The Crooked Sixpence Read Free Page B

coin.
    Ivy searched the kitchen tiles and spotted it in a puddle of tomato soup.
    â€˜Careful,’ Seb warned as she bent to retrieve it.
    Ivy’s fingers floated above the coin for a moment before she picked it up and wiped it off. It was about the size of a one pence piece, except silver and bent slightly in the middle, so that it hugged the curve of her palm. After a split-second she discovered something else. The coin was
warm
; like it had been left out in the sun.
    â€˜Anything?’ Seb asked, stepping closer.
    Ivy tossed the coin into her opposite hand to discover that the temperature wasn’t the only odd thing about it. It was as if the coin was tickling her, leaving behind a strange – but not unpleasant – tingle on her skin. Squinting, she held it up to the light. The metal was worn in places but she could still make out words written around the outside. ‘It says:
Blackclaw
,
Ragwort
,
Wolfsbane
and
Dirge
.’ She looked up. ‘What do you think they mean?’
    Seb jerked his head back. ‘How do I know? Maybe it’s one of Granma’s old antiques. She sold coins in her shop, didn’t she?’
    Ivy thought back to the little leaded windows of Granma Sylvie’s antique shop in Bletchy Scrubb – she’d run it with Granpa Ernest right up until his death. ‘Yeah,’ she agreed. ‘But they weren’t like this.’
    Seb’s shoulders stiffened. ‘What do you mean?’
    The coin was still warm, which was weird enough, but now Ivy felt another sensation, something she couldn’t quite identify. It was like the difference between holding a stuffed toy cat and a real cat. It was the feeling of holding . . . life.
    â€˜I mean . . .’
    Something brushed at the edge of her hearing –
a voice
? She hesitated. No, she must be imagining it.
    â€˜What I mean,’ she said again, ‘is that Granma’s coins didn’t exactly appear out of thin air. And this one
did
.’
    Just then a clatter sounded from somewhere at the front of the house.
    Seb’s head shot round. ‘What was that?’
    Before Ivy could answer, the noise came again, followed by the rumble of voices.
    They were not alone.

Chapter Four
    Ivy’s skin turned to ice. ‘What if that’s them – the people who did this?’
    Seb hurried towards the back door. ‘Let’s not wait to find out.’ He leaped over the remains of a china vase and shot through the patio doors into the garden. Ivy pushed the silver coin into her coat pocket and scrambled after him.
    The rain sounded like a snare drum as it hit the flagstones. Ivy tried to keep her balance as she followed Seb round the corner and into the alley between the house and a neighbouring field. She wiped her eyes clumsily, completely forgetting that she had a hood.
    â€˜Ivy, watch it!’ Seb called.
    She ground to a stop, arms flailing. Beside the toe of her wellington boot was a large brown hessian sack, the soil spilling out of it.
Granma Sylvie’s potatoes.
Ivy winced. She’d grown them in that sack for ever. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered.
    Carefully she hopped over it and inched towards Seb, who was crouching down next to the garage at the front of the house. The rain chimed off its corrugated-iron roof, masking the sound of her footsteps. She tucked herself behind a section of dense yew hedge and angled her head till she could see. Her jaw dropped.
    What the—?
    In Granma Sylvie’s drive stood a funeral coach, complete with four black horses. It was long and rectangular, with glass sides and a strip of ornate carving along the top. Every inch had been lacquered with ebony gloss which matched the head-feathers of the horses. Ivy had seen something like it only once before, on the way to school. Her mum had slowed to let it pass.
That
coach had been carrying a coffin. This one was empty.
    No . . . wait.
    Ivy squinted. It wasn’t