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

“Cell phone,” I said.

“Right—that,” she continued. “So I took it away, which made all of them as mad as a bag of ferrets, and then I did like Miss P showed me—”

“You used the powder?” said Miss Peregrine.

“I blew it right at ’em, but they didn’t fall asleep straight off. Jacob’s dad started up the car, but instead of going forward, he—he—” Bronwyn gestured to the dented garage door, words failing her.

Miss Peregrine patted her on the arm. “Yes, dear, I can see. You handled things just right.”

“Yeah,” said Enoch. “Right through the wall.”

We turned to see the other kids peeping at us from a tight cluster in the hallway.

“I told you to stay where you were,” said Miss Peregrine.

“After that noise?” said Enoch.

“I’m sorry, Jacob,” Bronwyn said. “They got so upset, and I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t hurt ’em, did I?”

“I don’t think so.” I had experienced the velvety sleep induced by Mother Dust’s powder, and it wasn’t a bad place to spend a few hours. “Can I see my uncle’s phone?”

Bronwyn handed it to me. The screen was spider-cracked but readable. When it lit up, I saw a string of texts from my aunt:

What’s happening?

When will u be home?

Everything ok??

In reply, Uncle Bobby had started to type CALL THE COPS and then probably realized that he could just as easily call them himself. But Bronwyn had taken his phone before he was able to. If she’d been a few seconds slower, we might’ve had a visit from the SWAT team. My chest tightened as I realized how fast our situation could have become dangerous and complicated. Hell, I thought, looking from the ruined car to the ruined wall to the ruined garage door. It already has.

“Don’t worry, Jacob. I’ve handled much stickier situations.” Miss Peregrine was walking around the car, examining the damage. “Your family will sleep soundly until morning, and I daresay we should try to do the same.”

“And then what?” I said, anxious and starting to sweat. The unair-conditioned garage was sweltering.

“When they wake, I’ll wipe their recent memories and send your uncles home.”

“But what will they—”

“I’ll explain that we’re distant relatives from your father’s side of the family, here from Europe to pay our respects at Abe’s grave. And as for your appointment at the asylum, you’re feeling much better now and no longer require psychiatric care.”

“And what about—”

“Oh, they’ll believe it; normals are highly suggestible following a memory wipe. I could probably convince them we’re visitors from a moon colony.”

“Miss Peregrine, please stop doing that.”

She smiled. “My apologies. A century of headmistressing trains you to anticipate questions for the sake of expediency. Now come along, children, we need to discuss protocol for the next several days. There’s much to learn about the present, and no time like the present to start learning.”

She began herding everyone out of the garage while they peppered her with questions and complaints:

“How long can we stay?” said Olive.

“May we go exploring in the morning?” said Claire.

“I would like to eat something before I perish from the earth,” said Millard.

Soon, I was alone in the garage, lingering partly because I felt bad about leaving my family there overnight, but also because I was anxious about their impending memory wipe. Miss Peregrine seemed confident, but this would be a bigger wipe than the one she had performed on them in London, which had only deleted about ten minutes of their memories. What if she didn’t erase enough, or erased too much? What if my dad forgot all he knew about birds, or my mom forgot all the French she learned in college?

I watched them sleep for a minute, this new weight settling upon me. I felt suddenly, uncomfortably adult, while my family—vulnerable, peaceful, drooling a bit—looked almost like babies.

Maybe there was another way.

Emma leaned in through the open door. “Everything okay? I think the boys are going to riot if dinner doesn’t appear soon.”

“I wasn’t sure I should leave them,” I said, nodding toward my family.

“They aren’t going anywhere, and they shouldn’t need watching. With the dose they got, they’ll sleep like rocks into the middle of tomorrow.”

“I know. I just . . . I feel a little bad.”

“You shouldn’t.” She came and stood next to me. “It’s not your fault. At all.”

I nodded. “It seems a little tragic, is all.”

“What does?”

“That Abe Portman’s son will never know how special a man his father was.”

Emma took my arm and draped it over her shoulders. “I think it’s a hundred times more tragic that he’ll never know how special a man his son is.”

I was just leaning down to kiss her when my uncle’s phone buzzed in my pocket. It made us both startle, and I pulled it out to find a new text from my aunt.

Is crazy J in the loony bin yet?

“What is it?” Emma asked.