A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children #4) - Ransom Riggs Page 0,76

thick southern accent. The poodles trembled. She made no move to get up. “Anyone see ’em come in?”

“I don’t think so,” said Paul.

“What about the highwaymen?”

“No sign of them.”

If the highwaymen were those guys in the police car, Paul had just lied for us. I wasn’t sure why, but I was grateful nonetheless.

“I don’t like it,” Miss Billie said, shaking her head firmly. “It’s a risk. Every time, it’s a risk. But so long as you’re here . . .” She lowered her horn-rimmed glasses a bit and looked at us. “Don’t reckon I can just throw you to the wolves, now can I?”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Paul said, “I’ve got some things to tend to.”

Paul went out. Miss Billie kept her eyes locked on us. “You ain’t gonna turn old on me, are you? I got enough old folks here as it is, and if you’re fixin to die you can just go on and do it somewhere else.”

“We’re not going to die,” I said. “We just have some questions.”

“Such as, are you the headmistress here?” said Bronwyn.

Miss Billie frowned. “Head-what?”

“An ymbryne,” said Bronwyn.

“Oh, Lordy!” Miss Billie said, rearing back in her chair. “Do I really look that old?”

“She’s a demi-ymbryne,” Emma said.

“It’s like an ymbryne-lite,” I explained to our friends.

“I’m the manager and that’s enough,” said Miss Billie. “I collect the money and try to keep the place from falling down. Rex stops in every few weeks to wind the clock.” She pointed to a grandfather clock that stood against the opposite wall. Old, massive, and incongruously ornate, it looked out of place amid the gaudy motel decor.

“Rex?” I said.

“Rex Posthlewaite, loop-keeper extraordinare. He does plumbing and a little electrical, too, though he ain’t licensed.”

“Let me get this straight. You don’t have an ymbryne here, and the fake one only stops by every few weeks?”

“Only he can wind it. Or another loop-keeper, I suppose. But Rex works the whole northern part of Florida, so the pickings are mighty slim.”

“What if he gets sick?” asked Millard.

“Or dies?” said Enoch.

“He ain’t allowed to.”

“What is this thing, anyway?” said Enoch, stepping toward the clock. “I’ve never seen a—”

All three dogs began to yap loudly.

“Don’t you go near that!” Miss Billie snapped.

Enoch spun away from it. “I was only looking!”

“Don’t look at it, neither,” said Miss Billie. “Can’t have you messin’ with my loop clock, boy. You could knock everything out of whack.”

Enoch folded his arms and fumed. I figured it was time to get down to business, so once the dogs stopped barking, I said, “I’ve got something for you.”

I held out the package from H, the one marked Flaming Man.

She peered at it over the rim of her glasses. “What is it?”

“I don’t know, but if you’re the manager, then I think it’s for you.”

She wrinkled her brow. “You open it.”

I tore the paper open. I’d been dying to see what was inside ever since H had given it to me.

It was a pouch of dog treats. BIG FLAVOR! BIG FUN! read the label.

“You’ve got to be joking,” muttered Emma.

Miss Billie’s face lit up. “How nice! These are the girls’ favorite!” The dogs saw the pouch and started squirming. Miss Billie snatched it from me and held it high above their heads. “Eh! Eh! Don’t be greedy!”

“We went through all that to deliver some dog food?” said Enoch.

“Not just any old dog food,” said Miss Billie, turning to drop the pouch into her purse as the dogs’ noses followed it.

“You’re not curious who it’s from?” said Emma.

“I know who it’s from. When you see him, thank him kindly for me, and tell him he’s back on my Christmas list. Now—” She squeezed the dogs tight to her chest and stood up with them held against her. “I got to take the girls for a tinkle, so here’s the rules of my place. Number one, don’t touch my clock. Number two, we don’t like noise or commotion here, so don’t go making any. Number three, there’s a filling station with a garage next door where you can work on your busted car. When you’re done, I expect you to be gone. There’s no vacancy.”

She turned to go.

“Have you got anything for us?” I asked.

She frowned. “Like what?”

“A clue,” I said. “We’re looking for a . . . portal?” At the very least, I had hoped she might give me something useful in return for the package—a section of map, a postcard with an address on it—something that could help us find