A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children #4) - Ransom Riggs Page 0,37

as normals in the present was the important work,” said Enoch. “So why are we wasting our time in this dump?”

The headmistress pursed her lips. “While you build your knowledge and skills in the present, you can simultaneously aid the reconstruction effort here in the Acre. We’ll commute back and forth, just like modern people. Isn’t that fun?”

Enoch shook his head and looked away. “It’s politics. That’s what you won’t admit.”

Miss Peregrine’s eyes flared.

“You’re being rude,” said Claire.

“No, go on, Enoch,” said Miss Peregrine. “I want to hear this.”

“Someone high up on the food chain decided it doesn’t look good, us hanging around Jacob’s house in the present while everyone else is stuck here, living like refugees and cleaning up the wights’ mess. But I don’t care what anybody thinks about it. We deserve a holiday, damn it!”

“Everyone here deserves a holiday!” Miss Peregrine snapped. She shut her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, as if battling a sudden headache. “Think of it this way. It will be inspiring to the other children to see you, the heroes of the Battle for Devil’s Acre, working alongside them for the common good.”

“Bah,” Enoch said, and started cleaning his fingernails.

“Well, I’m excited,” said Bronwyn. “I always wanted a real job with real responsibilities, even if it means cutting into our normalling lessons a bit.”

“Cutting into?” said Horace. “We haven’t had a single one yet!”

“Not even one?” Miss Peregrine looked at me. “What about the shopping trip?”

“We, uh . . . got a little sidetracked,” I said.

“Oh,” she said with a frown. “No matter, there’s plenty of time. Just not today!” And then she was tromping down the hall, waving at us to catch up.

* * *

• • •

As we followed Miss Peregrine down the long hall, people came and went through the Panloopticon’s many doors. They were all very serious-looking and busy, and they wore vastly different outfits suited to very different purposes. There was a lady in a blue bustle dress that ballooned around her so widely that we had to fall into single file and squeeze against the wall to get by her. There was a man in a heavy white snowsuit and a round fur hat, and another man in seven-league boots that reached his mid-thigh and a naval coat that shone with gold buckles. I was so distracted by all the wardrobe that when we rounded a corner I nearly smacked into a wall—or what I thought was a wall until it began speaking to me.

“Young Portman!” a voice boomed, and I looked up, craning my neck to take in the man’s full height. Seven feet tall, in a heavy black robe, he was both a vision of death incarnate and an old friend I’d found myself missing from time to time.

“Sharon!”

He bowed and greeted Miss Peregrine, then reached out and shook my hand, his long, icy fingers wrapping so far around mine that they met his thumb on the other side.

“Finally come to greet your fans, have you?”

“Ha-ha,” I said. “Right.”

“He isn’t joking,” Millard said. “You’re a celebrity now. When we go outside, watch out.”

“What? Seriously?”

“Oh yeah,” said Emma. “Don’t be surprised if you get asked for autographs.”

“Don’t get a big head about it,” said Enoch. “We’re all a bit famous now, after what we did in the Library of Souls.”

“Oh, really!” Emma said. “You’re famous?”

“A little,” Enoch said. “I get fan letters.”

“You got one. Singular.”

Enoch shuffled his feet. “That you know of.”

Miss Peregrine cleared her throat. “In any case! The children are to receive their reconstruction assignments from the council today. Sharon, if you wouldn’t mind escorting us to the ministries building?”

“Of course.” Sharon bowed to her, and the scent that wafted from his cloak was one of mildew and wet earth. “For esteemed guests like yourselves, I’m happy to carve some time out of my busy schedule.”

As he walked us down the hall, he turned to me and said, “You see, I’m the majordome of this house, as well as the general overseer of the Panloopticon and its many portals.”

“I still can’t believe they put him in charge,” muttered Enoch.

Sharon turned to look straight at him, and a demented smile gleamed out of his dark hood.

Enoch shrank behind Emma and tried to disappear.

“We have a saying around here,” said Sharon. “‘The pope is busy and Mother Teresa is dead.’ No one knows this place better than me—except perhaps old Bentham, who is, thanks to young Portman, permanently indisposed.” His tone was carefully neutral;