by Ransom Riggs
“It can be a bit dull, sometimes,” said Millard. “But it’s nice to be among scholars.”
“It’s only dull because you think you know more than the teachers,” said Bronwyn.
“When they aren’t ymbrynes, I usually do,” he replied. “And the ymbrynes are nearly always busy these days.”
They were busy, Miss Peregrine said, with “a hundred thousand unpleasant tasks,” most of which had to do with cleaning up after the wights.
“They left a frightful mess,” she said. There was the literal mess—the wights’ battle-scarred compound, the loops they had damaged but not quite destroyed. More troublesome was the tide of damaged and compromised people they had left behind, like the ambrosia-addicted peculiars of Devil’s Acre. They needed treatment for their addictions, but not all would accept it voluntarily. Then there was the thorny question of who among them could be trusted. Many had collaborated with the wights, some under duress, others willingly and to a degree that seemed clearly malicious, even treasonous. Trials were required. The peculiar justice system, which had been designed to handle at most a few cases per year, was being rapidly expanded to deal with dozens, most of which had not yet begun. Until they did, the accused sat cooling their heels in the prison Caul built for the victims of his cruel experiments.
“And when we aren’t dealing with all of that unpleasantness,” Miss Peregrine said, “the Ymbryne Council is holding meetings. Meetings all day, meetings into the night.”
“About what?” I asked.
“The future,” she replied stiffly.
“The council is having its authority challenged,” said Millard. Miss Peregrine’s expression curdled. Millard went on, oblivious. “Some people are saying it’s time for a change in the way we govern ourselves. That the ymbryne system is outmoded, better suited to an earlier era. That the world has changed, and we must change with it.”
“Ungrateful sods,” Enoch said. “Throw them in jail with the traitors, I say.”
“Now, that’s exactly wrong,” said Miss Peregrine. “Ymbrynes govern by popular consent. Everyone must be allowed to air their ideas, even if they are misguided.”
“What do they disagree with you about?” I asked.
“Whether to go on living in loops, for one thing,” Emma said.
“Don’t most peculiars have to?” I said.
“Yes—unless we were to attempt a large-scale loop collapse event,” said Millard, “like the one that reset our internal clocks. That certainly raised some eyebrows.”
“Made people jealous, is what it did,” said Emma. “The things people said to me when they heard we were coming here for a long visit! Green with envy.”
“But we could have died in that loop collapse,” I said. “It’s too dangerous.”
“That’s true,” said Millard, “at least, until we can understand the loop collapse phenomenon more completely. If we can make a proper science out of it, it might be possible to re-create what happened to us safely.”
“But that could take a long time,” said Miss Peregrine, “and some peculiars are not willing to wait. They’re so tired of living in loops, they would risk dying.”
“Absolute madness,” said Horace. “I had no idea how many muddle-brained peculiars there were until we were all thrust into the Acre together, cheek by jowl.”
“They’re not half as crazy as the New World crowd,” said Emma, and just the mention of their name made Miss Peregrine sigh. “They want to engage with normal society.”
“Don’t get me started on those lunatics!” said Enoch. “They think the world has become such an open and tolerant place that we could simply come out of hiding—Hello, world! We’re peculiar and proud of it!—as if we wouldn’t all be burned at the stake, just like old times.”
“They’re young, that’s all,” said Miss Peregrine. “They’ve never lived through a witch hunt or an anti-peculiar panic.”
“Dangerous is what they are,” said Horace, picking at his hands anxiously. “What if they do something reckless?”
“We ought to jail them, too,” said Enoch. “That’s what I think.”
“And that’s why you’re not on the council, dear,” said Miss Peregrine. “Now, that’s quite enough. Politics is the last thing I want to discuss on a such a fine day.”
“Hear, hear,” said Emma. “What am I wearing this swimming costume for if we’re not going in the blasted water?”
“Last one in’s a rotten egg!” Bronwyn shouted, then took off running, which sparked a race for the water’s edge.
Miss Peregrine and I stood and watched—I had my mind on other things and didn’t feel much like swimming. But Miss Peregrine, despite all our talk of trouble and complication, didn’t seem weighed down at all. She had a lot on her plate, but her problems—what I knew of them, anyway—had to do with growth and healing and freedom. And that was something to be grateful for.
* * *
• • •
“Jacob, come and join us!”
Emma was shouting to me from the water’s edge, holding up a starfish she’d plucked from the surf. Some of my friends were splashing around in the shallows, but others had dived right in and were swimming. The gulf in summer was warm as bathwater, nothing like the stormy Atlantic that lashed Cairnholm’s cliffs. “It’s magnificent!” Millard cried, his body a person-shaped vacuum in the sea. Even Olive was having fun, despite sinking three inches into the sand with every step.
“Jacob!” Emma called, waving me over as she bobbed through a wave.
