The Luck Uglies

“YOU’RE FILTHY,” FOLLY said.

“It was a long walk.”

“Is that sick in your hair?” Folly asked.

“Pumpkin. Long story,” Rye said. “I like your dress.”

“Thanks,” Folly said, and did a little twirl. “Mum let me wear it for the Black Moon Party.”

It was dark-green velvet with gold trim. Like Rye, Folly didn’t wear dresses very often.

Folly’s room was small, but it was her own. She didn’t have to share one like her brothers did. It was decorated with glass bottles of all shapes and sizes, each filled with a colourful concoction of potential ingredients – frogspawn, belladonna blooms, dollops of earwax. Folly was always trying to make magical potions. They never worked, but Rye gave her credit for trying. Folly’s parents didn’t seem to mind. With eight sons and a whole inn to run, they hardly noticed the chemical fires and pungent fumes wafting from their daughter’s room.

“Are you ready?” Folly asked.

Rye nodded. This was going to make the whole trip worthwhile.

“OK,” Folly said. “Stay close to me and try not to draw attention to yourself. My father will be too busy to notice, and nobody else will care that we’re here.”

“Got it,” Rye said.

Folly opened her door and they stepped into the hall. Sound and heat roared from below. The four-storey inn was open from floor to ceiling, with a central staircase leading from one level to the next. Rye and Folly walked to the edge of the railing and peeked down. Hanging from the beamed ceiling, fixed with an anchor chain, was a chandelier fashioned from the sun-bleached skeleton of some long-extinct sea monster. Its bones were covered with hundreds of beeswax candles that bathed the inn in the glow of soft light.

All the tables were filled and people stood shoulder to shoulder at the bars. Barmaids pushed through the crowds, delivering trays of mugs and goblets that seemed to make everyone happier. A huge black shark roasted on a spit over the stone fireplace. Its jaws, filled with sharp teeth, were wide enough to fit a person inside. Every now and then a barmaid would cut off a piece, slap it on a plate, and deliver it to a hungry patron. With each cut, the juices of the shark steak dripped into the fire, sending flames shooting into the air, and everyone would cheer.

“Come on,” Folly said, and they took the stairs down to the second floor.

The second floor was busier than the third. Guests made their way in and out of their rooms, some disappearing behind latched doors. Over the noise of the crowd, Rye could hear music. There were drums, maybe a lute. Rye was spellbound by the festivities. She crossed her legs and leaned her head against the railing, soaking in the sights and sounds.

The Dead Fish drew an unusual crowd. Unlike most villagers, these people looked like they had been places and done things. Gambling was everywhere – drinkers bet on who could empty their mugs the fastest, or who might fit the most spiders in his mouth. A card game was heating up at a table in the corner. A man with slicked-back hair and a small black monkey on his shoulder seemed to be doing most of the winning. The monkey shuffled the cards and collected the bronze bits after every hand the man won. At one point someone accused the monkey of cheating. Insults were traded. Someone got bitten.

Folly’s father, Fletcher, served behind the main bar, which made him the most popular person at the inn. His hands never stopped working and his gap-toothed smile never left his face. He strung grommets, shims and bits on the leather coin belt round his waist as quickly as the customers dropped them on the bar. On the shelf behind him, the bottom chamber of a tall hourglass slowly filled with black sand. Rye had never seen anything quite like it. On what kind of beach could you find black sand?

If Fletcher Flood was the most popular person at the Dead Fish, it seemed to Rye that the man at the Mermaid’s Nook wasn’t far behind. The Mermaid’s Nook was the best table in the house. It was the closest to the main fireplace and it sat higher than the others in a semi-private corner with a view of the entire inn. Folly told Rye it was her favourite because of the beautiful, life-sized mermaid that was carved into the wooden table top.

The man at the Mermaid’s Nook had a short, stubbly beard flecked with grey, and dark hair that was long but not unkempt. His nose, though bent, seemed at home between his cheeks. He had more than a few scars. Several ran through his eyebrows and another across his throat. His eyes flashed with delight, or was it wariness? Rye’s eyes followed the man’s as they scanned the inn, seeming to take inventory of everything in it. His eyes found Rye’s, and she looked away until she felt them move on.

