by Ransom Riggs
I heard Miss Peregrine talking downstairs. That was our cue.
“Until tomorrow,” she whispered in my ear. “Good night, Jacob.”
We kissed one more time. It felt like an electric pulse, and left every part of me tingling. Then she slipped out the door, and for the first time since my friends had arrived, I was alone.
* * *
• • •
That night, I could hardly sleep. It wasn’t so much the snores of Hugh as he dozed in a pile of blankets on my floor as it was a buzzing in my head, filled now with uncertainty and exciting new prospects. When I left Devil’s Acre to come back home, it was because I had decided that finishing high school and keeping my parents in my life were important enough goals that they were worth enduring Englewood for a couple more years. The time between now and graduation had promised to be a special kind of torment, though, especially with Emma and my friends stuck in loops on the other side of the Atlantic.
But so much had changed in one night. Now, maybe, I didn’t have to wait. Maybe now I wouldn’t have to choose one or the other: peculiar or normal, this life or that. I wanted, and needed, both—though not in equal measure. I had no interest in a normal career. In settling down with someone who didn’t understand who I was, or in having kids from whom I had to keep half my life a secret, like my grandfather had.
That said, I didn’t want to go through life a high school dropout—you can’t exactly put hollowgast tamer on a résumé—and though my mom and dad were never going to win Parents of the Year, I didn’t want to cut them out of my life, either. I also didn’t want to become so alienated from the normal world that I forgot how to navigate it. The peculiar world was wonderful and I knew I would never be whole without it, but it could also be extraordinarily stressful and overwhelming. For the sake of my long-term sanity, I needed to maintain a connection to my normal life. I needed that balance.
So: Maybe the next year or two didn’t have to feel like a prison sentence as I waited for it all. Maybe I could be with my friends and with Emma and have my home and my family. Emma could even go to school with me. Maybe all my friends could! We could take classes together, eat lunch together, go to stupid school dances. Of course—what more perfect place to learn about the lives and habits of normal teenagers than high school? After a semester of that, they’d be able to impersonate normals with no problem (even I had learned to do it, eventually), and to blend in when we ventured out into the larger world of peculiar America. Whenever time permitted we would travel back to Devil’s Acre to help the cause, rebuild the loops, and hopefully make peculiardom impervious to future threats.
Unfortunately, the key to it all was my parents. They could make this easy or they could make it impossible. If only there was a way for my friends to be here without my mom and dad losing it, so that we wouldn’t have to tiptoe around them, afraid that an accidental display of peculiarness would send them screaming into the streets and bring hell down upon our heads.
There had to be something I could tell my parents that they would believe. Some way to explain my friends. Their presence, their strangeness—maybe even their abilities. I racked my brain for the perfect story. They were exchange students I had met while in London. They had saved my life, taken me in, and I wanted to repay them. (That this wasn’t far from the truth appealed to me.) They also happened to be expert magicians who were always practicing their act. Masters of illusion. Their tricks so refined you can never tell how they achieve them.
Maybe. Maybe there was a way. And then things could be so good.
My brain was a hope-making machine.
I woke the next morning with a sour pit in my stomach, certain it had all been a dream. Steeling myself for disappointment, I ventured downstairs, half expecting to find my bags packed and my uncles once more guarding the doors against escape. Instead, I was greeted by a scene of peculiar domestic bliss.
The whole downstairs was full of cheerful conversation and the warm smells of cooking food. Horace was banging around in the kitchen while Emma and Millard set the table. Miss Peregrine was whistling to herself and opening windows to let in a morning breeze. Outside I could see Olive and Bronwyn and Claire chasing one another around the yard—Bronwyn catching Olive and tossing her twenty feet into the air, Olive laughing like mad as she fluttered down again at half speed, the weight of her shoes just enough to overcome her natural buoyancy. In the living room, Hugh and Enoch were glued to the television, watching a commercial for laundry detergent in rapt wonderment. It was as welcome a sight as I could have imagined, and for a long moment I stood unnoticed at the bottom of the stairs, taking it in. In the space of a single night, my friends had managed to make my house a happier, cozier place than it had been in all years I lived here with my parents.