“I’m wearing jeans!” I called back, which was true, but really I was happy just observing; there was something so sweet about watching my friends enjoy themselves here. I could feel it melting a patch of ice that had formed over my idea of home. I wanted them to have this whenever they wanted it—this uncomplicated peace—and maybe there was a way they could.
I had just figured out how to deal with my parents. It was so simple, I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. I didn’t have to concoct some airtight lie. I didn’t need an expertly crafted cover story. Stories could be contradicted and lies could be found out, and even if they weren’t, we would constantly have to tiptoe around my parents, always nervous they might see something peculiar, freak out, and blow our uncomplicated peace to bits. What’s more, the idea of indefinitely hiding who I was from them sounded exhausting, especially now that my normal and peculiar lives were colliding. But the heart of it was this: My parents weren’t bad people. I hadn’t been abused or neglected. They just didn’t understand me, and I thought they deserved a chance to.
So I would tell them the truth. If I revealed it gradually and gently enough, maybe it wouldn’t be too traumatic for them. If they met my friends in a calm setting, one by one, and my friends’ peculiarities were introduced only after my parents had gotten to know them a bit, maybe it would work. Why not? My dad was a father, and son, of peculiars. If any normal should be able to understand, it was him. And if my mom was slow to warm up, Dad would pull her along.
Maybe then—finally—they would believe me, and accept me for who I was. Maybe then we would feel like a real family.
I felt a little nervous about suggesting it, so I tried to bring it up to Miss Peregrine without the others hearing. Most were still swimming or beachcombing in the shallows. She was being followed by a flock of tiny sandpipers, pecking at her ankles with their long beaks.
“Shoo!” she said, sweeping her foot at them as she walked. “I’m not your mother.”
They fluttered off in a wave, but kept following.
“Birds love you, don’t they?” I said.
“In Britain they respect me—and my personal space. Here they seem downright needy.” She swept her foot again. “Go on, shoo!” They skittered into the water.
“We were due for a chat, yes?”
“I was thinking. What i
f I just explained everything to my parents?”
“Enoch, Millard, stop that roughhousing!” she shouted through cupped hands, then turned to me. “And we don’t wipe their memories?”
“Before I give up on them completely, I’d like to give it one good try,” I said. “I know it might not work, but if it did, things would be so much easier.”
I was afraid she would shut me down right away, but she didn’t—not exactly.
“That would be making a big exception to a long-established rule,” she said. “There are very few normals who are privy to our secrets. The Ymbryne Council would have to grant special approval. There’s an initiation process. An oath-taking ceremony. A long probationary period . . .”
“So you’re saying it’s not worth it.”
“I’m not saying that at all.”
“Really?”
“I’m only saying it’s complex. But in the case of your parents, it could be worth the trouble.”
“What could?”
Horace had come up behind us. So much for keeping this between me and Miss Peregrine.
“I was thinking about telling my parents the truth about us,” I said. “To see if they can handle it.”
“What? Why?”
That was more the reaction I’d been expecting.
“I think they deserve to know.”
“They tried to have you committed!” Enoch said. Now the others were coming out of the water and starting to gather around.
“I know what they did,” I said, “but they only did it because they were worried about me. If they had known the truth—and were okay with it—they never would have done that. And it would make things so much simpler any time you guys wanted to come visit, or when I want to visit you.”
“You mean you aren’t coming back with us?” said Olive.
Emma had just arrived, dripping seawater, and when she heard this she narrowed her eyes at me. We hadn’t talked about this privately yet, but here I was discussing it with everyone.
“I’m going to finish high school first,” I said. “But if I handle this right, we can see one another all the time over the next couple of years.”
“That’s a very big if,” said Millard.
“Just imagine,” I said, “I could come help with the reconstruction efforts—on weekends, maybe—and you guys could come here whenever you like, and learn about the normal world. You could even go to school with me, if you wanted.”
I glanced at Emma. Her arms were crossed, her face unreadable.
“Go to school with normals?” said Olive.
“We don’t even answer the door when the pizza arrives,” said Claire.
“I’m going to teach you how to deal with them. You’ll be experts in no time.”
“This is sounding more far-fetched by the second,” said Horace.
“I just want to give my parents a chance,” I said. “If it doesn’t work . . .”
“If it doesn’t work, Miss P can wipe their memories,” said Emma. She walked over to me and threaded her arm through mine. “Doesn’t it seem tragic that Abe Portman’s own son doesn’t know who his father was?”
She was on board. I squeezed her arm, grateful for the backup.
“Tragic, but necessary,” said Horace. “His parents can’t be trusted. No normal can. It makes me nervous just thinking about what they might do. They could expose us all!”
“They wouldn’t,” I said, though a little voice in my head added, Would they?
