Healing - Book One

seven

On the abnormally long dining table, twelve plates of toast each with a soft boiled egg in an egg cup are neatly set. Aggie has gone upstairs for an afternoon nap before she leaves. Miss Peregrine already sits at the head of the table munching on a leg of some sort of bird. I sit in between Hugh and Bronwyn, and I'm surprised when Hugh pulls a beekeeper's net-hat from under the table and places it over his head.

"What's that for?" I enquire, however I needn't have asked. As soon as the boy opens his mouth the eat, bees swoop from inside his mouth and hover around his yolk-topped toast.

I notice that two seats are empty: one at the end of the table and another opposite me. Miss Peregrine scans the table with her beady eyes as the present children begin their lunch. She lets out a heavy sigh, but just as she raises herself from the table, the door creaks open. Sure enough, Olive slips in, her face anxious and sunken.

"Nice of you to turn up." Hugh mutters under his breath, making me snigger. Miss Peregrine fires us a warning look for a moment, before turning back to the girl in the doorway. Her authority becomes clear to me.

"Where on earth have you been, Olive?" Her tone is much less warm than I'm used to.

"I'm sorry Miss Peregrine. I was-"

"Where's Enoch?"

"He-he'll be along, I'm sure." She squeaks, before tiptoeing to her seat opposite me. I beam at her for a moment: I barely receive a smile in return.

Approximately five minutes after Olive's entrance, the door opens again. A tall boy enters, his hands in his pockets - I assume that this is the infamous Enoch. The boy's face is pale and his cheeks are ever so slightly hollowed. Both his hair and eyes are dark and the sides of his curly mane are clean shaven above the ears. He catches my eye briefly and blatantly scowls at me - I'm already taken aback by his rudeness.

He grunts in Miss Peregrine's direction, some sort of apology, before slumping into his seat opposite Miss Peregrine. The remainder of the meal is almost silent, everyone taking notice of his apparent bad mood. Afterwards, Emma and Enoch are burdened with the cleanup, while everyone else is encouraged to go outside. Claire takes hold my hand with her tiny fingers and walks alongside me out the front door. The boys begin to play football again, with the exception of Horace, who leans on the topiary with a book. Claire leaves me to go and play with Bronwyn and the twins, Fiona becomes immersed in her garden. I spot Olive sitting under the large tree, fiddling with the hem of her skirt. I approach her slowly - she looks up at me timidly.

"Hello Olive." I smile with my words and lower myself to the ground beside her. I'm trying my best to stop her looking so frightened. "I feel as if we haven't met properly, but I'd love it if we could talk a little." I get straight to the point, I suppose out of fear she'll leave. There is a pause, and for a moment I'm convinced she'll go back inside.

"I think I'd like that." She says. Her voice is gentle and kind. She smiles, showing an impressive set of pearly teeth.

"Good." I beam at her again, this time my expression is reciprocated.

"Your name is pretty, I do wish my name was like yours."

"Don't be like that, yours is lovely!" I can already tell that Olive and I will get on well. The conversation continues with compliment tennis for a short while, until we begin chatting properly. Olive tells me her parents sent her away after she burnt her bed to cinders and burnt her mother's hands, and that's when she learnt about her pyrokinesis. She looks at her gloved hands sadly, as if she's ashamed of her abilities. Feeling awful for her, I place my right hand in her left and interlock my fingers with hers. I feel a definite warmth on my palm, but I don't pull away. I desperately want to make Olive my friend.

She seems surprised at first but then relaxes and squeezes my hand. Her rubber gloves make a crinkling sound as her hand moves.

"Nobody's ever done that before, Violet. Well, except... one." Olive seems hesitant. Her hand drops at the end of her sentence.

"Who might that be?" I say, smirking. She has me intrigued.

"Somebody who - means a lot to me. But, I don't think I mean that much to him."

Before I can ask for specification, the boy who I'm assuming is Enoch appears at the front door. He calls Olive's name in a thick, husky Scottish voice.

"I'm sorry, I shall see you later." Olive jumps up from her position at the foot of the tree and shuffles across the garden and follows the path of Enoch, whom has already left.