A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children, #4)(123)

This time I didn’t pack a bag or bring anything special. I changed the clothes I’d been in for days, which were bloodstained and beginning to smell a bit ripe. And then I ran out the back door and into the potting shed. Once I’d come out the other side and I was in the Panloopticon’s hallway, I knew just where to go. Miss Peregrine had brought us back from New York through a door halfway down the hall on the Panloopticon’s upper level. All I had to do was retrace our steps from the day before. It would’ve attracted too much attention to run, so I walked quickly with my head down, hoping none of the travelers or transport agents or desk clerks would notice me. I had made it all the way to the stairwell and up the stairs into the upper hall without being stopped when I ran face-first into a giant black wall.

The wall spoke, and the booming basso voice that came out of it was unmistakably Sharon’s. “Portman! Aren’t you supposed to be in Miss Wren’s new menagerie loop scraping out grimbear cages?”

Miss Peregrine had stormed out before she’d told me what my punishment was, but somehow Sharon knew. Embarrassing news travels fast.

“How did you hear about that?” I said.

“The walls have ears, my friend. I’ll show you sometime; they need regular de-waxing.”

I shuddered and tried to put the image out of my mind. “I was on my way there now.”

“How strange. That loop is downstairs.” He crossed his arms and leaned down. “You caused quite a stir around here, you know that? Ruffled a lot of feathers.”

“My friends and I didn’t mean to upset anyone. Really.”

“I’m not saying you did a bad thing.” He lowered his voice. “Sometimes feathers need to be ruffled. If you take my meaning.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, fidgeting nervously. At any moment an ymbryne could’ve walked by and seen me.

“Not everyone likes the way the ymbrynes have been running things. They’re too used to making all the decisions by themselves. They don’t consult anyone. They don’t ask for opinions.”

“I know what you mean,” I said.

“Do you?”

I did. I just didn’t want to talk about it right at that moment.

Sharon leaned closer and whispered in my ear. His breath was cold and smelled like the earth. “There’s a meeting next Saturday evening at the old abattoir. I’d like to see you there.”

“What kind of meeting?” I said.

“Just some like-minded people kicking around ideas. Your presence would be much appreciated.”

I peered into his hood. There was a faint shine of white teeth, engulfed in darkness.

“I’ll come,” I said. “But don’t expect me to go against the ymbrynes.”

The gleam in his hood widened into a smile. “Isn’t that where you’re going now?”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“I’m sure it is.” Sharon stood up to his full height, then stepped out of my way. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

He extended his hand. “You’ll need this.” It was a ticket. On one side was printed MINISTRY OF TEMPORAL AFFAIRS, and on the other side, ANYWHERE. “The American loops are closely guarded. The situation there is tense. Can’t let just anyone go.”

I tried to take the ticket from him, but he didn’t let it go at first.

“Saturday,” he said, then opened his hand.



* * *



? ? ?

Now that I was traveling alone, moving from place to place was easier. After having to worry over the whereabouts of three or four other people for most of the last week, it was freeing to be able to speed-walk down a crowded hall without checking over my shoulder, to slip effortlessly into a crowd, to hand the clerk just my own ticket. He was a big man perched on a tiny stool behind a desk, and he looked at my ANYWHERE ticket like he’d never seen one before.

“You’ve got modern clothes on,” he said, looking me over. “Have you been checked for anachronisms by the costumers?”

“Yep,” I said. “They said I’m fine.”

“Did they give you a waiver?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said, patting my pockets, “let me see where I put it . . .”

A line was stacking up behind me. The desk clerk was manning five doors at once, and he was losing patience. “Just cover up with one of the coats inside the door there,” he said, and waved me on. “There’s a map in the pocket, if you need one.”

I thanked him and went to the door. The little gold plate on it read BULLOCK’S DEPARTMENT STORE, NEW YORK, FEBRUARY 8, 1937.

I stepped through, lifted an old-looking black coat from a hook inside the door—emergency wardrobe—and pulled it on over my clothes. I walked to the back of the tiny, featureless room, and after a quick blackout and the now-familiar temporal rush, I heard the noises beyond the door change. I walked out into a department store. It looked like it had recently closed: The floor was full of empty racks and dusty, naked mannequins, and a muted glow was cast over everything from windows that had been papered with newsprint. There was a sleepy guard by the front entrance, and I could tell by his uniform, which looked a lot like the desk clerk’s, that he was one of ours. His job was to screen people entering Devil’s Acre, not bother people leaving it, so as a solo traveler with no baggage it was easy to get past him with just a self-assured nod.