“Why don’t we just pretend we’re normal when they’re around?” asked Bronwyn. “Then they won’t be upset.”
“I really don’t think that would work,” I said.
“Some of us don’t have the privilege of pretending we’re normal,” said Millard.
“I hate pretending anyway,” said Horace. “How about we just be ourselves and Miss Peregrine can wipe their memories at the end of every day?”
“Too many wipes and people go soft in the head,” said Millard. “Moaning, drooling, the whole bit.”
I looked to Miss Peregrine, who verified this with a quick nod.
“What if they were to go on holiday somewhere far away?” Claire suggested. “Miss P could plant the idea in their heads after the wipe, when they’re suggestible.”
“And what about after they come back?” I said.
“Then we lock them in the basement,” Enoch replied.
“We should lock you in the basement,” said Emma.
I was causing everyone stress and anxiety they didn’t need. They would worry. I would worry. And all for the sake of my parents, who had caused me nothing but grief for the last six months.
I turned to Miss Peregrine. “It’s too complicated,” I said. “You should just wipe their memories.”
“If you want to try telling them the truth, I think you should,” she replied. “I find it’s nearly always worth the effort.”
“Really?” I said. “Are you sure?”
“If it looks like it could work, I’ll seek council approval retroactively. If it doesn’t, I have a feeling we’ll know rather quickly.”
“Fantastic!” said Emma. “And now that we’ve got that sorted . . .” She pulled me by the arm toward the water—“It’s time to swim!”—and I was caught so off guard that I couldn’t stop her.
“Wait—no—my phone!”
I rescued it from my jeans pocket just before I fell chest-high into the water, then tossed it to Horace back on the shore.
* * *
• • •
Emma splashed me and swam away, and I paddled after her, laughing. I was suddenly wildly happy. Happy to be among friends, my eyes dazzled by the sun, paddling after a beautiful girl who liked me. Loved me, she’d said once.
Bliss.
Up ahead, Emma had found a sandbar. She stood in waist-high water despite being far from shore. It was a trick of these friendly tides that I had always loved.
“Why, hello!” I said, slightly out of breath as I planted my feet on the sandbar.
“Do you always go swimming in blue jeans?” she said, grinning.
“Oh yeah. Everyone does. It’s the latest thing.”
“It is not,” she said.
“Seriously. It’s called nano-denim, and it dries five seconds after you get out of the water.”
“Really. That’s astounding.”
“It folds itself, too.”
She squinted at me. “You’re serious?”
“And it makes you breakfast.”
She splashed me. “It’s not nice, playing tricks on girls from past centuries!”
“You make it too easy!” I said, ducking and then splashing her back.
“Actually, I was expecting more in the way of flying cars and robot assistants and such. Robot pants at the very least.”
“Sorry about that. We made the internet instead.”
“Very disappointing.”
“I know. I’d rather have flying cars.”
“I mean it’s disappointing that you’ve turned out to be such a liar. I really had high hopes for us. Ah, well.”
“I just had to get it out of my system. No more tricking, I promise!”
“You promise promise?”
“Ask me something else. I promise promise to tell you the truth.”
“Okay.” She grinned, raked wet bangs away from her eyes, and crossed her arms. “Tell me about your first kiss.”
I felt myself blush and tried sinking into the water to hide it—but of course I couldn’t really because I had to breathe.
“I walked right into that, didn’t I?”
“You know practically every nook and cranny of my romantic history. How is it fair that I don’t know anything about yours?”
“Because there’s nothing worth knowing.”
I glanced around, hoping for some distraction that might interrupt her line of questioning.
“Um . . .” I let my mouth sink below the waterline and mumbled something that came out as bubbles.
She lay her palms on the surface of the water. After a moment it began to hiss and steam. “Tell me or I’ll boil you!”
I bobbed upward. “Okay, okay, I confess! I dated a supermodel rocket scientist. And a pair of twins who won a grant for their humanitarian work and exotic lovemaking skills. But you’re better than any of them!”
The steam had briefly obscured her, and when it cleared, she was no longer there.
“Emma?” I panicked, searching the water. “Emma!”
Then a splash came from behind me, and I spun around and got a face full of water. There she was, laughing at me.
“I said no tricks!”
“You freaked me out!” I said, wiping my eyes.
“You can’t expect me to believe that such a handsome young lad never had a single kiss before I came along.”
“Okay, one,” I admitted, “but it’s hardly worth mentioning. I think the girl was, like, experimenting on me.”
“Oh my. Now, that does sound interesting.”
“Her name was Janine Wilkins. She kissed me behind the bleachers during Mehlanie Shah’s birthday party at the Stardust Skate Center. She said she was tired of being a ‘kiss virgin’ and wanted to see what it felt like. Then she swore me to secrecy, and said if I told anyone about it she’d spread a rumor that I still wet the bed.”