‘We don’t know that,’ I said. ‘Dolly could be lying, trying to get you to switch sides.’ That’s if Piper is even on anyone’s side but his own, I thought privately. ‘And anyway the story isn’t finished yet.’
‘How do you know Alice isn’t writing it right now?’ he asked bitterly. ‘You said to Dolly she could be hiding out somewhere—’
‘I was bluffing. Not that she believed it.’ I shook my head. ‘Wherever Alice is . . . she’s not writing this now. She’s not writing you . . . .ny of you.’
He nodded slowly, calmer now.
‘We need to get Gypsy and find Alice’s dad,’ I repeated. ‘Where would Gypsy have gone?’
He shrugged. ‘I ain’t a mind-reader.’
‘But you know her better than I do.’
‘You think?’ He chuckled and bitterness crept back in. ‘I don’t know anything. How can I if I’m not even real?’
‘You’re real to Alice – and Gypsy,’ I said. ‘And you’re real to me now, too.’
He sniffed. ‘So we have to get to the stag. How far is it? Can we make it there and back again by tomorrow?’
‘I don’t know, maybe. We need a map. Then we can work out how far it is and the best way to get there. And I think I know where we might find Gypsy.’
‘Where?’ Piper asked.
‘The same place we’d find Alice if she’s upset about something,’ I said softly. ‘Somewhere with books.’
We went to Chapters first, but found it closed, all the windows dark. I’d forgotten it was a Sunday, when some of the shops stayed shut.
‘Let’s try the library,’ I suggested. ‘I’m sure it’s open on Sunday mornings.’
We trudged through the mostly empty streets. The bounce had gone from Piper’s step. He walked now with his shoulders sloped, sometimes staring into the distance as if in a daydream, or looking around him as if seeing the world for the first time. In a way, I suppose he was.
When we stepped through the library doors, it felt cooler inside than outdoors. It was a vast building with high ceilings and never felt warm even in summer. The papery smell of books, old and new, lingered everywhere. It was impossible not to smell it and think of Alice.
We found Gypsy in the children’s section. She wasn’t sitting, or reading, or crying, or moving at all. She was simply standing still, staring at the bookshelves. Silvery lines of dried tears traced her face like a watermark through paper.
I hung back as Piper approached her.
‘Gypsy?’ He touched her lightly on the shoulder, then let his hand drop like he wasn’t sure what else to do with it. She didn’t react to his touch. ‘Oh, Gyps. I dunno what to say.’
She didn’t answer. It was clear she thought there was nothing to say. Fresh tears spilled on to her cheeks. Piper fumbled in his pockets, but came up with nothing. Instead, he lifted his hand again as if to wipe away her tears, but then thought better of it.
I decided to give them a few minutes and slipped away to the map section, glancing back at Piper and Gypsy every so often. With some help from the librarian, I found a general map of the area, and one of the waterways and towpaths. I took them to Gypsy and Piper.
‘It looks like West Maiden is about fifteen miles from here. If we go on Gypsy’s boat, it’d get us pretty close to where we need to be. We could walk the rest of the way and make it back before dark.’ I paused. ‘That’s just to the stag. We don’t know what we’ll find there, or whether it’ll lead us to Ramone.’ I pushed the maps at Gypsy. She took them numbly, her eyes blank.
‘Gypsy?’ I said uncertainly. ‘Can you take us to the stag?’
She shrugged, followed by the faintest of nods.
‘Let’s go then.’ I took Alice’s purse out of my rucksack and checked out the maps using her library card. Then we left.
‘You’ve been ages,’ Tabitha complained when we arrived back. ‘I’m thirsty. I had to drink water from the washing-up bowl.’
Gypsy filled her kettle and placed it on the stove, then stood at the window, brooding. She made no attempt to unmoor us. In the end, it was Piper who unwound the rope and got us on the move. He stayed outside, gazing into the distance. I made a pot of weak tea that no one wanted except the cat, who drank two cups, then began asking questions that no one wanted to answer.
