A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children, #4)(76)

“What are they saying today, Hawley?” Paul called out.

The boy slipped his headphones off. “Nothing interesting,” he replied glumly. “Talking about money again.”

“Better luck tomorrow, then. You coming to supper?”

He nodded forcefully. “Yep!”

As we walked away, Paul explained. “That’s my brother Hawley. His peculiarity lets him eavesdrop on the dead over the radio.”

“I’m confused,” said Emma, turning to look back at Hawley. “He’s your brother?”

“Oh, we’re none of us blood family,” Paul said. “Most of us are diviners, though, and that’s close enough.”

“And diviners can all do the same thing?”

“Well, there’s differences. No two diviners are gifted in exactly the same way. Alene can find water in a desert. Fern and June specialize in finding lost people. Hawley dials into spiritual frequencies. There are even those of us who can read hearts—tell if someone loves you or not.”

Paul nodded to an old woman sitting in a rocking chair in the alley between two close-set houses. She wore glasses over an eyepatch, but she seemed to see us well enough despite it, and raised her hand in a silent hello. Something kept my gaze locked on her, and I turned to keep her in my sights as we passed.

“What about you?” Millard said to Paul.

“I divine doors. That’s why I can always find my way home. Ah, speaking of which!” We had arrived at a house with flowers in its postage-stamp yard and curtains in the windows.

“We kept it nice for you,” said June. “Like the curtains?”

“They’re lovely.”

“Figured you’d come back eventually,” said Fern.

“I wasn’t so sure,” Alene muttered.

Paul stepped onto his porch, then turned back to face us. He looked delighted. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come on in and get washed up for supper!”





We washed the dust and dirt off ourselves, grateful to be in a comfortable home after so many hours on the road, and then Paul led us out to a long table that had been set up in a big backyard that was common to several houses. It was a fine day to eat outside, and the smell coming from that table was divine. For seven hundred miles we had had only Al Potts’s stale crullers and some immortal snacks to eat, and I think none of us realized how hungry we were until plates of steaming lamb and potatoes were set before us. We tore hunks from loaves of homemade bread and gulped down mint iced tea, and it was maybe the best food I’d ever tasted. It seemed like half the town had come by for supper, and we were surrounded by all the people we’d met since we’d arrived: June and Fern and Alene; Reggie and his puppy, who scampered around under the table; Hawley, who kept his headphones over one ear the whole meal; and some new faces, as well. Directly across from me was Elmer, a man whose black suit and tie clashed with the apron he wore over it, which was decorated with puckered lips and read KISS THE COOK! Beside him sat a younger man who introduced himself as Joseph.

“This is absolutely delectable,” said Millard, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. No one thought him strange or even stared at his floating napkin; either they were polite, or Millard was not the first invisible person they had shared their table with. “One question, though. How do you cook a seventy-two-hour lamb in a twenty-four-hour loop?”

“They made the loop after the lamb had already been roasting two days,” said Elmer. “That way we can have three-day lamb every day.”

“What a brilliant use of loop-time,” said Millard.

“That was way before I arrived,” he said. “Wish I could take credit for it, but all I do is take it off the spit and carve it up!”

“So, tell us about yourselves,” said Alene. “Who are you people?”

“Don’t be rude,” said June. “They’re Paul’s guests.”

“What? We have a right to know.”

“It’s okay,” said Emma, “I would want to know, too.”

“We’re Miss Peregrine’s wards,” Enoch said through a mouthful of potatoes. “From Wales. You’ve heard of us?”

He said it as if they had, naturally.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” said Joseph.

“Really?” said Enoch. He looked around the table. “Anybody?”

Everyone shook their heads.

“Hm. Well, we’re kind of a big deal.”

“Don’t be conceited, Enoch,” Millard said. “What he means is that we enjoy some small prominence in our own peculiar community, thanks to the role we played in the victory over the wights at the Battle of Devil’s Acre. Especially crucial to our success was Jacob here—”

“Cut it out,” I hissed at him.

“—but you Americans may be more familiar with his grandfather, Abraham Portman?”

More head shakes.

“Sorry,” said Reggie, leaning down to feed his puppy under the table. “Don’t know him.”

“That’s odd,” said Millard. “I thought for certain . . .”

“He probably traveled under a false name,” said Emma. “He could see hollowgast? And . . . influence them?”

“Oh!” Alene said. “Could they mean Mr. Gandy?”