A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children #4) - Ransom Riggs Page 0,12
the perfect story. They were exchange students I had met while in London. They had saved my life, taken me in, and I wanted to repay them. (That this wasn’t far from the truth appealed to me.) They also happened to be expert magicians who were always practicing their act. Masters of illusion. Their tricks so refined you can never tell how they achieve them.
Maybe. Maybe there was a way. And then things could be so good.
My brain was a hope-making machine.
I woke the next morning with a sour pit in my stomach, certain it had all been a dream. Steeling myself for disappointment, I ventured downstairs, half expecting to find my bags packed and my uncles once more guarding the doors against escape. Instead, I was greeted by a scene of peculiar domestic bliss.
The whole downstairs was full of cheerful conversation and the warm smells of cooking food. Horace was banging around in the kitchen while Emma and Millard set the table. Miss Peregrine was whistling to herself and opening windows to let in a morning breeze. Outside I could see Olive and Bronwyn and Claire chasing one another around the yard—Bronwyn catching Olive and tossing her twenty feet into the air, Olive laughing like mad as she fluttered down again at half speed, the weight of her shoes just enough to overcome her natural buoyancy. In the living room, Hugh and Enoch were glued to the television, watching a commercial for laundry detergent in rapt wonderment. It was as welcome a sight as I could have imagined, and for a long moment I stood unnoticed at the bottom of the stairs, taking it in. In the space of a single night, my friends had managed to make my house a happier, cozier place than it had been in all years I lived here with my parents.
“Nice of you to join us!” Miss Peregrine sang out, jolting me from my daydream.
Emma rushed over to me. “What’s wrong?” she said. “Feeling dizzy again?”
“Just appreciating the scenery,” I said, and then I drew her close and kissed her. She slid her arms around me and kissed me back, and I was overwhelmed by a tingling warmth that flooded my brain and a sudden sensation of being out of my body, like I had floated up to the ceiling and was looking down on the soft, beautiful face of this amazing girl and my friends and the whole sweet scene, and I wondered how it was that such an exquisite moment had appeared in my life.
The kiss ended too soon—but before anyone else in the room noticed it had happened—and we linked arms and walked toward the kitchen.
“How long has everyone been awake?” I asked.
“Oh, for hours,” Millard said, carrying a pan of biscuits toward the dining room. “We’re loop lagged rather terribly.”
He was wearing a full outfit, I noticed. Plum-colored pants, a light sweater, and a scarf around his neck.
“I dressed him this morning,” Horace said, popping his head out of the kitchen. “He’s quite the blank slate, sartorially speaking.” Horace himself was wearing an apron over a white collared shirt, a tie, and pressed pants—which almost certainly meant he’d gotten up extra early just to iron his clothes.
I excused myself and slipped away to check on my family in the garage. They were still asleep, right where I’d left them. They’d hardly even shifted positions in the night. Then something unpleasant occurred to me, and I ran to the car and held my hand in front of each of their noses. When I was satisfied they were still alive, I went back to join my friends.
Everyone was gathered around what my parents called the “good table,” a long slab of black glass in our rarely used formal dining room. It was a space I associated with stiff manners and unpleasant conversations because it was only used either when family came over on holidays or when my parents had “something important” to discuss with me, which usually meant a lecture about my grades, bad attitude, friendships or lack thereof, etc. So it was sweet to find the room filled with food and friends and laughter.
I wedged myself into the seat next to Emma. Horace made a big show of unveiling the platters of food he’d prepared.
“This morning we’ve got pain perdu, potatoes à la royal, a viennoiserie of French pastries, and porridge with caramelized fruits!”
“Horace, you’ve outdone yourself,” said Bronwyn, her mouth already full.