‘Is anyone going to tell me what’s happened?’ Tabitha demanded.
‘We ran into Dolly Weaver,’ I said finally.
‘The catnapper?’
‘Right. She wants to trade her part of the notebook and Twitch for the pages we have. We have until tomorrow to read them and work something out.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ said Tabitha. She lifted her hind leg to scratch behind her ear. ‘Why do you look so worried?’
‘Because I don’t trust her.’ And because she’s threatened to kill Alice, although I couldn’t tell Tabitha this, not without giving her a reason and revealing to Tabitha that she, too, was a made-up character. A surge of panic rose up inside me. We had to find Alice before Dolly did. As much as I tried to tell myself that Alice could hold her own, and that if she had created Dolly she must be stronger, Alice wasn’t evil. Dolly was . . . and she’d killed before. There was also this other character, Dorothy Grimes. Where did she fit into all this?
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Getting upset wasn’t going to find Alice, or save her. I reminded myself that a good detective works with facts. I thought about what Dolly had and what we did. She had Twitch as a bargaining chip and most of Alice’s story.
Neither, I realised, would help her to get what she really wanted – and what we really wanted – which was Alice.
I opened my eyes, calmer now. We had more clues than Dolly. I was the one who’d thought to Summon Alice. I was the one she’d told to look for her father. Me. I was the one who had solved the clue of how to find him. I should have seen it sooner. The best chance of finding Alice was all within me, what she’d taught me, and what I knew about her. Dolly would never have that.
There were other things on our side, too. I glanced at Tabitha. I still didn’t completely trust her, but then I didn’t trust Piper, either. I didn’t know enough about either of them for that, but the cat was valuable – or its lives were. If the worst happened and Dolly found Alice first, then there was a way I could still save her life.
I had to become the cat’s master.
‘Tell me that riddle again,’ I said.
‘The one about the Irishman?’ Tabitha asked sleepily.
I stared at her blankly.
‘Oops, sorry. Wrong riddle.’ She stretched. ‘Ready?’
‘Wait.’ I tore some paper from Gypsy’s notepad and took her pencil. ‘Go on.’
‘I’m up when I’m up
And down when I’m down
A thump when a smile
And a flick when a frown.
The opposite side
To the wife of a king
A vessel of venom that
Can kill with a sting.’
I finished writing and read through it several times. Now that it was written down, I found I could think about it more clearly, but it was a tricky one. Looking at the whole thing was too confusing – it was meant to be, but Alice had taught me how to pick riddles apart, line by line. What you had to do was think of everything you could that each clue was telling you, and find the one thing they all had in common.
‘Any ideas yet?’ Tabitha asked.
‘Give me a chance,’ I muttered. The first part of the riddle had me completely stumped. Lots of things could be up when they were up, or down when they were down. A kite, a ball, an elevator. Even a person’s feelings. I moved on to the next part. ‘A thump when a smile and a flick when a frown? What does that mean?’
‘Tee-hee,’ said Tabitha.
‘Are you sure this makes sense?’ I asked crossly.
‘Of course.’
I grunted, moving on to the second half of the riddle. This seemed more straightforward, someth
ing I might actually stand a chance with. The opposite side to the wife of a king? ‘The wife of a king is a queen,’ I mumbled. ‘But . . . the opposite side?’ I looked at the final lines. A vessel of venom that can kill with a sting. There were lots of things that could sting. Wasps, bees, jellyfish. Some people could die from these stings. ‘Queen bee?’ I said suddenly, thinking of a bee flying up and down. It fitted with that.
Tabitha yawned. ‘Nope.’
What else could sting? Nettles? An electric shock? I couldn’t make either of those connect with the queen part. I was missing something. ‘Any ideas, Gypsy?’
She didn’t respond.
I sighed and slipped the piece of paper into my pocket. I’d try again later.
I took out the loose pages from my rucksack. They were crumpled now.
