Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children(52)

I unlocked the door and slipped inside. It was like any other bedroom in the house—there was a dresser, a wardrobe, a vase of flowers on a nightstand. Late-morning sun shone through drawn curtains the color of mustard, throwing such yellow light everywhere that the whole room seemed encased in amber. Only then did I notice a young man lying in the bed, his eyes closed and mouth slightly open, half-hidden behind a lace curtain.

I froze, afraid I’d wake him. I recognized him from Miss Peregrine’s album, though I hadn’t seen him at meals or around the house, and we’d never been introduced. In the picture he’d been asleep in bed, just as he was now. Had he been quarantined, infected with some sleeping sickness? Was Enoch trying to get me sick, too?

“Hello?” I whispered. “Are you awake?”

He didn’t move. I put a hand on his arm and shook him gently. His head lolled to one side.



Then something terrible occurred to me. To test a theory, I held my hand in front of his mouth. I couldn’t feel his breath. My finger brushed his lips, which were cold as ice. Shocked, I pulled my hand away.

Then I heard footsteps and spun around to see Bronwyn in the doorway. “You ain’t supposed to be in here!” she hissed.

“He’s dead,” I said.

Bronwyn’s eyes went to the boy and her face puckered. “That’s Victor.”

Suddenly it came to me, where I’d seen his face. He was the boy lifting the boulder in my grandfather’s pictures. Victor was Bronwyn’s brother. There was no telling how long he might’ve been dead; as long as the loop kept looping, it could be fifty years and only look like a day.

“What happened to him?” I asked.

“Maybe I’ll wake old Victor up,” came a voice from behind us, “and you can ask him yourself.” It was Enoch. He came in and shut the door.

Bronwyn beamed at him through welling tears. “Would you wake him? Oh please, Enoch.”

“I shouldn’t,” he said. “I’m running low on hearts as it is, and it takes a right lot of ’em to rise up a human being, even for just a minute.”

Bronwyn crossed to the dead boy and began to smooth his hair with her fingers. “Please,” she begged, “it’s been ages since we talked to Victor.”

“Well, I do have some cow hearts pickling in the basement,” he said, pretending to consider it. “But I hate to use inferior ingredients. Fresh is always better!”

Bronwyn began to cry in earnest. One of her tears fell onto the boy’s jacket, and she hurried to wipe it away with her sleeve.

“Don’t get so choked,” Enoch said, “you know I can’t stand it. Anyway, it’s cruel, waking Victor. He likes it where he is.”

“And where’s that?” I said.

“Who knows? But whenever we rouse him for a chat he seems in a dreadful hurry to get back.”

“What’s cruel is you toying with Bronwyn like that, and tricking me,” I said. “And if Victor’s dead, why don’t you just bury him?”

Bronwyn flashed me a look of utter derision. “Then we’d never get to see him,” she said.

“That stings, mate,” said Enoch. “I only mentioned coming up here because I wanted you to have all the facts, like. I’m on your side.”

“Yeah? What are the facts, then? How did Victor die?”

Bronwyn looked up. “He got killed by an—owww!” she squealed as Enoch pinched the back of her arm.

“Hush!” he cried. “It ain’t for you to tell!”

“This is ridiculous!” I said. “If neither of you will tell me, I’ll just go ask Miss Peregrine.”

Enoch took a quick stride toward me, eyes wide. “Oh no, you mustn’t do that.”

“Yeah? Why mustn’t I?”

“The Bird don’t like us talking about Victor,” he said. “It’s why she wears black all the time, you know. Anyway, she can’t find out we been in here. She’ll hang us by our pinky toes!”

As if on cue, we heard the unmistakable sound of Miss Peregrine limping up the stairs. Bronwyn turned white and dashed past me out the door, but before Enoch could escape I blocked his path. “Out of the way!” he hissed.

“Tell me what happened to Victor!”

“I can’t!”

“Then tell me about Raid the Village.”

“I can’t tell you that, neither!” He tried to shove past me again, but when he realized he couldn’t, he gave up. “All right, just shut the door and I’ll whisper it to you!”

I closed it just as Miss Peregrine was reaching the landing. We stood with our ears pressed to the door for a moment, listening for a sign that we’d been spotted. The headmistress’s footsteps came halfway down the hall toward us, then stopped. Another door creaked open, then shut.

“She’s gone into her room,” Enoch whispered.

“So,” I said. “Raid the Village.”

Looking like he was sorry he’d brought it up, he motioned me away from the door. I followed, leaning down so he could whisper into my ear. “Like I said, it’s a game we play. It works just like the name says.”

“You mean you actually raid the village?”

“Smash it up, chase people round, take what we like, burn things down. It’s all a good laugh.”