A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children #4) - Ransom Riggs Page 0,68
and simple interactions with modern normals worked. But instead of going into all that, which might have hurt their feelings, I claimed I didn’t want to overload the car.
“Then pick me!” said Olive. “I’m small and weigh next to nothing.”
I imagined Olive forgetting to put on her shoes and having to chase after her like a lost balloon. “For this one, we need people who look older.” I didn’t say why, and she didn’t ask.
Emma and I talked in the corner for a minute, then announced our choices—Millard and Bronwyn. Bronwyn for her brute strength and reliability, and Millard for his mind, mapping abilities, and his ability to slip away when cornered, simply by taking off his clothes.
The others were disappointed, but we promised to take them on future missions.
“If there are future missions,” said Enoch. “Provided you don’t muck this one up.”
“And what shall the rest of us do while you’re gone?” asked Horace.
“Just do your assignments in the Acre and act like nothing’s wrong. You don’t know anything about us or what we’re up to.”
“Yes, we do,” said Claire. “And if Miss Peregrine asks, I’m telling her.”
Bronwyn picked up Claire by the armpits and held her at eye level. “Now, that is a dumb idea,” she said, the threat in her voice both clear and surprising. Bronwyn always handled the two smallest peculiars with kid gloves.
Claire’s backmouth growled at Bronwyn. “Put me down!” she shouted with her normal mouth.
Bronwyn did, but Claire looked chastened, anyway. Message received.
“When Miss Peregrine wakes up, she’ll start asking where we are,” said Emma. “She really just . . . went to sleep?”
It was very out of character for an ymbryne, even after an all-nighter.
“I may have blown just a pinch of dust into the room,” said Millard.
“Millard!” Horace cried. “You scoundrel!”
“Well, that will certainly buy us some time,” Emma said. “With any luck, she won’t notice we’re gone until tonight.”
* * *
• • •
“Now this,” Millard said, slapping the hood of the black coupe as we stood around it in the driveway, “is a proper road journey car.”
“It isn’t,” said Bronwyn. “It’s too flash, and it’s British.”
It was cool-looking, certainly, but it wasn’t what I thought of as super-attention-grabbing—it wasn’t bright red and didn’t have shiny rims or a big spoiler, like a lot of sports cars did.
“What’s wrong with it being British?” asked Emma.
“It’ll break down a lot. That’s what they say about British cars, anyway.”
“Would Abe really have used this for rescue missions if it was mechanically unsound?” said Millard.
“Abe knew lots about cars, including how to fix them,” said Enoch.
He was leaning against the trunk with a bag over his shoulder and a smug smile on his face.
“You’re not coming with us,” I said. “There’s no room.”
“Did I say I wanted to come?” said Enoch.
“You look like you want to come,” said Emma. “Now move.”
I nudged him aside so we could open the trunk (sorry, the “boot”) and load our bags—but after twenty seconds of fiddling around, I realized I didn’t know how.
“Allow me,” said Enoch, and he twisted a knob between the taillights that popped the trunk. “Aston Martin.” He caressed the side panel as he walked the length of the car. “Abe always did have style.”
“I thought it was some kind of Mustang,” I said.
“How dare you,” said Enoch. “This is a 1979 Aston Martin V8 Vantage. Three hundred ninety horsepower, zero to sixty in five seconds, top speed a hundred seventy miles per hour. A real beast—Britain’s first true muscle car.”
“Since when do you know so much about cars?” I said. “Especially ones made after 1940?”
“Magazines and manuals via mail order,” said Millard. “Delivered to his post office box in present-day Cairnholm.”
“Oh, he loves cars,” said Emma, rolling her eyes. “Never actually drove one, mind you, but don’t get him started on what’s under the bonnet . . .”
“I’m fascinated by the mechanical as well as the biomedical,” Enoch said. “Organs. Engines. Swap oil for blood and they aren’t so different. And I can resurrect a dead engine without needing a jar of hearts. Which is a good thing because this car, being British and nearly forty years old, is notoriously unreliable unless religiously maintained. And with Abe being dead and all, I’m fairly certain that I’m the only person within a thousand miles of here qualified to work on this car. Which is why, even though I don’t want to”—he tossed his bag into the boot alongside mine—“you need me to come with you.”