Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children Book 1) by Ransom Riggs

Author:Ransom Riggs [Riggs, Ransom]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781594745133
Publisher: Quirk Books
Published: 2011-06-07T00:00:00+00:00

Hoping to duck another lecture, I got up early and set out before Dad was awake. I slipped a note under his door and went to grab Emma’s apple, but it wasn’t on my nightstand where I’d left it. A thorough search of the floor uncovered a lot of dust bunnies and one leathery thing the size of a golf ball. I was starting to wonder if someone had swiped it when I realized that the leathery thing was the apple. At some point during the night it had gone profoundly bad, spoiling like I’ve never seen fruit spoil. It looked as though it had spent a year locked in a food dehydrator. When I tried to pick it up it crumbled in my hand like a clump of soil.

Puzzled, I shrugged it off and went out. It was pissing rain but I soon left gray skies behind for the reliable sun of the loop. This time, however, there were no pretty girls waiting for me on the other side of the cairn—or anyone, for that matter. I tried not to be too disappointed, but I was, a little.

As soon as I got to the house I started looking for Emma, but Miss Peregrine intercepted me before I’d even made it past the front hall.

“A word, Mr. Portman,” she said, and led me into the privacy of the kitchen, still fragrant from the rich breakfast I’d missed. I felt like I’d been summoned to the principal’s office.

Miss Peregrine propped herself against the giant cooking range. “Are you enjoying your time with us?” she said.

I told her I was, very much.

“That’s good,” she replied, and then her smile vanished. “I understand you had a pleasant afternoon with some of my wards yesterday. And a lively discussion as well.”

“It was great. They’re all really nice.” I was trying to keep things light, but I could tell she was winding me up for something.

“Tell me,” she said, “how would you describe the nature of your discussion?”

I tried to remember. “I don’t know … we talked about lots of things. How things are here. How they are where I’m from.”

“Where you’re from.”

“Right.”

“And do you think it’s wise to discuss events in the future with children from the past?”

“Children? Is that really how you think of them?” I regretted saying this even as the words were passing my lips.

“It is how they regard themselves as well,” she said testily. “What would you call them?”

Given her mood, it wasn’t a subtlety I was prepared to argue. “Children, I guess.”

“Indeed. Now, as I was saying,” she said, emphasizing her words with little cleaver-chops of her hand on the range, “do you think it’s wise to discuss the future with children from the past?”

I decided to go out on a limb. “No?”

“Ah, but apparently you do! I know this because last night at dinner we were treated by Hugh to a fascinating disquisition on the wonders of twenty-first-century telecommunications technology.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “Did you know

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