𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐏𝐒𝐎 | ᴍɪʟʟᴀʀᴅ ɴᴜʟʟɪɴɢꜱ

𝟔] 𝐇𝐄𝐘, 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊! 𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄!

CHAPTER SIX ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ HEY, LOOK! OLD PEOPLE!

I GOT UP TO LEAVE.

     I was afraid I might start crying in front of everyone, and something slipped out from between the pages and fell to the floor. I bent to pick it up. It was a letter.

     Emerson. The letter.

     I felt the blood drain from my face. My mother leaned toward me and in a tense whisper asked if I needed a drink of water, which was Mom-speak for keep it together, people are staring.

     I said, "I feel a little, uh . . ." and then, with one hand over my stomach, I bolted to my room, Jacob following closely behind.

     The letter was handwritten on fine, unlined paper in looping script so ornate it was almost calligraphy, the black ink varying in tone like that of an old fountain pen. It read:

     Dearest Abe,
     I hope this note finds you safe and in the best of health. It's been such a long time since we last received word from you! I write not to admonish, only to let you know that we still think of you often and pray for your well-being. Our brave, handsome Abe!
     As for life on the island, little has changed. Quiet and orderly is the way be prefer things! I wonder if we would recognize you after so many years. Though I'm certain you recognize us! For those who remain, that is. It would mean a great deal to have a recent picture of you, if you've one to send. I have included a positively ancient snap of myself.
     E misses you terribly. Wont you write to her?

     With respect and admiration,
     Headmistress Alma LeFay Peregrine

     As promised, the writer had enclosed an old snapshot. I held it under the glow of my desk lamp, trying to read some detail in the woman's silhouetted face, but there was none to find. The image was so strange, and yet it was nothing like my grandfather's pictures.

     There were no tricks here. It was just a woman-y woman smoking a pipe. It looked like Sherlock Holmes's pipe, curved and drooping from her lips. My eyes kept coming back to it. Was this what my grandfather had meant for us to find? Yes, I thought, it has to be--not the letters of Emerson, but a letter, tucked inside Emerson's book.

     "Alma..." Jacob repeated, staring at the signature on the letter. "I swear I've heard it before."

     "It's my middle name, you twat." I gave him a cold glare before my eyes went back to the paper. "I guess now I know why I have it."

     My whole life I had questioned why I had such a name among my others. It just never seemed to fit in with what I had. It sure didn't work with Nuñez, and it was definitely not go with Portman very well. And Calypso was just sort of a no-brainer. But I guess this solved the mystery of the middle name Grandpa Abe needed me to have.

     "I guess so," he said, pointing at the photo. "But who is she? This Peregrine woman?"

     "All that's there is a fading postmark that says  Cairnholm Is. Cymru, UK." I picked my finger up from the postmark. "But that's in Britain."

     I knew from studying atlases as a kid that Cymru meant Wales. Cairnholm Is had to be the island Miss Peregrine had mentioned in her letter. Could it have been the same island where my grandfather lived as a boy? Nine months ago he'd told us to "find the bird."

     Nine years ago he had sworn that the children's home where he'd lived was protected by one-by "a bird who smoked a pipe." At age seven I'd taken this statement literally, but the headmistress in the picture was smoking a pipe, and her name was Peregrine, a kind of hawk.

     What if the bird my grandfather wanted me to find was actually the woman who'd rescued him--the headmistress of the children's home? Maybe she was still on the island, after all these years, old as dirt but sustained by a few of her wards, children who'd grown up but never left.

     For the first time, my grandfather's last words began to make a strange kind of sense. He wanted me to go to the island and find this woman, his old headmistress. If anyone knew the secrets of his childhood, it would be her. But the envelope's postmark was fifteen years old.

     Was it possible she was still alive? I did some quick calculations in my head: If she'd been running a children's home in 1939 and was, say, twenty-five at the time, then she'd be in her late nineties today.

     So it was possible-there were people older than that in Englewood who still lived by themselves and drove-and even if Miss Peregrine had passed away in the time since she'd sent the letter, there must be people on Cairholm who could help us, people who had known Grandpa Portman as a kid. People who knew his secrets.

     We she had written. Those few who remain

     "Could she still be alive?" Jacob asked. "It's been 70 years."

     "Well..." I looked down at the letter, and for a second I had a bit of hope. "I guess there's only one way to find out."