“Nice of you to join us!” Miss Peregrine sang out, jolting me from my daydream.
Emma rushed over to me. “What’s wrong?” she said. “Feeling dizzy again?”
“Just appreciating the scenery,” I said, and then I drew her close and kissed her. She slid her arms around me and kissed me back, and I was overwhelmed by a tingling warmth that flooded my brain and a sudden sensation of being out of my body, like I had floated up to the ceiling and was looking down on the soft, beautiful face of this amazing girl and my friends and the whole sweet scene, and I wondered how it was that such an exquisite moment had appeared in my life.
The kiss ended too soon—but before anyone else in the room noticed it had happened—and we linked arms and walked toward the kitchen.
“How long has everyone been awake?” I asked.
“Oh, for hours,” Millard said, carrying a pan of biscuits toward the dining room. “We’re loop lagged rather terribly.”
He was wearing a full outfit, I noticed. Plum-colored pants, a light sweater, and a scarf around his neck.
“I dressed him this morning,” Horace said, popping his head out of the kitchen. “He’s quite the blank slate, sartorially speaking.” Horace himself was wearing an apron over a white collared shirt, a tie, and pressed pants—which almost certainly meant he’d gotten up extra early just to iron his clothes.
I excused myself and slipped away to check on my family in the garage. They were still asleep, right where I’d left them. They’d hardly even shifted positions in the night. Then something unpleasant occurred to me, and I ran to the car and held my hand in front of each of their noses. When I was satisfied they were still alive, I went back to join my friends.
Everyone was gathered around what my parents called the “good table,” a long slab of black glass in our rarely used formal dining room. It was a space I associated with stiff manners and unpleasant conversations because it was only used either when family came over on holidays or when my parents had “something important” to discuss with me, which usually meant a lecture about my grades, bad attitude, friendships or lack thereof, etc. So it was sweet to find the room filled with food and friends and laughter.
I wedged myself into the seat next to Emma. Horace made a big show of unveiling the platters of food he’d prepared.
“This morning we’ve got pain perdu, potatoes à la royal, a viennoiserie of French pastries, and porridge with caramelized fruits!”
“Horace, you’ve outdone yourself,” said Bronwyn, her mouth already full.
Plates were filled and thanks were given. I was so eager to eat that it was several minutes before I thought to ask where the groceries had come from.
“They may or may not have floated off the shelves of a market down the road,” said Millard.
I stopped mid-chew. “You stole all this?”
“Millard!” said Miss Peregrine. “What if you had gotten caught?”
“Impossible, I’m a master thief,” he said. “It’s my third-most impressive skill, after my extreme intelligence and near-perfect memory.”
“But they have cameras in stores now,” I said.
“If they get you on video, it could be a big problem.”
“Oh,” said Millard. He seemed suddenly fascinated by the caramelized peach slice at the end of his fork.
“Very impressive thieving,” said Enoch. “What was your first-most impressive skill again?”
Miss Peregrine put down her silverware and snapped her fingers. “All right, children. We’re adding stealing from normals to the mustn’t-ever list.”
Everyone groaned.
“I’m quite serious!” Miss Peregrine said. “If the police were to pay us a visit, it would be no small inconvenience.”
Enoch slumped dramatically in his chair. “The present is so tiresome. Remember how easy these things were to sort out in the loop?” He drew a line across his throat: “Ckkkkk! Goodbye, troublesome normal!”
“We’re not on Cairnholm anymore,” Miss Peregrine said, “and this isn’t a game of Raid the Village. The actions you take here have real and permanent consequences.”
“I was only kidding,” Enoch grumbled.
“No, you weren’t,” Bronwyn hissed.
Miss Peregrine held up her hand for silence. “What’s the new rule?”
“Mustn’t steal,” the kids chorused unenthusiastically.
“And?”
