𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐏𝐒𝐎 | ᴍɪʟʟᴀʀᴅ ɴᴜʟʟɪɴɢꜱ

𝟐𝟎] 𝐎𝐇, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐃 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐒

CHAPTER TWENTY ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ OH, THE BIRD TALKS!

WELL THIS WAS IT. If I was going to die here, at least no one would find my body. And I knew that for a fact because these kids would definitely do something with it.

We walked through the house, past more curious eyes peeping through door cracks and from behind sofas, and into a sunny sitting room, where on an elaborate Persian rug, in a high-backed chair, a distinguished-looking lady sat knitting.

She was dressed head to toe in black, her hair pinned in a perfectly round knot atop her head, with lace gloves and a high-collared blouse tastened tightly at her throat-as fastidiously neat as the house itself.

I could've guessed who she was even if I hadn't remembered her picture from those l'd found in the smashed trunk.

This was Miss Peregrine.

Emma guided us onto the rug and cleared her throat, and the steady rhythm of Miss Peregrine's needles came to a halt.

"Good afternoon," the lady said, looking up. "You must be Calypso and Jacob."

Emma gaped at her. "How do you know their-"

"My name is Headmistress Peregrine," she said, holding up a finger to silence Emma, "or if you prefer, since you are not currently under my care, Miss Peregrine. Pleased to finally meet you."

Miss Peregrine dangled a gloved hand in our direction and, when either of us failed to take it, noticed the rope that bound our wrists.

"Miss Bloom!" she cried. "What is the meaning of this? Is that any way to treat your guests? Free them at once!"

"But Headmistress! They're snoops and liars and I don't know what else!" Casting a mistrustful glance at me, Emma whispered something in Miss Peregrine's ear.

"Why, Miss Bloom," said Miss Peregrine, letting out a booming laugh. "What undiluted balderdash! If this boy were a wight you'd already be stewing in his soup kettle. Of course he's Abraham Portman's grandson. Just look at him!"

I felt a flush of relief; maybe we wouldn't have to explain ourselves after all. She'd been expecting us! Emma began to protest, but Miss Peregrine shut her down with a withering glare.

     "Oh, all right," Emma sighed, "but don't say I didn't warn you."

And with a few tugs at the knot, the rope fell away.

"You'll have to pardon Miss Bloom," said Miss Peregrine as we rubbed at our chafed wrists. "She has a certain flair for the dramatic."

"So I've noticed.," I whispered, catching her a glance.

Emma scowled. "If they are who they says they are, then why don't they know the first thing about loops—or even what year they're in? Go on, ask him!"

"If you don't mind," Miss Peregrine said, "I need to have a word with Mr. Portman in private."

The girl knew it was useless to argue. She sighed and went to the door, but before leaving turned to give me one last look over her shoulder. On her face was an expression I hadn't seen from her before: concern.

"You, too, Mr. Nullings!" Miss Peregrine called out. "Polite persons do not eavesdrop on the conversations of others!"

"I was only lingering to inquire if you should like some tea, said Millard, who I got the feeling was a bit of a suck-up.