Free The Crooked Sixpence by Jennifer Bell

was the title on the cover.
Great
. Her shoulders slumped. She shoved it back in her pocket and sighed; she’d have to think of another way to navigate Lundinor if she was going to find Seb.
    Her eyes scanned the market; there was only one road leading in – a wide cobbled street flanked by wrought-iron streetlamps. Cautiously she approached the nearest one. It was decorated with a wreath of berries, and a fist-sized bell hung from a hook at eye level. Checking that no one was watching, Ivy reached up and tapped it gently. Her fingers came away tingling with a pleasant warmth.
    It’s uncommon. Now what?
    Unlike the bells by the Great Gates, there was no fingerprint symbol on the front. Instead, Ivy saw the image of a compass.
    I wonder . . .
    She grabbed the short length of rope that hung from the bottom and shook it gently. A voice rang out clearly.
    â€˜
You are on the Gauntlet, Lundinor
,’ it said, immediately falling silent.
    Ivy thought for a moment and then rang the bell again.
    â€˜
The Gauntlet, Lundinor
,’ the bell repeated.
    â€˜Is that all you can say?’ she whispered, hoping no one was close enough to hear.
    The bell remained quiet. Ivy waited for a moment. Eventually it gave a small, purposeful cough. ‘
I’m only supposed to speak when you ring me
,’ it said, in a hushed, slightly annoyed voice.
    Ivy whispered an apology, stretched up and rang it again. ‘Do you know where I can find the underguard station?’
    â€˜
Underguard station?
’ the bell repeated. ‘
The closest one is on the other side of the cavern. An hour north of here. End of Runner Street.
’
    An hour . . . ?
Ivy’s heart sank. She repeated the address in her head and wandered back onto the cobbles. Ahead of her, the Gauntlet seemed to stretch on for ever. Hulking grey stone buildings rose up on either side, lurching towards each other. Beneath them, the pavements were crammed with brightly coloured kiosks that spilled over into the road. Traders riding broomsticks, doormats and rugs flew over the rooftops, while the thud of a thousand footsteps made the ground shake. The noise would have easily drowned out Seb’s loudest drum practice.
    Ivy took a deep breath. The air was thick with delicious smells, making her mouth water: sweet roast chestnuts, freshly baked bread and spiced fruits.
Just act normal
, she told herself.
Don’t attract attention.
But it was almost impossible to contain her amazement. It was like stepping into the pages of a Victorian history book, except . . . with uncommon objects.
    Traders shuffled around in all directions. Some sang out to passers-by, trying to drum up business.
    â€˜Lovegrove’s Leather Dashers! Belts for all elevations! Best in Lundinor!’
    â€˜Sale on long-haul bags, ladies and gents: at least two grade reduction!’
    Above Ivy’s head, shop signs creaked as they swung to and fro. AL-DIN & SON FLYING CARPETS, OLD MR TANNENBAUM’S UNCOMMON DECORATIONS, ROY. G. BIV’S ART SUPPLIES, LIMELIGHTS’ CITRUS LAMPS . She stopped by the open windows of one particular store and peered inside. There was a length of ribbon suspended across the glass that seemed to be moving of its own accord, twirling into a message.
    Welcome to Gil’s Glove Shop!
Proprietor: Gilbert Grandiose – Glove-Maker for All Ages
    Behind the ribbon was a circular room fitted with glass drawers. The front of each displayed a glove – violet suede, lace-cuffed, buttoned, leather, cotton, rubber . . . The room was dimly lit by half a dozen floating milk jugs. Ivy could tell they were uncommon – not just because they were hovering, but because, as they tipped over, a liquid gas poured out, glowing like stardust.
    Standing in the middle of the room was a man with beady eyes and an absurdly huge white moustache which curled around his face, almost touching his ears. He wore an apron covered in oily stains