𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐏𝐒𝐎 | ᴍɪʟʟᴀʀᴅ ɴᴜʟʟɪɴɢꜱ

𝟐𝟕] 𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 𝐍𝐎 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ IN WHICH NO ONE TELLS ME ANYTHING

     THERE WERE A FEW MORE ACTS AFTER FIONA AND HUGH LEFT THE STAGE.

But by then the kids were getting antsy, and soon we dispersed to the rest of the day in summery bliss: lazing in the sun shade; playing croquet; tending to gardens that, thanks to Fiona, hardly needed tending; discussing our options for lunch.

I wanted to Ask Miss Peregrine more about my grandfather--a subject I avoided with Emma, who turned morose at any mention of his name—but the headmistress had gone to conduct a lesson in the study for the younger kids. It seemed like I had plenty of time, though, and the languid pace and midday heat sapped my will to do anything more taxing than wander the grounds in dreamy amazement.

After a decadent lunch of goose sandwiches and chocolate pudding, Emma began to agitate for the older kids to go swimming.

"Out of the question," Millard groaned, the top button of his pants popping open. "I'm stuffed like a Christmas turkey." We were sprawled on velvet chairs around the sitting room, full to bursting.

Bronwyn lay curled with her head between two pillows. "I'd sink straight to the bottom," came her muffled reply.

But Emma persisted. After ten minutes of wheedling she'd roused Hugh, Fiona, and Horace from their naps and challenged Bronwyn, who apparently could not forgo a competition of any kind, to a swimming race. Upon seeing us all trooping out of the house, Millard scolded us for trying to leave him behind.

The best spot for swimming was by the harbor, but getting there meant walking straight through town.

"What about those crazy drunks who think Jake is a German spy?" I said. "I don't feel like having to clean up any dead bodies today."

Everyone paused, and it seemed for a moment I had forgotten that I held my grandfathers dead body those months ago.

     "You twit," Emma said. "That was yesterday. They won't remember a thing."

     "Just hang a towel 'round you so they don't see your, er, future clothes," said Horace.

     Jake and I both had on jeans and a T-shirt, our usual outfits, and Horace wore his customary black suit. He seemed to be of the Miss Peregrine school of dress: morbidly ultraformal, no matter the occasion. His photograph was among those I'd found in the smashed trunk, and in an attempt to "dress up" for it he'd gone completely overboard: tophat, cane, a monocle, the works.

     "You're right," I said, cocking an eyebrow at Horace. "I wouldn't want anyone to think I dress weird."

     "If it's my waistcoat you're referring to," he replied haughtily, "yes, I admit I am a follower of fashion." The others snickered. "Go ahead, have a laugh at old Horace's expense! Call me a dandy if you will, but just because the villagers won't remember what you wear doesn't give you license to dress like a vagabond!"

     And with that he set about straightening his lapels, which only made the kids laugh harder. In a snit, he pointed an accusing finger at my clothes.

     "As for them, God help us if that's all our wardrobes have to look forward to!"

     When the laughter had died down, I pulled Millard aside and whispered, "What exactly is it that makes Horace peculiar—aside from his clothes, I mean?"

     "He has prophetic dreams. Horace gets nightmares every so often, which have a disturbing tendency to come true.

     "How often? A lot?"