The woman at his table had her back to Rye. Her dress, the colour of fresh cranberries, showed off her soft, white shoulders. Rye watched as every few minutes someone would stop at the Mermaid’s Nook to greet the man and his companion. Visitors would shake his hand, heartily slap his back, or almost timidly touch his shoulder. When he waved or reached across to say hello, Rye could see the green tattoos that began above the leather bracelets criss-crossing his wrists. They snaked their way up his forearms and disappeared beneath his sleeves. His silver rings and the chains round his neck glinted when they caught the light. He seemed apologetic after each visitor left, and he would lean forward and whisper something to the woman at the table.

“Folly, there you are,” said a voice. “Oh. Hello, Rye.”

It was Fifer Flood, the nicest of Folly’s brothers.

“Hi, Fifer,” Rye said.

Fifer was thirteen and, for some reason, Rye always found herself blushing when he was around.

“Folly, be a love and bring these down to Mum, would you?” Fifer asked. He handed her an armful of bar rags. “I need to get back to cleaning room seven. The sword swallower had a terrible mishap. There’ll be no second show this evening, I’m afraid.”

Folly crinkled her nose and took the rags.

“Thanks,” Fifer said. “You two stay out of trouble.”

Rye shadowed Folly’s steps down the last flight of stairs to the main floor of the inn. A young, straw-haired bartender spotted them, but just smiled and waved them over. It was Jonah, a friend of the twins. He was always kind to Rye and Folly and let them sip the honey mead when no one was looking.

“You two up to mischief?” he asked.

Why did everyone always jump to that conclusion?

“No. Well … maybe,” Folly said with a smile. “Don’t tell my dad.”

Jonah pursed his lips and buttoned them with his fingers. “I doubt he’ll notice anyway,” he said. “This is the busiest Black Moon we’ve seen in years. The Bog Noblin chatter has everyone on edge. Folk get thirsty when their nerves are frayed.”

“Are you nervous, Jonah?” Rye asked.

“I’m scared they’ll string me up if we run out of ale. But scared of Bog Noblins? No, not me.” He raised an eyebrow. “Did you come here to talk about them too? Try over there.” He pointed to where a small crowd had gathered round a tall man in a corner.

“Jonah,” Folly said, a hint of conspiracy in her voice. “Has anyone said anything about … Luck Uglies?” Out of habit, she peeked over her shoulder when she said it.

Jonah snorted and tugged the tuft of beard on his chin. “People are saying all sorts of foolish things. We’ve been down that road before. Asking the Luck Uglies to solve your problems is like letting wasps in the kitchen to get rid of your flies. Once the flies are gone, who do you think the wasps will sting?”

He snapped a bar rag at them playfully. Rye and Folly giggled nervously as they moved on.

“What was that supposed to mean?” Rye asked Folly when they were beyond earshot.

“Beats me, but I’m staying out of the kitchen for a while,” she said, and they both giggled again.

Folly and Rye darted between hips and thighs as they worked their way towards the corner Jonah had indicated. They stopped at the smaller side bar where Faye Flood rinsed dirty goblets at a furious pace in a trough of brownish water.

“Here, Mum,” Folly said.

She dropped the stack of dirty rags on the bar.

Faye flipped back the lone streak of grey in her blonde hair, which hung down in front of her face. She gave a quick smile and a wave and returned to her chores. Her face was round and pretty, but Rye noticed that the years of scrubbing had left her hands thick and weathered.

Eventually, they found their way to the corner where a tall, bearded fellow with some miles under his boots was addressing a small crowd of patrons over his mug.

“The sickly skinned cockle knocker lurched out at us from the muck while we was eating,” he said, raising a hand like a claw.

His audience seemed transfixed by his story.

“Fortunately, I kept my wits about me,” the man continued. “Made eye contact with it – like they says to do.” He paused for dramatic effect. It caused everyone to stop their drinking and hang on his words – not an easy task. At last he thrust his fist forward.

“Then I gave it a stiff punch in the snout!”

