A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children #4) - Ransom Riggs Page 0,87

whisper something in Bronwyn’s ear. Even Paul didn’t know about H, or about the package we were here to deliver. We had agreed to follow H’s advice and keep that information to ourselves until we knew where to deliver it. Bronwyn scowled at Emma, and Emma scowled back at her.

“We have an important meeting here,” I said.

Fern perked up. “Oh yes? With who?”

“With whom,” said June.

“With whoooooom,” said Fern, sounding like an owl.

“With whomever is in charge,” said Emma. “I guess you don’t have an ymbryne, but is there someone close to that?”

“Miss Annie,” said June.

Fern and Alene nodded in agreement. “Miss Annie’s been here longer than anyone. You got a question, you need advice, you go to her.”

“Can we meet her now?” said Emma.

The girls looked at one another, and something passed silently between them. “I think she’s sleeping,” Alene said.

“But stay for supper,” said Fern. “Elmer’s serving up his famous seventy-two-hour lamb, and Miss Annie hates to miss it.”

“Spit-roasted,” said June. “Falls right off the bone.”

I looked at Emma. She shrugged. It looked like we were staying for supper.

We followed Paul through town. He slowed as we approached a young man kneeling by a seriously cute puppy.

“Brother Reggie!” Paul called out. “You teach him to roll over yet?”

“Hey, look who’s back!” the boy said, looking up and giving Paul a salute. “Not yet. He’s a good pup, but I think his brain’s too small.”

“Aww, that’s cruel,” said Bronwyn.

“I don’t mean to be,” said Reggie. “I just have to let him out of this loop for a while so he can get bigger. He won’t grow here.”

“I didn’t think of that,” said Bronwyn.

“That’s why you almost never see babies in loops,” Emma explained. “It’s considered immoral to keep them that young for an unnaturally long time.”

A minute later we passed a little white boy standing at an open window in a clapboard house. He wore antiquated headphones and seemed deep in concentration. Paul raised a hand and the boy leaned out the window and waved.

“What are they saying today, Hawley?” Paul called out.

The boy slipped his headphones off. “Nothing interesting,” he replied glumly. “Talking about money again.”

“Better luck tomorrow, then. You coming to supper?”

He nodded forcefully. “Yep!”

As we walked away, Paul explained. “That’s my brother Hawley. His peculiarity lets him eavesdrop on the dead over the radio.”

“I’m confused,” said Emma, turning to look back at Hawley. “He’s your brother?”

“Oh, we’re none of us blood family,” Paul said. “Most of us are diviners, though, and that’s close enough.”

“And diviners can all do the same thing?”

“Well, there’s differences. No two diviners are gifted in exactly the same way. Alene can find water in a desert. Fern and June specialize in finding lost people. Hawley dials into spiritual frequencies. There are even those of us who can read hearts—tell if someone loves you or not.”

Paul nodded to an old woman sitting in a rocking chair in the alley between two close-set houses. She wore glasses over an eyepatch, but she seemed to see us well enough despite it, and raised her hand in a silent hello. Something kept my gaze locked on her, and I turned to keep her in my sights as we passed.

“What about you?” Millard said to Paul.

“I divine doors. That’s why I can always find my way home. Ah, speaking of which!” We had arrived at a house with flowers in its postage-stamp yard and curtains in the windows.

“We kept it nice for you,” said June. “Like the curtains?”

“They’re lovely.”

“Figured you’d come back eventually,” said Fern.

“I wasn’t so sure,” Alene muttered.

Paul stepped onto his porch, then turned back to face us. He looked delighted. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come on in and get washed up for supper!”

We washed the dust and dirt off ourselves, grateful to be in a comfortable home after so many hours on the road, and then Paul led us out to a long table that had been set up in a big backyard that was common to several houses. It was a fine day to eat outside, and the smell coming from that table was divine. For seven hundred miles we had had only Al Potts’s stale crullers and some immortal snacks to eat, and I think none of us realized how hungry we were until plates of steaming lamb and potatoes were set before us. We tore hunks from loaves of homemade bread and gulped down mint iced tea, and it was maybe the best food I’d ever tasted. It seemed like