A few seconds passed. The headmistress frowned.
“Mustn’t kill normals?” Olive ventured.
“That’s right. There will be no killing of anyone in the present.”
“What if they’re really annoying?” asked Hugh.
“No matter. You may not kill them.”
“Without permission from you,” said Claire.
“No, Claire,” said Miss Peregrine sharply. “No killing at all.”
“Oh, all right,” said Claire.
It might have been chilling talk had I not known them so well. Still, it was a stark reminder of how much they had to learn about life in the present. Which reminded me—
“When should we start these normalling lessons?” I asked.
“How about today?” Emma said eagerly.
“Right now!” said Bronwyn.
“What should I start with? What do you want to know?”
“Why don’t you fill in our knowledge of the past seventy-five years or so,” said Millard. “History, politics, music, popular culture, recent breakthroughs in science and technology . . .”
“I was thinking more along the lines of learning to talk like you’re not from 1940 and crossing the street without being killed.”
“I suppose that’s important, too,” said Millard.
“I just want to go outside,” said Bronwyn. “We’ve been here since yesterday and all we’ve done so far is muck through a stinky swamp and ride a bus at night.”
“Yeah!” said Olive. “I want to see an American city. And a municipal airport. And a pencil factory! I read a fascinating book about pencil factories—”
“Now, now,” said Miss Peregrine. “We’re not going on any grand expeditions today, so just get that out of your minds. We’ve got to walk before we can run, and given our limited transportation options, a walk sounds just about right. Mr. Portman, is there an underpopulated place we can perambulate that’s proximate to here? I don’t want the children interacting with normals unnecessarily before they’ve had more practice.”
“There’s the beach,” I said. “It’s pretty dead in the summertime.”
“Perfect,” said Miss Peregrine. She sent the kids off to change— “I want to see sun protection!” she called after them. “Hats! Parasols!”—and I was about to go and change, too, when I felt the dread return.
“What do we do about my family?” I asked her.
“They were dosed with enough dust to keep them sleeping into the afternoon,” she said. “But just in case, we’ll post someone here to keep watch over them.”
“Okay, but then what?”
“You mean, after they wake?”
“Yeah. How am I supposed to explain . . . you?”
She smiled. “That, Mr. Portman, is entirely your decision. But if you like, we can talk strategy as we walk.”
* * *
• • •
I gave my friends permission to raid the closets for beach-appropriate clothing, since they had none, and it was truly strange to see them return a few minutes later dressed in something like modern outfits. Nothing fit Olive or Claire, so they added floppy sun hats and dark glasses to what they were already wearing, which made them look like celebrities trying to dodge paparazzi. Millard wore nothing at all save a slather of sunscreen across his face and shoulders, which turned him into a sort of walking blur. Bronwyn had on a floral top and slouchy linen pants, Enoch had snagged some swim shorts and an old T-shirt, and Horace looked downright preppy in a blue polo and a pair of khaki chinos, cuffs neatly rolled. The only one who hadn’t changed was Hugh; still moody and moping, he had volunteered to stay behind and watch over my parents. I gave him my uncle’s phone, pulled up my own cell number on the screen, and showed him how to call me in case they started waking up.
Then Miss Peregrine came into the room, and everyone oohed and ahhed. She wore a fringed top with scooped-out shoulders, tropical-print capri pants, aviator sunglasses, and her perpetually upswept hair towered through the middle of a pink plastic sun visor. It was slightly disconcerting to see her dressed in my mom’s clothes, but she looked absolutely normal, which was, I suppose, the point.
“You look so modern!” Olive cooed.
“And strange,” said Enoch, wrinkling his nose.
“We must be masters of disguise, if we’re to pass in different worlds,” Miss Peregrine said.
“Careful, Miss P, all the bachelors will be after you!” Emma said as she walked in.
“You’re one to talk,” Bronwyn said. “Woo-woo, look out, boys!”
