On any ordinary evening he would have answered the door in his pajamas, but at midnight tonight they had planned to sneak away. They were going to Nubrook, an uncommon market hidden under New York City, to help their friend Valian search for his missing sister. “You’re interrupting my favorite Ripz video,” Seb snapped. “What is it?” 

“Our babysitter is dead,” Ivy told him. 

“What?” He straightened. “Are you sure?” 

Ivy peered over the banister. Down in the hallway Curtis was hanging up her coat. A brooch in the shape of a forked arrow glittered on the lapel. Curtis might seem normal, but Ivy knew the tricky thing about most races of the dead was that you couldn’t tell them apart from the living until they did something impossible--like float through a wall or transform into a giant stick bug. 

“Positive,” she replied. “I can feel it.” As a whisperer, Ivy could detect the fragments of human souls trapped inside the dead. She widened her field of sense slowly, just as she’d practiced. The fleeting voice of Curtis’s broken soul brushed at the edge of her hearing. “Her name’s Curtis. If she’s dead, then she must be an uncommoner. What’s she doing here?” 

A line appeared between Seb’s thick brows. “Dad was complaining yesterday that all the local babysitters are fully booked because so many schools are closed for repairs, not just ours. Look--” He grabbed his TV remote and flicked through the channels until he found the one he wanted. A weather map on one half of the screen showed the isobars of a huge storm moving across the English Channel from Paris to London. The reporter was shouting at the camera, his coat flapping madly in the wind. 

“. . . Meteorologists are still struggling to explain Storm Sarah’s sudden appearance in Paris three days ago. The category two storm has caused widespread damage and disruption, with school and road closures throughout London and the Southeast. . . .” 

“I tried to convince Dad that we could look after ourselves,” Seb continued, “and that we wouldn’t need a babysitter for the few nights he and Mum are away at the wedding. But then Mum came home announcing she’d had a stroke of luck and had ‘bumped into’ an available sitter. . . . It must have been Curtis.” 

Ivy’s skin prickled. It couldn’t have been a coincidence. She snatched the TV remote and turned up the volume to mask the sound of their voices. “What if Curtis is working for the Dirge? They employ the dead all the time. She could have been planted here to spy on us--or worse.” The Dirge . . . Ivy wished she didn’t have to bring them up, but it was difficult to forget the organization that kept trying to kill them. 

Seb stiffened. “I’ve been checking the uncommon newspapers that Valian sends us; the Dirge have been linked to all kinds of incidents since the spring. Surely they’re too busy to bother with us?”

Ivy could tell by the tremor in his voice that he didn’t believe that last bit, although he was right about one thing: the nefarious guild’s activity had been prolific. Their calling card--a crooked sixpence--had been found at multiple scenes of crime around the uncommon world. In the Russian undermart, Mosvok, the Dirge had been connected to several cases of blackmail and kidnapping; in China, to widespread fraud. A series of shop raids in the Egyptian undermart of Cryp bore signs of their handiwork, as did the mysterious disappearances of key officials from Ausmark in Germany. Ivy was astonished that, with so much criminal activity linked to the guild, its six members still managed to keep their identities secret.

“Now that I think about it,” Seb said, his pupils flicking, “I suppose Curtis turning up might be connected to a message Valian sent me earlier. He wanted to let us know that we can’t use an uncommon bag to travel to Nubrook anymore--he didn’t say why--but he’s given us new instructions instead.” 

“He has? Why didn’t you tell me before?” 

“I couldn’t risk it, not with Mum and Dad around. Don’t worry; I’m sure it’s nothing.” 

Ivy gritted her teeth. Her brother had a frustrating habit of taking everything at face value. “Seb,” she said reproachfully, “Valian’s been looking for Rosie on his own for seven years. . . . He’s not used to asking for help. Something could have happened--” Ivy got a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach when she thought of the repeated disappointments Valian had endured in his search for his little sister. She was determined to do everything she could to help him now. “This trip is his best chance yet to find her,” she said, “so we’ve got to be there every step of the way.”