The men roared their approval. Several women gasped. Over the din, a voice called out dryly.

“Rubbish.”

“Who said that?” the tall man asked.

“Bogwash,” the voice said again.

Several patrons stepped aside and Rye saw that it was the man with the monkey. He sat in a chair with his legs crossed, glaring over his fingers, which he’d folded into a pyramid on his chin.

“You’s saying I’m a liar, gypsy?”

“If you actually saw a Bog Noblin,” the man with the monkey said, “which I highly doubt, I suspect you wet your knickers and threw your chicken leg at it. If you had tried to punch it in its snout, you wouldn’t be standing here at all.”

The storyteller took a menacing step forward. The man with the monkey stood up. The monkey put up its fists. The men who stepped between them were soon pushing and shoving one another, and before long everyone seemed to forget who had started the trouble in the first place.

Rye and Folly dashed away, disappearing into the forest of legs. Someone stepped on Rye’s foot. Someone else bumped an elbow and accidentally spilled wine on the girls’ heads. They shrieked, then looked at each other and laughed.

“What do we do now?” Rye asked.

“Are you hungry?” Folly asked.

“I could eat.”

They worked through the crowd and positioned themselves near the swinging doors that led to the kitchen. Before long, a barmaid hurried out, balancing a heavy tray of food. Folly reached up when the barmaid wasn’t looking and grabbed two grey-black lumps of meat. Folly and Rye skipped back into the crowd before the barmaid could notice the empty plate.

“Try one,” Folly said. “They’re hot.”

Rye took a tiny bite and chewed. She chewed some more. It was salty.

“What do you think?” Folly asked.

“Rubbery,” Rye said, finally swallowing. “What is it?”

“Sea lion,” Folly said.

They didn’t eat sea lion back on Mud Puddle Lane … or anywhere else Rye could think of. She examined the dark meat between her fingers. Suddenly she felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach. The pain made her drop the rest on the floor.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“More for me,” Folly said, dangling her share over her lips.

“No, really, Folly.” Rye clutched her side. “I’m going to be sick.”

Folly tossed the sea lion aside and grabbed her hand. “Well, don’t do it here. Come on, let’s get upstairs.”

“Hurry, Folly,” Rye said, turning green.

The girls ran through the crowd, Rye’s insides on fire.

They were almost to the stairs, Folly pulling Rye, when Rye crashed into someone’s leg. She bounced off and stumbled into a barmaid, who dropped an entire tray of empty mugs. There was a crash, then a roar of cheers from the crowd.

Rye was about to stop, but Folly just pulled.

“Keep going,” she said.

When Rye glanced over her shoulder she saw that she’d run into the woman in the cranberry-coloured dress. The one who was sitting at the Mermaid’s Nook. The woman was apologising to the barmaid. She never saw who hit her.

Rye noticed that the woman had soft features and dark-black hair tied into a ponytail with a simple blue ribbon. She held a goblet of wine in her hand and, round her neck was a black choker strung with runestones. It looked just like Rye’s.

“Pigshanks!” she said, slamming to a halt. “It’s my mother!”

Rye and Folly were lying on their bellies in the third-floor hallway, staring through the railing down into the inn below. It was the only position that made Rye’s stomach feel better. The sea lion had already come back to visit her three times, along with her supper from earlier that day. There was nothing left in her belly, but it still felt like she’d swallowed an old boot.

“Are you sure she didn’t see you?” Folly asked. Her voice was sleepy, her eyes half closed.

“Yes,” said Rye. “Believe me, if she had, sea lion would be the least of my worries.”

Abby O’Chanter was back at the Mermaid’s Nook with the tattooed man. They were speaking quietly to one another across the mermaid’s body, but Rye couldn’t tell if Abby was happy or sad. One thing she did know was that she’d never seen her mother wear a dress like that before. She’d never known her to show so much of her shoulders and neck in public.

“Do you have any idea who that man is?” Rye asked.

“No,” Folly said. “It seems that other people do, though.”

“My mother said she had a special sale for customers at The Willow’s Wares,” Rye said. “What’s she doing here?”

