Beginning - Book Three

three

"He'll be alright, dear." Miss Peregrine takes my arm and walks me down the hallway. "Night terrors, I suspect. A couple of the children used to have them when they were younger, but I fear our Enoch's are rather worse."

I don't reply. Sniffling, I rub away the tear streaks, leaving them merely a slippery sheen which I hope will not prove obvious once I reach the breakfast table. The headmistress wraps an arm comfortingly around my back as we descend the stairs together, giving my forearm a gentle squeeze as she directs me down an unfamiliar hallway on the ground floor. A pair of grand, carved double-doors sit open on the left hand side, and reveal a long dining table lined with over a dozen dining chairs with upholstered pads on the seat, all but three of which are filled. My housemates have piled their china plates high with glistening, hot food from the platters which lie before them. Cut glasses sparkle like crystals in the late-morning sunlight, each filled with the whitest milk or orange juice so vibrant it appears artificial. All those seated turn to look at us as we enter.

"Your eyes are red." Olive says quietly as I slide into the seat beside her. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing." I tell her, pulling a napkin onto my lap. The talking resumes around the table once Miss Peregrine takes a seat beside Marguerite. "Who are they?"

I nod towards the two unfamiliar faces at the other end of the room. An older gentleman, with a head of greying curls and a thin mouth hiding beneath a substantial moustache. Underneath his eyes, the skin sags in fatty folds and his cheeks hang rather sadly - his features resemble those of an aged bloodhound. A pair of unruly eyebrows furrow as he pierces the yolk of his egg with his fork.

"That's Grigory Kandinsky - Miss Peregrine's cousin." Olive lowers her voice further, most likely out of worry that he will hear her. "It's a rather convoluted story, actually. Emma told me that Marguerite is a peculiar, a close friend of Aggie's too. They were children together, although Marguerite is quite a bit younger by the sounds of things. Miss Peregrine introduced them, apparently. That's their daughter, Florence."

The young lady sat beside him jerks her head and her eyes dart around the table, looking for whoever spoke her name. Her irises are an unusual shade of green - so bright in colour that I am able to see them clearly even from a fair distance away. She has the same blonde tresses as her mother - her locks perhaps even more luscious - part of which is pinned to the back of her head. Her features are soft, her cheeks rosy and her lips plump and pink. She returns her eyes to her meal, and she eats her breakfast delicately with a sweet smile unwavering on her mouth, like some sort of princess from a storybook. When I look over at Marguerite, I conclude that her beauty is not a patch on that of her daughter, despite me initially thinking that she was the most striking woman I had laid eyes on.

Olive and I retreat to her bedroom after breakfast, much less eager to explore the grounds like our housemates. Whilst they bunched together and followed behind Marguerite for a little tour, we scampered upstairs and lounged on the window seats, dozing and flicking through some women's magazines in our fatigue.

"How old is that Florence?"

"Nineteen last summer, I heard. She's training to be an artist I think, her room is next door to here. She left the door open this morning and I saw this enormous easel and shelves full of oil paints as I walked past. Looked as if she was painting the view from her window - it was rather good, actually. I thought that I heard her playing the cello earlier, too."

"Is she peculiar too, like her mother?" I ask, although I expect she is, along with her beauty and range of talents. I am not jealous, simply mildly irritated at her apparent perfection.

"Not that I know of. Marguerite can perform hydrokinesis, quite the opposite of me, but we seem to get on well considering the conditions."

Olive opens her mouth to elaborate, but is halted by a knock on the door. The hem of a blue dress falls into the room first when Emma pushes the door ajar, poking her head round the side.

"Do you mind if we come in?" She asks, her voice bouncing - much more awake and alert than the two of us she speaks to.

Olive invites her inside, and Emma is closely followed by none other than flawless Florence. She holds a paper bag, neatly folded over at the opening to seal in the contents.

"We thought we'd pay you a visit, Florence has some sherbet lemons from the village."

"Please call me Flo - everybody does. Yes, I bought these yesterday and never got around to eating them, so I thought I might share them around." She smiles as she speaks, her teeth sparkling as the light hits them. Her voice has a girlish tone to it - much different to how I expected her to sound.

Olive joins them on the bed, and I begrudgingly follow her, slipping into the small spot between her and Emma. The bag rustles as Florence widens the opening and rests it into a dip in the bedsheets. Whilst the other two scuffle against each other to grab handfuls of sugar-coated confectionary, I gingerly reach into the bag and pluck a single, sticky oval from the top of the pile inside. I pop it in my mouth and let it sit on my tongue, not wanting to eat it just yet.

It begins to melt, letting a too-sweet, syrup-like fluid slide down my throat. I grimace, not liking the taste one bit - I never imagined something would be too sickly for my taste.

"They can be a bit sour, can't they?" Florence tilts her head to the right, like an inquisitive puppy. Perhaps I should have been more discreet about my distaste. "I'll bring you some raspberry bonbons next time - they are truly dreamy."

Little does she know, the sweet was not sour in the slightest. A twinkling grin plays on her lips as she awaits my response. Those grassy eyes shine beneath her thick lashes, her head returns to an upright position, sending a perfect lock of golden hair tumbling over the back of her shoulder. Maybe that sherbet was not the most sickly-sweet thing I have come across.