Library of Souls (Miss Peregrine’s Peculiar Children #3)(16)
“Oh, nothing,” said Emma.
“Somehow I doubt that,” he muttered, but his suspicion was quickly overwhelmed by his instincts, and a second later he yelped, “Fish!” and his attention lasered back to the water. “Fish … fish … rubbish … fish …”
Emma laughed darkly. “It’s a completely mad idea, I know. But my brain is a hope-making engine.”
“I’m so glad,” I said. “Mine is a worst-case-scenario generator.”
“We need each other, then.”
“Yes. But we already knew that, I think.”
The boat’s steady heaving pushed us together and apart, together and apart.
“Sure you wouldn’t rather go on the romantic cruise?” Sharon said. “It isn’t too late.”
“Very sure,” I said. “We’re on a mission.”
“Then I suggest you open the box you’re sitting on. You’re going to need what’s inside when we cross over.”
We opened the bench’s hinged top to find a large canvas tarp.
“What’s this for?” I said.
“Cowering beneath,” Sharon replied, and he turned the boat down an even narrower canal lined with new, expensive-looking condos. “I’ve been able to keep you hidden from view thus far, but the protection I can offer doesn’t work inside the Acre—and unsavory characters tend to keep watch for easy prey ’round the entrance. And you are most certainly easy prey.”
“I knew you were up to something,” I said. “Not a single tourist so much as glanced at us.”
“It’s safer to watch historical atrocities being committed when the participants aren’t able to watch you back,” he said. “Can’t have my customers being carried off by Viking raiders, can I? Imagine the user reviews!”
We were fast approaching a sort of tunnel—a bridged-over stretch of canal, perhaps a hundred feet long, atop which hulked a building like a warehouse or an old mill. From the far end shone a half circle of blue sky and sparkling water. Between here and there was only darkness. It looked as much like a loop entrance as anyplace I’d seen.
We heaved out the enormous tarp, which filled half the boat. Emma lay down beside me and we wriggled beneath it, drawing the edge up to our chins like bedsheets. As the boat glided beneath the bridge into shadow, Sharon cut the motor and hid it beneath another, smaller tarp. Then he stood and extended a collapsible staff, plunged it into the water until it touched bottom, and began poling us forward in long, silent strokes.
“By the way,” Emma said, “what sort of ‘unsavory characters’ are we hiding from? Wights?”
“There’s more evil in peculiardom than merely your hated wights,” Sharon said, his voice echoing through the stone tunnel. “An opportunist disguised as a friend can be every bit as dangerous as an outright enemy.”
Emma sighed. “Must you always be so vague?”
“Your heads!” he snapped. “You too, dog.”
Addison snuffled beneath the tarp, and we pulled the edge over our faces. It was black and hot under the fabric, and it smelled overpoweringly of motor oil.
“Are you frightened?” Addison whispered in the dark.
“Not particularly,” said Emma. “Are you, Jacob?”
“So much I might throw up. Addison?”
“Of course not,” the dog said. “Fearfulness isn’t a characteristic of my breed.”
But then he snuggled right between Emma and me, and I could feel his whole body trembling.
*
Some changeovers are as fast and smooth as superhighways, but this one felt like slamming down a washboard road full of potholes, lurching around a hairpin turn, and then careening off a cliff—all in complete darkness. When it was finally over, my head was dizzy and pounding. I wondered what invisible mechanism made some changeovers harder than others. Maybe the journey was only as rough as the destination, and this one had felt like off-roading into a savage wilderness because that’s precisely what we had done.
“We have arrived,” Sharon announced.
“Is everyone okay?” I said, fumbling for Emma’s hand.
“We must go back,” Addison groaned. “I’ve left my kidneys on the other side.”
“Do keep quiet until I find somewhere discreet to deposit you,” Sharon said.
It’s amazing how much more acute your hearing becomes the moment you can’t use your eyes. As I lay quietly beneath the tarp, I was hypnotized by the sounds of a bygone world blooming around us. At first there was only the splash of Sharon’s pole in the water, but soon it was complemented by other noises, all stirring together to paint an elaborate scene in my mind. That steady slap of wood against water belonged, I imagined, to the oars of a passing boat piled high with fish. I pictured the ladies I could hear shouting to one another as leaning from the windows of opposite-facing houses, trading gossip across the canal while tending lines of laundry. Ahead of us, children whooped with laughter as a dog barked, and distantly I could make out voices singing in time to the rhythm of hammers: “Hark to the clinking of hammers, hark to the driving of nails!” Before long I was imagining plucky chimneysweeps in top hats skipping down streets full of rough charm and people banding together to overcome their lot in life with a wink and a song.