A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children, #4)(96)

“Blackwell’s Island,” I said. “Never heard of it.”

“Read the back.” Millard flipped the postcard over.

I started to read aloud the note from my grandfather, but Millard said, “No, here. The postmark, Jacob.”

The postmark was a bit smudged and incompletely stamped, but you could just make out the date—twelve years ago—and at the bottom of the little black circle, a number.





10044.


“I’ll be damned,” I said.

I passed the card to my friends in the back, who were clamoring to have a look. With one hand on the wheel and the other gripping my phone, I thumb-typed a search for the number 10044. Right away, a map popped up: a red line drawn around a long, skinny island in the middle of the East River, between Manhattan and Queens.

The loop number wasn’t a secret code at all. It was a zip code.



* * *





? ? ?

We drove the rest of the way to the café with the windows down to air the formaldehyde smell out the car, then freshened up in the bathroom of a fast-food restaurant. Millard cleaned himself from head to toe with faucet water and soap from the hand dispenser, and when he was feeling sufficiently presentable—which I found funny, considering his condition—we walked to the café. It was a dark, cozy place that felt like someone’s living room, with old couches and Christmas lights strung between rafters and a bar at one end where a big coffee grinder was whirring away. The room was half empty, and I noticed the girl immediately, sitting at a table in the corner. She had wavy brown hair and wore a black beret and army pants. An arty type, I thought. She was nursing a giant coffee and listening to something on her phone with one earbud. When we came through the door, her head cocked in our direction.

Millard led us over to the table.

“Lilly?”

“Millard,” she said, and looked up—but not quite at—Millard.

“These are my friends,” Millard said. “The ones I was telling you about.”

We traded hellos and sat down. I was trying to figure out why she didn’t seem perturbed that a voice was emanating from thin air.

“What are you listening to?” Millard asked her.

“See for yourself.”

The second earbud, which had been lying on the table, began to float as Millard inserted it into his ear. While he listened, two things came to my attention: the thin white cane that was leaning against her chair, and Lilly’s eyes, which never came to rest on any of our faces.

Emma nudged me and we traded surprised looks.

“He did say he hadn’t been seen,” she murmured.

“Ahh!” Millard said, with what must have been a look of rapture. “I haven’t heard this piece in years. Segovia, yes?”

“Very good!” said Lilly.

“That,” Millard said, “is one of the greatest pieces of music ever written.”

“It’s not every day that I meet another classical guitar geek. Nobody my age knows anything about real music.”

“Me, neither. And I’m ninety-seven.”

Emma scowled at Millard and mouthed, WHY?

Lilly chuckled and ran her fingers along Millard’s forearm. “Pretty smooth skin for a nonagenarian.”

“The body is young, but the soul . . .”

“I know exactly what you mean,” she said.

It was starting to feel like we were intruding on a date.

“Hey,” Enoch more or less shouted, “you’re blind!”

At which Lilly burst out laughing. “Uh, yeah.”

“Oh, shut up, Enoch,” said Bronwyn.

“Millard, you old dog!” said Enoch, laughing.

“I must apologize,” said Millard. “There’s something the matter with Enoch’s brain. Whatever enters it slips out instantly through his mouth.”

“You okay, Lil?” the barista called over.

Lilly flashed him an okay sign. “All good, Ricko.”

“They know you here,” I said.

“It’s practically my second home,” Lilly said. “I have a standing gig every Thursday night. Pop and jazz, though. No Segovia.” She nodded to a guitar case propped nearby, then shrugged. “I guess the world isn’t ready.” Her expression changed suddenly. Hardened a bit, as if she had remembered something unpleasant. “Millard says you’re looking for someone.”

“We’re looking for the girl who . . . who burned those two men,” said Bronwyn.

Lilly’s face soured. “They attacked her. She was just defending herself.”

“I didn’t mean to say otherwise.”

“Hell of a defense,” said Enoch.

“They deserved worse,” Lilly answered.

“Can you tell us where she is?” Emma asked.

Our questions were making Lilly tense. “Why do you care about Noor? You don’t even know her.”

Noor. Her name was Noor.

“We can help her,” said Bronwyn.

“I’m not sure I believe you, and that doesn’t answer my question.”

“We understand a little about what she’s going through,” I said, hoping I could approach the truth without going all the way to it.