‘Do you want to finish reading these, Gypsy?’ I asked. ‘I mean, before I do? As it’s, well . . . about you after all.’
Gypsy shook her head and continued to stare glassily out at the water.
I leafed through the pages. This section appeared to start mid-chapter. A few pages on, it ended and a new chapter began. I flipped back to the front. Gypsy’s name jumped out at me almost immediately.
The first couple of pages described how Elsewhere had belonged to her papa, and how they would walk down to the river from their cottage in the summer months and sit aboard it. Her papa would catch fish for supper, and Gypsy would read him her stories. Papa would also tell her about her mother, who had left them when Gypsy was just a baby. Neither of them had seen her again, and Gypsy could not remember her at all. And, though they were very happy together, Gypsy often wondered why her papa always sailed so far and seemed to be searching for something.
Unlike many others who are cursed, Gypsy’s was not one she was born with, which made it all the harder to bear. When you are born cursed, it is accepted as part of your lot and you never know any differently.
Gypsy’s curse was Silence, and it was bestowed on her when she was ten years old. On the day it happened, she was playing down by the river with Johnny Piper, though most of the villagers called him the Foundling Child as he had been taken in by Gypsy’s family when he was small.
Foundling children were considered unlucky in Twisted Wood. It stemmed from an old folk tale told to children about a little foundling girl with red boots who turned up in the village alone one winter’s night, begging for shelter. Only one family took pity on her, but in the morning they woke to find that she was gone, having slaughtered their children in their sleep and eaten them. The only traces of the girl were red, bloody footprints leading away from the house and off into the snow.
It also did not help that Johnny Piper played a flute, and, when he did, odd things happened around him: chickens laid more eggs; cows produced more milk; children would follow him in the street; and adults would often forget what they were saying or doing.
When Gypsy’s papa learned of this, he forbade Piper from playing his flute anywhere except at home and in the woods down by the river. There was enough hearsay surrounding Gypsy and her father already: stories about her mother that were never too far from the tongues of the village gossips. It was said that there had been a pinch of witchery about the woman, as well as a liking for cruelty.
On this day, Gypsy’s papa was painting the boat and making a few repairs. Gypsy and Piper were playing in the grass next to the river, Piper making up little tunes and Gypsy putting words to them to entertain them all. When Papa’s work took him inside the boat, the two children began to stray to the edge of the woods, led in part by Piper. He was twiddling a tune to a trail of blue butterflies that swooped in time to his will, plainly bewitched.
Eventually, losing interest, he stopped playing and released the creatures from his spell, and he and Gypsy watched as they fluttered dozily away. The two children found a puddle of sunlight in the grass and sat there, plucking daisies.
‘You’ve never explained how you do that,’ said Gypsy.
‘Dunno how really,’ Piper replied. He put the flute away and stretched out, folding his arms behind his head. ‘I just remember being taught some of the tunes by my pa, and made to play them over and over. He was pleased when I did that, because people threw coins . . . loads of coins. A lot more when I played than when he did, so I’d play and he’d collect.’
Gypsy nodded. She had heard about Piper’s pa before, from both him and her papa. The story was the same, but different, depending on who told it. She wondered which version was right, for surely they couldn’t both be? She knew her papa to be a good and honest man, and yet she had heard Piper’s version many times, and it never changed. It was a story he told often, because it was the tale of the last time he had seen his pa: how they had gone to a different town, and Piper had played a new tune that he’d been practising, and people had stopped to listen, dropping more coins than ever before.
Afterwards, his pa had scooped up the money and hurried them away, and, when they stood in an alleyway, counting it out, there was much, much more than Piper remembered seeing, as well as purses, wallets and jewellery. Piper’s pa told him he’d done good and ruffled his hair. Then footsteps sounded at the mouth of the alley and voices shouted: ‘There they are!’ And Pa stuffed Piper’s pockets with the purses and wallets and told him to run and to wait for him by the museum. Pa would come for him later.
