A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children, #4)(33)

As we followed Miss Peregrine down the long hall, people came and went through the Panloopticon’s many doors. They were all very serious-looking and busy, and they wore vastly different outfits suited to very different purposes. There was a lady in a blue bustle dress that ballooned around her so widely that we had to fall into single file and squeeze against the wall to get by her. There was a man in a heavy white snowsuit and a round fur hat, and another man in seven-league boots that reached his mid-thigh and a naval coat that shone with gold buckles. I was so distracted by all the wardrobe that when we rounded a corner I nearly smacked into a wall—or what I thought was a wall until it began speaking to me.

“Young Portman!” a voice boomed, and I looked up, craning my neck to take in the man’s full height. Seven feet tall, in a heavy black robe, he was both a vision of death incarnate and an old friend I’d found myself missing from time to time.

“Sharon!”

He bowed and greeted Miss Peregrine, then reached out and shook my hand, his long, icy fingers wrapping so far around mine that they met his thumb on the other side.

“Finally come to greet your fans, have you?”

“Ha-ha,” I said. “Right.”

“He isn’t joking,” Millard said. “You’re a celebrity now. When we go outside, watch out.”

“What? Seriously?”

“Oh yeah,” said Emma. “Don’t be surprised if you get asked for autographs.”

“Don’t get a big head about it,” said Enoch. “We’re all a bit famous now, after what we did in the Library of Souls.”

“Oh, really!” Emma said. “You’re famous?”

“A little,” Enoch said. “I get fan letters.”

“You got one. Singular.”

Enoch shuffled his feet. “That you know of.”

Miss Peregrine cleared her throat. “In any case! The children are to receive their reconstruction assignments from the council today. Sharon, if you wouldn’t mind escorting us to the ministries building?”

“Of course.” Sharon bowed to her, and the scent that wafted from his cloak was one of mildew and wet earth. “For esteemed guests like yourselves, I’m happy to carve some time out of my busy schedule.”

As he walked us down the hall, he turned to me and said, “You see, I’m the majordome of this house, as well as the general overseer of the Panloopticon and its many portals.”

“I still can’t believe they put him in charge,” muttered Enoch.

Sharon turned to look straight at him, and a demented smile gleamed out of his dark hood.

Enoch shrank behind Emma and tried to disappear.

“We have a saying around here,” said Sharon. “‘The pope is busy and Mother Teresa is dead.’ No one knows this place better than me—except perhaps old Bentham, who is, thanks to young Portman, permanently indisposed.” His tone was carefully neutral; it was impossible to tell whether or not he regretted the death of his former employer. “So I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

We turned another corner and came into a wide hallway. It was as busy as an airline terminal at the holidays: Travelers laden with heavy bags came and went through doors that lined both walls. Long lines trailed away from podiums where uniformed clerks checked documents. Gruff border guards kept watch over everyone.

Sharon barked at a nearby clerk. “Keep that door shut! You’re letting in half of Helsinki, Christmas of 1911!”

The clerk snapped up from his chair and slammed a door that had been open a crack, out from which snowflakes had been drifting.

“We’re making sure people travel only to loops they’ve been approved to visit,” Sharon explained. “There are over a hundred loop doors in these halls, and the Ministry of Temporal Affairs has declared fewer than half of them safe. Many have not been sufficiently explored; some haven’t been opened in years. So, until further notice, all Panloopticon trips must be cleared by the ministry—and yours truly.”

Sharon snatched a ticket from the hand of a mousy fellow in a brown trench coat. “Who are you and where are you going?” He was clearly delighted to have been given some authority, and couldn’t help showing it off.

“My name’s Wellington Weebus,” the man lisped. “Destination Pennsylvania Station, New York City, June 8, 1929. Sir.”

“What’s your business there?”

“Sir, I’m a linguistical outreach officer assigned to the American colonies. I’m a translator.”

“Why would we need a translator in New York City? Don’t they speak the King’s English?”

“Not exactly, sir. They have a rather odd way of speaking, actually, sir.”

“Why the umbrella?”

“It’s raining there, sir.”

“Have your clothes been vetted for anachronisms by the Costumers?”

“They have, sir.”

“I thought all New Yorkers of that era wore hats.”

The man pulled a small cap from his trench coat. “I have one here, sir.”

Miss Peregrine, who had been tapping her foot for some time now, reached the end of her fuse. “If you’re needed here, Sharon, I’m sure we can find our own way to the ministries building.”