“Maybe she’s finished her business,” Folly said, drifting off to sleep. “Or maybe he’s one of the customers.”

The inn began to spin and Rye thought she was going to be sick again, but she realised it was just the massive chandelier bobbing in front of her eyes. A rook hopped among the bones and candles, trying to keep its balance with its creepy little feet. Rye crinkled her nose. The filthy creature must have flown in through a window. A black bird that flies by night was considered bad luck. The worst kind. In its beak was a large, metal fish hook that glinted in the candlelight, its barb still slick as if the bird had plucked it fresh from some mackerel’s mouth.

Rye jumped as the rook spread its wings and dived down from its perch. It swooped unnoticed over the heads of the partygoers before passing over the Mermaid’s Nook, where it lost its grip on the hook. The hook dropped straight on to the table. The bird flapped awkwardly upwards and disappeared into a dark corner of the rafters.

Rye leaned forward. Her mother had pushed herself back from the table, but her companion picked up the hook and seemed to examine it with great interest. Unbelievably, he held it under his nose and sniffed it.

Rye’s concentration was broken by a loud ringing below. Folly’s father had mounted the bar and he now clanged a brass ship’s bell. He kept it up until the crowd grew quiet. He cupped his hands to his mouth.

“Last call,” he bellowed. “Last call.”

There were rumbles and hisses. Fletcher Flood pointed to the large hourglass behind him. The black sand had almost run its course.

“Finish your cups and be gone,” he yelled, “or the doors get locked and you drink ’til dawn!”

There was a roar of approval. Then the crowd raised their glasses and broke into a chant.

“The Black Moon rises, thick with thieves! No one enters, no one leaves!”

“Folly,” Rye asked. “What’s going on?”

Folly was snoring.

“Folly!” Rye jabbed an elbow in her side. “What’s going on here?”

“Huh?” Folly said. “Oh. On the Black Moon the doors get locked at midnight. Everyone is free to go or stay, but once the doors are locked, no one gets in or out.”

“What? It’s midnight already? Why do they lock the doors?” Rye asked.

“I don’t know; tradition?” Folly said. “Most people stay. It can get really crazy in here after the doors are locked.”

Rye looked back towards the Mermaid’s Nook. Abby and the man were now standing. Even from this distance, Rye recognised the lines of worry on her mother’s brow. Abby flung her everyday cloak over her shoulders, extinguishing the striking cranberry dress like mud on a fire. The man had one too, black as the charred shark on the spit, and when he turned, Rye noticed two sheathed swords strapped to his back. They made their way with haste to the front of the inn with a handful of others.

“Wait,” Rye said. “Where’s she going?”

Fitz and Flint stood to the side of the thick doors with both sets of arms crossed. Rye’s mother and her escort pulled their hoods over their heads and disappeared with the small crowd into the night. Rye noticed that the man with the monkey was part of the group. He had slipped in behind them unnoticed. Fitz and Flint used their shoulders to close the heavy doors behind them, and dropped a thick iron bar across to bolt them shut. The latch echoed just as the sand ran out of the hourglass. The crowd broke into louder cheers.

“Folly!” Rye cried. “I can’t get locked in.”

“Don’t worry,” Folly said. “You can sleep in my room.”

“No, Folly, listen.” Rye grabbed her by the shoulders. “My mother’s going home. I have to get out!”

RYE DROPPED DOWN from the rope ladder and landed hard in the alley. She had climbed out of Folly’s window so fast she’d forgotten her lantern. There was no time to go back for it now. She was careful not to step on Baron Nutfield, but he was nowhere to be found. Maybe they had let him inside.

Rye tried to ignore the protests of her stomach as she darted through the alley and on to Little Water Street, worried that she might run straight into her mother once again. But something was different. Terribly different. The street was dark and lifeless. Another solitary rook pecked at a string of festive beads now discarded on the docks. It regarded Rye with its dark coal of an eye before flying off, disappearing under the bridge. There were no lights on the River Drowning and no more boats offshore. The river was still, its water black. The shops were all shuttered. She looked up at the Dead Fish Inn. Even the candles in its windows had been darkened.

