A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children #4) - Ransom Riggs Page 0,43
the cause, at least relevant to their peculiar skills. Except me. One by one, my friends peeled off to consult with whichever ministry official they’d been assigned to, and I was alone with Miss Cuckoo and Miss Peregrine. We came into a large conservatory, the walls a puzzle of windows suffocated from the outside by vines. The room was dominated by a huge black conference table embossed with the ymbrynes’ official seal—a bird with a watch dangling from its mouth, one talon pinning down a snake. This was the chamber of the Council of Ymbrynes, where they held their meetings and decided our futures, and I felt a strange sort of reverence, being there, even if it was only a temporary space. The only bit of decoration in the room was a series of maps tacked onto the lower windows.
“Please,” Miss Cuckoo said, gesturing to the chairs arranged around the big table. “Sit.”
I pulled back a chair—modest, upholstered in simple gray fabric—and sat. There was no gold anywhere in the room, nor any thrones, scepters, robes, or other such trappings. Even the ymbrynes’ decor choices were humble, meant to demonstrate that they didn’t think of themselves as better than the rest, and that the leadership roles entrusted to them were a responsibility, not an entitlement.
“Please give us a moment, Jacob,” said Miss Peregrine, and she and Miss Cuckoo walked together to the other side of the room, each step of Miss Cuckoo’s heels a hammer blow on the stone floor. They spoke in hushed tones, glancing back at me now and then. Miss Peregrine seemed to be explaining something, and Miss Cuckoo was listening, brow furrowed.
She must have something really big for me, I thought. Something so important, so dangerous, that she’s got to persuade Miss Cuckoo to let me do it first. Someone so young, so inexperienced—it’s unprecedented, I imagined Miss Cuckoo saying. But Miss Peregrine knew me, knew what I was capable of, and she would have no doubt that I could do it.
I tried not to get too excited. I didn’t want to get ahead of myself. But my eyes began wandering the room, and when they landed once again on the maps, an idea began to form about what Miss Peregrine had in mind for me.
They were maps of America.
There was a modern one, several older ones from before Alaska and Hawaii were states, and even one so old that the country’s border traced the Mississippi River. That one was divided into several big swaths of color: The Southeast was purple, the Northeast green, most of the West orange, and Texas was gray. There were fascinating symbols and legends inscribed here and there—reminiscent of the ones I’d seen on Miss Peregrine’s Map of Days, and I started to lean out of my seat to get a better look.
“A thorny problem!” said Miss Cuckoo.
“What is?” I said, spinning to look at her.
“America,” she replied, crossing the room toward me. “It has for years now been a terra incognita. A Wild West, if you will, its temporal geography no longer well understood. Many of its loops have been lost, and many more are simply unknown.”
“Oh?” I said. “Why is that?”
I was getting excited now. America—of course. I was the perfect peculiar to tackle a dangerous mission in America. It was my turf.
“The biggest problem is that America has no centralized peculiar authority, no governing body. It is fractured and split between a number of clans—only the largest of which we maintain diplomatic relations with. But they are locked in a long-simmering conflict over resources and territory. For years the hollowgast menace acted as a lid on that pot, but now that it’s been lifted, we are concerned that old grudges could boil over into armed physical conflict.”
I straightened my back and looked Miss Cuckoo in the eye. “And you want me to help put a stop to it.”
When I looked up, Miss Cuckoo had the funniest look on her face, like she was trying not to laugh, and Miss Peregrine looked pained.
Miss Cuckoo put a hand on my shoulder. Sat down next to me. “We had . . . another idea.”
Miss Peregrine sat down on my other side. “We want you to share your story.”
My head swiveled from one to the other. “I don’t understand.”
“Life in Devil’s Acre can be hard,” said Miss Cuckoo. “Draining, demoralizing. The peculiars here need inspiration, and they love to hear the story of how you bested Caul.”