So Piper ran. He knew where the museum, an enormous stone building, was, because his pa had pointed it out earlier. He waited on the steps, hiding in alcoves behind statues and ducking behind pillars when he thought anyone was looking at him. It got dark, and the museum closed its doors, and still Pa didn’t come. Piper kept staring at the word MUSEUM above the doors. He knew it was a word even though he couldn’t read, and he passed the time by memorising the shapes of the letters. It got darker and colder, and still no Pa.
He fell asleep at the foot of a statue and only woke when strangers came, telling him his pa was gone. He was taken to a place where children went that had no other place to go, although he kept telling them his pa would come and take him home. But, in the end, it was the Spindles who did. He never saw his pa again.
Gypsy’s father’s version of the tale was one only she had heard. Papa had never told it to Piper and said she never should, either. It was much the same story, except that Papa said that the money and jewellery hadn’t just come to them from Piper’s music. His pa had been seen pilfering the crowd’s pockets while the tune held them mesmerised.
Piper’s pa knew what he was doing when he sent Piper to wait for him, and was never planning on collecting him. They knew this, because the wallets and purses he had given to Piper were empty; his pa had taken everything of value and left his son penniless while he, loaded with riches, made his escape. Piper was never told this, because, Papa said, it would take away his hope, and that was something that no one should live without.
‘Do you think you’ll see your pa again?’ Gypsy asked now.
‘I used to,’ Piper replied. ‘But they reckon, if you’re lost, the best place to stay is where you are. I’ve been in Twisted Wood for six years now and he’s never come back.’
Gypsy said nothing.
‘What about you?’ he continued. ‘Think you’ll ever see your mother again? Would you want to?’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
He pulled up a handful of grass, crushing it in his fist. She moved out of the shaft of sunlight she was in to see him better. His cheeks looked a little pinker than usual. ‘Everyone’s heard the stories about her.’
‘I’ve heard the odd whisper that she might have been a witch,’ said Gypsy. ‘But she’d been a traveller before she met Papa. Her beliefs were different to the people around here. She had strange little sayings, used different medicines to them. Sang different songs.’ She sighed. ‘She followed her own path, an older one than most people do nowadays.’
‘What about the other stuff . . . about her and . . . you?’
‘What abou
t me?’ Gypsy felt defensive all of a sudden.
Piper didn’t answer.
‘What have you heard?’
‘Just . . . spiteful gossip.’
‘Well, you brought it up.’ She screwed up the daisies and tossed them aside. ‘So you can tell me now. What do people say about her?’
‘Just drop it, Gyps, please?’
‘Tell me!’
‘They say . . . they say she cried and cried after she had you. And that one day your papa came home and found her holding your face down in a bucket of water. She was trying to drown you.’
‘That’s a lie!’ Gypsy leaped to her feet with wild eyes. ‘You tell me who said that, right now.’
He tried to take her hand, but she snatched it away. ‘Everyone. It’s what everyone says. Your papa didn’t tell no one, but people heard him shouting through the walls, saw him chasing her out with you clutched in his arms. You were dripping wet and blue. He got to you just in time.’
‘My mother would never do that.’
‘She’d done it before, Gyps. With kittens. Every one of them in a bucket of water before their eyes had even opened.’
Gypsy’s breath came in short, quick gulps. ‘But . . . b-but—’
‘I know you’ve heard that story before,’ Piper said softly. ‘I was there in the schoolyard, right next to you, when that Fletcher kid started singing it. Remember?
“Mrs Spindle had a pail of water,
As well as a liking for slaughter.
She was first scratched and bitten
As she drowned three white kittens
Before—”’
She did remember. Piper had thrown a punch before the Fletcher kid had managed to finish. Got him right in his fat, spiteful mouth. That’d shut him up. It was funny, but she’d always been too upset thinking about the first part of the poem to wonder much about how it might have ended. The line Piper had prevented from being said. Now she had a pretty good idea of what it was, but she wanted to hear it anyway.