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

He didn’t have to offer twice. We were too hungry to stay offended for long.

The clown showed us to a table stacked with food—the same boiled nuts and roasted meats that had tempted us at the carnival. We crowded around the table and stuffed our faces shamelessly. The folding man ate five cherries and a small hunk of bread and then announced he’d never been so full in his life. Bronwyn paced along the wall, chewing her fingers, too consumed by worry to eat.

When we were done, and the table was a battlefield of gnawed bones and grease stains, the clown leaned back in his chair and said, “So, peculiar children, what’s your story? Why’d you come here all the way from Wales?”

Emma wiped her mouth and said, “To help our ymbryne.”

“And when she’s helped?” the clown asked. “What then?”

I’d been busy sopping up turkey gravy with the last of the bread, but now I looked up. The question was so straightforward, so simply put—so obvious—that I couldn’t believe none of us had asked it before.

“Don’t talk like that,” said Horace. “You’ll jinx us.”

“Wren’s a miracle worker,” the clown said. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Emma.

“Of course I am. So what’s your plan? You’ll stay and help us fight, obviously, but where will you sleep? Not with me, my room’s a single. Exceptions rarely made.” He looked at Emma and raised an eyebrow. “Note I said rarely.”

All of a sudden everyone was looking off at the paintings on the walls or adjusting their collars—except for Emma, whose face was turning a certain shade of green. Maybe we were naturally pessimistic, and our chances of success had seemed so tiny that we’d never bothered to wonder what we’d do if we actually fixed Miss Peregrine—or maybe the crises of the past few days had been so constant and pressing that we’d never had a chance to wonder. Either way, the clown’s question had caught us off guard.

What if we really pulled this off? What would we do if Miss Peregrine walked into the room, right now, restored to her old self?

It was Millard who finally gave an answer. “I suppose we would head west again, back where we come from. Miss Peregrine could make another loop for us. One where we’d never be found.”

“That’s it?” the clown said. “You’ll hide? What about all the other ymbrynes—the ones who weren’t so lucky? What about mine?”

“It isn’t our job to save the whole world,” Horace said.

“We’re not trying to save the whole world. Just all of peculiardom.”

“Well, that’s not our job, either.” Horace sounded weak and defensive, ashamed to have been cornered into saying this.