A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children, #4)(105)

“And government leaders,” said Millard, and then he added, under his breath, “though unelected . . .”

“And overbearing know-it-alls who are always minding other people’s business,” said Enoch.

“Essentially, the backbone of our whole society,” said Emma.

“We don’t need an ymbryne,” I said, “we just need someplace safe. Anyway, Miss Peregrine probably wants to kill us right now.”

“She’ll get over it,” Enoch said.

“So, would you come with us?” I asked Noor.

She sighed, then chuckled. “What the hell. I could use a vacation.”

“Hey, what about me?” Lilly said.

“You’d be more than welcome to come,” Millard said, a bit too eagerly. “Though normal people cannot enter loops, I’m afraid.”

“I can’t leave anyway!” Lilly said. “School just started.” Then she laughed and said, “God, listen to me. As if none of this insanity even happened. That’s how badly school has messed up my brain.”

“Well, education is important,” said Millard.

“But I have parents. Pretty good ones, actually. And they would worry about me a lot.”

“I’ll be back,” said Noor. “But getting out of town until this stuff blows over sounds like an excellent idea.”

“So you trust us now?” I said.

She shrugged. “Enough.”

“How do you feel about road trips?”

Out of nowhere, Bronwyn slumped forward in her seat and crumpled to the floor.

“Bronwyn!” Emma cried, and leapt down next to her.

If any of the other people in the subway car had seen, they pretended they hadn’t.

“Is she okay?” Enoch said.

“I don’t know,” said Emma. She slapped Bronwyn’s cheek lightly and repeated her name until her eyes blinked open again.

“Fellows, I think—Rats, I should have mentioned this earlier.” Bronwyn winced. Raised the hem of her shirt. She was bleeding from her torso.

“Bronwyn!” said Emma. “My God!”

“The man with the gun . . . I think he shot me. Don’t worry, though. Not with a bullet.” Bronwyn opened her palm to show us a small dart, tipped now with her own blood.

“Why didn’t you say something?” I said.

“We needed to get out of there quickly. And I thought I was strong enough to overcome whatever he’d shot me with. But apparently . . .”

Her head lolled to the side and she passed out.





We weren’t looking for a loop. At that moment, we wanted anything but to find a loop. All that was in our minds was getting Bronwyn to a hospital. We jumped out of the train at the next stop, hardly even looking to see where we were, and climbed the steps out of the subway station. Lilly held on to Millard’s arm, and Emma, Noor, and I helped prop up Bronwyn, who was weak but still conscious, as she shuffled heavily up the steps and along the sidewalk. We were in Manhattan now, and the buildings were taller, the sidewalks bustling.

I dug out my phone to call 911. Enoch approached people on the street shouting, “Hospital! Where’s a hospital?” This turned out to be an effective strategy. We were pointed down a particular street by a kind, concerned lady who hustled us in the right direction, asking after Bronwyn. Of course, we didn’t want to tell her anything, didn’t want her following us into the emergency room or asking our names (I was already imagining having to bring in an ymbryne to memory-wipe her . . . and the doctors and nurses), so we pretended we’d been joking about the injury and after a block she stormed off, understandably angry.

The hospital was just ahead; I could see the sign hanging from a building a block away. And then the sweetest, richest smell of cooking food hit my nose, and my steps began to slow.

“Do you smell that?” said Enoch. “That’s rosemary toast and goose liver paté!”

“No way,” said Emma. “It’s shepherd’s pie.”

Our momentum was waning.

“I’d know that smell anywhere,” said Noor. “Dosas. Paneer masala dosas.”

“What are you guys talking about?” said Lilly. “And why are you stopping?”

“She’s right, we have to get Bronwyn to a doctor,” said Millard. “Although that might be the most aromatic coq au vin I’ve ever laid nostrils on . . .”

Our progress had been completely arrested. We were standing in front of a storefront with drawn shades that might have been a restaurant, though there was no sign for one—just a placard that read OPEN ALWAYS and ALL ARE WELCOME.

“You know, I feel okay,” Bronwyn said. “A bit peckish, though, now that you mention it.”

She didn’t seem particularly okay—her speech was slurred, and she was still leaning heavily on our arms—but the part of my brain that registered this seemed to be wrapped in cotton.

“She’s bleeding!” Emma said. “And the hospital is right there.”

Bronwyn looked down at her shirt. “Not bleeding much,” she said, though the patch of red appeared to be spreading.

There were two desires at war inside me. One was a voice shouting, Go to the hospital, dumbass! but I could barely hear it over the other voice, which sounded weirdly like my dad’s. It was insisting, in this peppy, dorky way, that it was getting near dinnertime and shouldn’t we try New York food while we’re here, and goshdarnit, why don’t we just stop in for dinner real quick?