Rye breathed hard. It had grown colder. She could see her breath. From the corner of her eye, she thought she could see things moving in the shadows of the buildings. Then, when she would look, they’d be gone.

Rye began to run.

Rye wasn’t the fastest runner on Mud Puddle Lane, but she could run for the longest. Whenever she raced Quinn from her house to Miser’s End Cemetery, Quinn would always win. When they raced to the cemetery and back again, Quinn didn’t stand a chance. Rye’s big lungs and strong legs served her well on the night of the Black Moon. She tore through the streets, falling twice over loose stones. She picked herself up and kept going.

By the time she reached the broken wall, her chest pounded and her hood stuck to the sweat on her forehead. Her head was spinning worse than her stomach now, but she was greatly relieved to make it to Mud Puddle Lane without anyone seeing her, grabbing her, or otherwise scaring her out of her wits. She was even more relieved when she opened the door to the O’Chanters’ cottage and found it to be quiet. Rye had managed to make it home before her mother.

Then she realised the problem. Nobody else was there either.

“Quinn?” Rye called.

The door to her mother’s room was open. Rye poked her head inside, but found it empty.

“Quinn!” Rye called again. She opened the door to her own room. The covers were off and Lottie was nowhere to be seen.

Rye picked her fingers as panic set in. She ran to the main room and threw open the front door, about to run to Quinn’s house to see if he’d taken Lottie back with him. A thought made her pause. She quickly walked to the wall by the fireplace and pushed on a painting of Mona Monster’s belly button.

Quinn was in the secret workshop, pinned to a chair by Lottie. Her arms were round his neck, her mop of red hair buried on his shoulder. She snored like a hive of lazy bees. Poor Quinn looked frightful. His hair was as wild as Lottie’s and his face was covered with blue paint.

“You said you’d be right back,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Rye said.

“You said she never wakes up.”

“She doesn’t,” Rye said. “What happened?”

“She said she had to do a wee.”

“Did she?” Rye asked.

“Not a wee,” Quinn said.

“Oh,” Rye said. “Did she use her Pot?”

“No,” Quinn said glumly and pointed to his shoes in the corner.

“Ugh,” said Rye.

“It was awful, Rye. What do you feed this girl?”

“I’ll clean your shoe.”

“She was screeching about a lazy glue wagon,” Quinn said.

“A baby blue dragon,” Rye corrected.

“And magic narbles,” Quinn said, shaking his head. “She refused to sleep until I gave her a magic narble. Where on earth do I find one of them?”

“A magic marble,” Rye said. “They’re just beach pebbles. Lottie gets one every time she uses her Pot. When she fills her goodie jar, my mother says she can have a baby blue dragon.”

Rye had no idea where they might acquire a baby dragon of any colour. But Lottie didn’t seem particularly enthusiastic about potty training anyway. She was just as likely to go in her mother’s vegetable garden, or a saucepan, or poor Quinn’s shoe. She had only collected three marbles so far. They still had plenty of time to sort out the details.

“And that one,” Quinn said, pointing to the corner, “has been unbearable all night. I thought he was going to rip down the door.”

Shady paced the floor restlessly. He looked over his furry shoulder as they spoke about him.

“He scratched me,” Quinn said. “Twice.”

He held up his arm. There were four long red welts.

“Sorry, Quinn,” Rye said. “Where else did he get you?”

“I’m sitting on it.”

Shady blinked his yellow eyes and chattered, quite satisfied with himself.

“Quinn,” Rye said. “Why did you bring Lottie in here? She’s going to tell my mother.”

“I didn’t,” Quinn said. “I was chasing her. Trying to get my shoe. She knew where the door was – ran back here and hid. I was shocked myself.”

Just then the flame in the lantern flickered from a draught.

Shady noticed it too. His ears perked up and he darted from the workshop.

“Pigshanks,” Rye said. “The front door.”

The front door was open, but not because Abby was home. In her haste to find Quinn and Lottie, Rye had forgotten to close it. Rye ran back into the main room from the secret workshop just in time to see the fluff of Shady’s black tail disappear out of the door.