“Oh my bird, she’s killed it!” cried Bronwyn.
“All we went through to catch that thing,” said Hugh, “and now look.”
“I’m going to stomp your ymbryne’s head!” Melina shrieked, crazed with rage.
Bronwyn caught her arms again. “No, you’re not! Stop it!”
“Your ymbryne’s a savage! If that’s how she conducts herself, we’re better off with the wights!”
“You take that back!” shouted Hugh.
“I won’t!” Melina said.
More harsh words were exchanged. A fistfight was narrowly avoided. Bronwyn held Melina, and Emma and I held Hugh, until the fight went out of them, if not the bitterness.
No one could quite believe what Miss Peregrine had done.
“What’s the big fuss?” said Enoch. “It was just a stupid pigeon.”
“No, it wasn’t,” said Emma, scolding Miss Peregrine directly.
“That bird was a personal friend of Miss Wren’s. It was hundreds of years old. It was written about in the
“Murdered,” said Melina, and she spat on the ground. “That’s what it’s called when you kill something for no reason.”
Miss Peregrine nibbled casually at a mite under her wing, as if she hadn’t heard any of this.
“Something wicked’s gotten into her,” said Olive. “This isn’t like Miss Peregrine at all.”
“She’s changing,” said Hugh. “Becoming more animal.”
“I hope there’s still something human left in her to rescue,” Millard said darkly.
So did we all.
We climbed out of the tunnel, each of us lost in our own anxious thoughts.
* * *
Beyond the door was a passage that led to a flight of steps that led to another passage and another door, which opened onto a room filled with daylight and packed to the rafters with clothes: racks and closets and wardrobes stuffed with them. There were also two wooden privacy screens to change behind, some freestanding mirrors, and a worktable laid out with sewing machines and bolts of raw fabric. It was half boutique, half workshop—and a paradise to Horace, who practically cartwheeled inside, crying, “I’m in Heaven!”