Seb’s cheeks flushed guiltily. “All right then, let’s leave now for Nubrook. I don’t fancy sticking around here to learn whether Zombie Poppins is planning to kill us or not.” He dragged his prepacked backpack out from under his bed and switched off the TV. Ivy collected her things from her bedroom, stuffing an extra sweater into her satchel. A thick, leather-bound book poked out the top. The front cover was embossed with a symbol: a smoking hourglass. Seb glanced at it warily.

“You’re bringing Amos Stirling’s journal?” he asked. Ivy understood his concern. The journal was a notebook containing many dangerous secrets about the Great Uncommon Good--the five most powerful uncommon objects in history--and it attracted all kinds of trouble. 

“I’ve only been able to translate a bit of it,” she told him. “Amos wrote in languages not even Google understands. He’d discovered all sorts of things about the Great Uncommon Good, and he was trying to prevent the Dirge from getting hold of them. If I leave the book here and Curtis finds it . . .” 

“. . . the Dirge will learn all Amos’s secrets,” Seb finished. “I get it.” He led her into the bathroom, shutting the door behind them. Ivy closed the blinds at the window. 

“Did Valian tell you there was a secret entrance to Nubrook hidden somewhere in here?” she asked, thinking of the time she and Seb had entered Lundinor via a shed in a garden. There were many different ways of accessing London’s undermart; perhaps entering Nubrook was the same.

“No,” Seb replied, “his instructions were weirder than that.” He plugged the sink and ran the taps. “ ‘Wash your hands and find the man in red.’ That’s what he wrote.”

Ivy wondered why Valian had been so obscure. She tapped her satchel. “Scratch, are you listening to this? Do you have any idea what Valian means?” 

The bag vibrated against her hip. She unfastened it and pulled out a damaged steel bicycle bell. Like all uncommon objects, the bell felt strangely warm against her skin, as if it had been resting in the sun. 

“Finally goings!” exclaimed a childlike voice coming from the bell. “Never journeys to Nubrook has Scratch before.” Ivy could hear the fragment of soul whispering inside Scratch--the very thing that made him uncommon. “Hmm. Unsure Valian why wantings hands clean,” he added. 

Ivy’s shoulders slumped. Even with Scratch’s back-to-front way of speaking, she understood his meaning.

A door slammed shut downstairs: Curtis was moving around.

With renewed urgency, Ivy steadied Scratch on the edge of the basin, pumped some liquid soap into her palm and lathered it up. Perhaps everything would become clear if she followed Valian’s advice exactly. As she rinsed her hands she became aware of a broken soul somewhere nearby. She could tell by the clanging sound of its voice that it was trapped inside an uncommon object-- 

But this one wasn’t coming from inside Scratch. Ivy opened the cabinet above the sink and saw, sitting on one of the shelves, a silver soap dish with two dolphin-shaped handles. “Seb,” she said, “this is uncommon.”

“Is it?” He eyed the soap dish nervously as Ivy removed it from the cabinet. “I’ve never seen it before. What’s it doing here?”

Ivy turned the dish over to examine it from all sides. “Maybe Valian sent it? That could be why he told us to wash our hands--because he wanted us to find it. What do you think it does?” She deliberated the possibilities. Every object gained a special ability when it turned uncommon.

“Experimentings should Ivy,” Scratch suggested helpfully, knocking against the taps. “Good way of discoverings uncommon uses.”

Taking his advice, Ivy tried floating the soap dish on the surface of the water. A strange green froth appeared, churning around the dish and quickly swallowing it under. Before Ivy had time to decide whether that was a good thing or not, a shout erupted up the stairs.

“Do you need me to COME UP?” Curtis boomed. There was an unmistakable edge of suspicion in her voice.

“We won’t be a moment!” Ivy called back, trying to sound as casual as possible.

Seb rattled the door, checking it was locked. “We need to be quick,” he hissed. “Curtis might already have an inkling that we’re planning to leave. She must have noticed you look more prepared for mountain-climbing than bed.” 

Ivy studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her messy auburn curls contrasted sharply with the navy blue of her duffle coat. In her thick cargo trousers and clean hiking boots, she was dressed exactly as Valian had advised: she was ready for anything.

