“You don’t need to go all the way to London for no doctor,” said one of the Gypsy men. “Jebbiah’s a doctor. Ain’t you, Jebbiah?”
A man with scabrous lesions spanning his cheeks stepped forward. “Which one of ye’s ill?”
“Hugh needs a
Hugh put a hand to his throat as if it hurt him and coughed, and a bee shot out of his mouth. Some of the Gypsies gasped, and a little girl hid her face in her mother’s skirt.
“It’s some sort of trick!” said the so-called doctor.
“Enough,” said their leader. “Get in the cage, all of you.”
They shoved us toward a ramp that led to it. We clustered together at the bottom. No one wanted to go first.
“We can’t let them do this!” whispered Hugh.
“What are you waiting for?” Enoch hissed at Emma. “Burn them!”
Emma shook her head and whispered, “There are too many.” She led the way up the ramp and into the cage. Its barred ceiling was low, its floor piled deep with rank-smelling hay. When we were all inside, the leader slammed the door and locked it behind us, slipping the key into his pocket. “No one goes near them!” he shouted to anyone within earshot. “They could be witches, or worse.”
“Yes, that’s what we are!” Enoch said through the bars. “Now let us go, or we’ll turn your children into warthogs!”
The leader laughed as he walked away down the ramp. Meanwhile, the other Gypsies retreated to a safe distance and began to set up camp, pitching tents and starting cookfires. We sank down into the hay, feeling defeated and depressed.
“Look out,” Horace warned. “There are animal droppings everywhere!”
“Oh, what does it matter, Horace?” Emma said. “No one gives a chuck if your clothes are dirty!”
“
Emma covered her face with her hands. I sat down next to her and tried to think of something encouraging to say, but came up blank.
Bronwyn opened her coat to give Miss Peregrine some fresh air, and Enoch knelt beside her and cocked his ear, as if listening for something. “Hear that?” he said.
“What?” Bronwyn replied.