I turned to her, and the breath caught in my throat. She wore a one-piece swim dress with a skirt bottom that stopped mid-thigh. It was far from scandalous, but easily the most revealing thing I’d ever seen her wear. (She had legs!) I’d known it since the moment I met her, but Emma Bloom was achingly pretty, and I had to make a conscious effort not to stare.
“Oh, hush,” Emma said, and then she caught me looking and smiled. That smile—my God—it lit me up from the inside.
“Mr. Portman.”
I turned to face Miss Peregrine, my dopey grin melting.
“Uh, yeah?”
“Are you ready? Or have you been entirely incapacitated?”
“No, I’m good.”
“I’ll bet you are,” Enoch said with a snicker.
I knocked him with my shoulder as I parted the crowd, and then I threw open the front door and led my peculiar friends out into the world.
* * *
• • •
I lived on a skinny barrier island called Needle Key: five miles of touristy bars and waterfront houses with a bridge at each end, bisected by a winding lane overhung with banyan trees. It only qualified as an island thanks to a long ditch of water that separated us from the mainland by about a thousand feet, which at low tide you could cross without getting your shirt wet. Rich people’s houses fronted the Gulf; the rest of us looked out on Lemon Bay, which on quiet mornings was really very nice, with sailboats drifting by and herons fishing for their breakfast along the banks. It was a safe and sweet place to grow up, and I probably should have been more grateful, but I had spent my youth fighting the sensation—creeping at first, then overwhelming—that I belonged elsewhere, that my brain had begun to melt, and that if I stayed here a day past graduation it would liquify entirely and run out of my ears.
I kept us hidden behind a thicket of hedge at the end of my driveway until all the cars within hearing range had passed, and then we darted across the street to a footpath, intentionally neglected and overgrown with mangroves so tourists co
uldn’t find it. After a minute or two of bushwhacking, the path broke open onto Needle Key’s main attraction: a long white-sand beach and the gulf, emerald-green and spreading out endlessly.
I heard a few gasps escape my friends. They had seen beaches before—had lived on an island for most of their unnaturally long lives—but they’d rarely seen one so pretty, with water as flat and calm as a lake, an apron of powdery white sand that curved away gently, fringed palms waving. This pristine view was the entire reason some twenty thousand souls lived in an otherwise nowhere town, and in moments like this, with the sun high in the sky and an easy breeze chasing away the heat, you couldn’t fault them their choice.
“Goodness, Jacob,” said Miss Peregrine, taking in a lungful of air. “What a little paradise you have here.”
“Is that the Pacific?” asked Claire.
Enoch snorted. “It’s the Gulf of Mexico. The Pacific’s on the opposite end of the continent.”
We strolled along the beach, the smaller kids circling us as they ran to collect shells, the rest just enjoying the view and the sunshine. I slowed to match Emma’s stride and took her hand. She glanced at me and smiled, and we both sighed at the same time, then laughed. We talked for a while about the beach and how pretty it all was, a topic that was quickly exhausted—and then I asked the group about how life in Devil’s Acre had been for them. I had only heard about their trips outside the Acre via the Panloopticon, but surely they had done more than travel.
“Travel is crucial to one’s development,” said Miss Peregrine, her tone strangely defensive. “Until they have traveled, even the most educated person is ignorant. It’s important the children learn that our society is not the center of the peculiar universe.”
Aside from these occasional field trips, Miss Peregrine explained that she and the other ymbrynes had made a mighty effort to create a stable environment for their wards. Like my friends, most had been torn away from the loops where they’d lived much of their lives. In some cases those loops were now collapsed, gone forever. Many had lost friends in the hollowgast raids, been injured, or endured other traumas. And though Devil’s Acre, with its filth and chaos and its history as the center of Caul’s evil empire, was not an ideal place to recover from trauma, the ymbrynes had done their best to make it a sanctuary. The refugee children, along with many peculiar adults who had fled the wights’ campaign of terror, found new homes there. They had founded a new academy, where daily lectures and discussions were held, taught by ymbrynes when they were available, and by peculiar adults with areas of special expertise when they were not.