Hollow City: The Second Novel of Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children

because we live in time loops doesn’t mean we’re stuck in the Stone Age!”

Emma took my hand and told the others to join hands, too.

“It’s crucial we stay together,” she said. “London is vast, and there’s no lost and found here for peculiar children.”

We waded into the crowd, hands linked, our snaking line slightly parabolic in the middle where Olive buoyed up like an astronaut walking on the moon.

“You losing weight?” Bronwyn asked her. “You need heavier shoes, little magpie.”

“I get feathery when I ain’t had proper meals,” Olive said.

“Proper meals? We just ate like kings!”

“Not me,” said Olive. “They didn’t have any meat pies.”

“You’re awfully picky for a refugee,” said Enoch. “Anyway, since Horace wasted all our money, the only way we’re getting more food is if we steal it, or find a not-kidnapped ymbryne who’ll cook us some.”

“We still have money,” Horace said defensively, jingling the coins in his pocket. “Though not enough for meat pies. We could perhaps afford a jacket potato.”

“If I have another jacket potato, I’ll turn into a jacket potato,” Olive whined.

“That’s impossible, dear,” said Bronwyn.

“Why? Miss Peregrine can turn into a bird!”

A boy we were passing turned to stare. Bronwyn shushed Olive angrily. Telling our secrets in front of normals was strictly forbidden, even if they were so fantastic-sounding no one would believe them.

We shouldered through one last knot of children to arrive at the phone booth. It was only large enough to hold three, so Emma, Millard, and Horace squeezed inside while the rest of us crowded around the door. Emma worked the phone, Horace fished our last few coins from his pocket, and Millard paged through a chunky phone book that dangled from a cord.

“Are you kidding?” I said, leaning into the booth. “There are ymbrynes in the phone book?”

“The addresses listed are fakes,” said Millard, “and the calls won’t connect unless you whistle the right passcode.” He tore out a listing and handed it to Emma. “Give this one a go. Millicent Thrush.”

Horace fed a coin into the slot and Emma dialed the number. Then Millard took the phone, whistled a bird call into the receiver, and handed it back to Emma. She listened for a moment, then frowned. “It just rings,” she said. “No one’s picking up.”

“No bother!” Millard said. “That was just one of many. Let me find another …”