Library of Souls (Miss Peregrine’s Peculiar Children #3)(13)

“By the way,” said Addison. “The ones who did try … are they really all …?” He glanced at the dark water and swallowed audibly.

“Never mind that,” the boatman said. “Now you’ve woken me, and I am at your service. What can I do for you?”

“We need to hire your boat,” Emma said firmly. “By ourselves.”

“I can’t allow that,” Sharon said. “I always captain the boat.”

“Ah, too bad then!” Addison said, turning eagerly to leave.

Emma caught him by the collar. “Wait!” she hissed. “We’re not done here.” She smiled pleasantly at the boatman. “So, we happen to know that a lot of peculiars come through this …”

She looked around, searching for the right word.

“… place. Is that because there’s a loop entrance nearby?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sharon said flatly.

“Okay, yes, of course you can’t just admit it. I completely understand. But you’re in safe company with us. Obviously, we’re—”

I elbowed her. “Emma, don’t!”

“Why not? He’s already seen the dog talk and me make fire. If we can’t speak honestly …”

“But we don’t know if he is,” I said.

“Of course he is,” she said, then turned to Sharon. “You are, aren’t you?”

The boatman stared at us impassively.

“He is, isn’t he?” Emma asked Addison. “Can’t you smell it on him?”

“No, not clearly.”

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter, so long as he’s not a wight.” She gave Sharon a beady-eyed glare. “You’re not, are you?”

“I am a businessman,” he said evenly.

“Who’s well accustomed to meeting talking dogs and girls who make fire with their hands,” said Addison.

“In my line of work, one meets a wide variety of people.”

“I’ll cut to the chase,” I said, shaking water off one foot, then the other. “We’re looking for some friends of ours. We think they might’ve come this way within the last hour or so. Mostly kids, some adults. One was invisible, one could float …”

“They’d be hard to miss,” Emma said. “They were being held at gunpoint by a gang of wights.”

Sharon crossed his arms into a wide, black X. “As I said, all manner of people hire my boat, and each relies on my absolute discretion. I won’t discuss my clientele.”

“Is that so?” Emma said. “Excuse us just a moment.”

She took me aside to whisper in my ear.

“If he doesn’t start talking, I’m going to get really angry.”

“Don’t do anything reckless,” I whispered back.

“Why? You believe that humbug about skulls and sea creatures?”

“Yes, actually. I know he’s a slimebag, but—”

“Slimebag? He’s practically admitted to doing business with wights! He might even be one!”

“—but he’s a useful slimebag. I have a feeling he knows exactly where our friends were taken. It’s just a matter of asking the right questions.”

“Then have at it,” she said crossly.

I turned to Sharon and said with a smile, “What can you tell me about your tours?”

He brightened immediately. “Finally, a subject I can speak freely about. I just happen to have some information right here …” He turned snappily and went to a nearby pylon. A shelf had been nailed onto it, and upon the shelf was displayed a skull dressed in old-time aviator garb—leather cap, goggles, a jaunty scarf. Gripped between its teeth were several pamphlets, and Sharon pulled one out and handed it to me. It was a cheesy tourist brochure that looked like it had been printed when my grandfather was a boy. I leafed through its pages as Sharon cleared his throat and spoke.

“Let’s see now. Families enjoy the Famine ’n’ Flames package … in the morning we go upriver to watch Viking siege engines catapult diseased sheep over the city walls, then have a nice boxed lunch and return in the evening via the Great Fire of 1666, which is a real treat after dark, with the flames reflecting on the water, very nice. Or if you’ve only a few hours to spare, we have a lovely gibbetting ’round Execution Dock—right at sunset, popular with honeymooners—in which some excellently foul-tongued pirates give colorful speeches before being put to the rope. For a small fee you can even have your photo taken with them!”

Inside the brochure were illustrations of smiling tourists enjoying the sights he’d described. The final page was a photo of one of Sharon’s guests posing with a gang of surly pirates wielding knives and guns.





“Peculiars do this stuff for fun?” I marveled.

“This is a waste of time,” Emma whispered, checking behind us anxiously. “I’ll bet he’s just running out the clock until the next patrol of wights arrives.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Just wait …”

Sharon was plowing on as if he hadn’t heard us. “… and you can see all the lunatics’ heads arranged on pikes as we float beneath London Bridge! Lastly, there’s our most requested excursion, which is a personal favorite of mine. But oh—never mind,” he said coyly, waving his hand, “come to think of it, I doubt you’d be interested in Devil’s Acre.”