“We’d better try something else,” Seb said, combing his fingers through the soapy water to locate the dish.

There was a sharp grating sound-- 

--and then Seb disappeared. 

“Seb!” Ivy leaned over the basin, still careful not to make contact with the water. The soap dish had vanished along with Seb. 

A distinct creak sounded in the hallway: Curtis was climbing the stairs. Ivy projected her thoughts inside Scratch: Help! Do you know what’s happened to Seb? Should I touch the water?

Thinkings is Scratch, she heard him reply in her head. Ivy must being carefuls. 

The ability to communicate with him like this was a recent development. To begin with, Ivy had only been able to hear vague murmurings coming from the fragment of soul inside Scratch, but now she could distinguish full sentences and send her own conversation back. She was learning that the more she used her whispering, the stronger her talents became. 

The landing groaned.

Curtis outside! Scratch warned her. 

With no other option, Ivy quickly shoved the bell back into her satchel. She splashed her hand in the basin, just as Seb had done, causing tickly bubbles to immediately rush up her nose. “Ah-choo!” she sneezed. In the split second her eyelids were shut, she heard another sound, shrill and scraping-- 

And the next moment she was standing in the shaky hull of an underwater vessel. Seb stood beside her, his nose scrunched up, as if flies had just flown up both his nostrils. 

“What just happened?” he asked, rubbing his face. “Where are we?” 

The metal craft was the size of a tugboat; it was round at both ends with a transparent hood of bubbles that sealed it off on all sides like a wobbly sunroof. Beyond it, the craggy forms of rocks were just visible in the murky water, and, closer to the vessel, Ivy spotted the elegant curves of a silvery dolphin. 

“We’re in the soap dish!” Ivy realized. Judging by the strong current, they were submerged in a stream or river. The air reeked of chlorine mixed with perfumed soap, like the changing rooms at the swimming pool. 

“Welcome aboard this aqua-transport vessel number 2895,” said a machine-like voice. Ivy didn’t know where it was coming from; there were no speakers or controls visible inside. “What is your desired destination?”

“Nubrook,” Ivy said. 

The grating sound came again, like metal grinding over stone. The soap dish began rocking, knocking them to their knees. Seb clutched his stomach. “Ugh . . . I feel sick. . . .” 

“We’d better stay down until it’s over,” Ivy advised. She didn’t know how long it was going to last or how turbulent it would be. 

Then the dolphin at the rear of the craft flicked its tail, sending them speeding forward. Ivy held on to the sides for support. Their surroundings were full-sized, so she presumed the dish had enlarged after moving to its present location; but she still wasn’t sure how she and Seb had been transported inside. 

They swept through tendrils of muddy pondweed before moving into clearer water and diving deeper. As they zoomed along, Ivy gazed through the swirling rainbows in the hood at slow-swimming fish and barnacle-encrusted pipes. They were soon skimming over a dark and sandy plateau. The seabed. 

In no time at all, the dish began to ascend. It rose to the surface of the water and, with a heavy shunt, beached itself on a platform. The bubble hood burst, and Ivy jolted as a wall of noise hit her in the chest. 

“Welcome to Nubrook,” declared a jolly voice, “the deepest undermart in the world!”

Chapter Two

The happy voice belonged to a red-cheeked man in a paisley shirt, who offered Ivy his hand as she stepped out of the soap dish onto a short jetty. “Mind your step, please,” he cautioned.

“Thanks,” she mumbled. Other soap dishes were moored in the same long canal; it cut across the limestone floor of a vast arrivals hall teeming with people. Iron lampposts shaped like dancers posed around the edge of the chamber, each holding a glowing uncommon lemon squeezer. 

“Land! Finally--” Seb staggered out behind her, his face pale. 

Something hit Ivy on the arm and she looked down to find a tatty paper pamphlet at her feet. She picked it up and read the front cover: Nubrook: Farrow’s Guide for the Traveling Tradesman. 

“Free guide to Nubrook!” called a boy with an American accent as he walked along the jetty. He tossed a few pamphlets at another soap dish. “Discover the secrets of the undermart that built down while commoners were building up.”