Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The cage was small. Cramped. Crude.

The iron bars were rusted with old blood and laced with whispering traces of ancient loops. It reeked of something foul, something that should not have belonged to any time. It was not made to house animals, nor peculiarities, nor even ymbrynes—it was made to break something sacred.

Miss Peregrine, in her bird form—a sleek peregrine falcon, feathers dulled from strain—trembled inside the prison. Her wings ached. One of them hung at an unnatural angle, fractured during capture. Her talons scraped feebly against the metal, useless. She had not been fed. Water had come rarely, and only enough to keep her alive. Days had passed. Or maybe weeks. Time blurred in pain.

She chirped for help, weak and hoarse. Her cry echoed across stone walls that didn’t care. Another flash of pain lanced through her chest as a gloved hand reached in, holding a cruel device meant for measuring energy output from ymbrynes. He wrapped cold fingers around her fragile bird body, holding her like a broken clock in need of dismantling.

She didn't answer. Couldn't. She tucked her head under her broken wing.

"I remember your speeches," he sneered, approaching the cage. "About guardianship. Dignity. It is ironic, honestly. How far the Great Alma Peregrine has fallen." The voice cackled.

He opened the cage. The iron shrieked.

His fingers closed around her wing.

She cried out.

"So fragile," he whispered. "So noble. And for what?"

He turned to the wall of instruments. Selected a thin, silver rod.

"You feel that?"

He pressed it against her spine.

The current surged through her body. Her wings jerked. Her claws scratched air.

"Good. That means you’re still conscious."

He changed his voice dangerously low.

"Now change."

She didn’t.

"Change. Or I keep going."

Still nothing.

He pressed the rod again.

She screeched.

"You think they’ll save you? Those children? They're not coming."

Her chest heaved. Her feathers were soaked in sweat and blood.

"You're all alone, Alma. Just you and me."

Another jolt.

Her beak opened in silent agony.

"Fine. Stay a bird for now. Your kind always break eventually," he hissed. "Even the great Miss Peregrine will reach her breaking point sooner or later."

Electric currents danced through her. She screeched, twisting, thrashing in agony. Her feathers smoked. Her eyes dimmed.

But she did not faint. She would not give him the satisfaction. Even if her bones ached and her organs screamed. Even if she could feel the fracture in her wing shift when she moved.

She was an ymbryne. She had endured centuries. She had outlived several wars, and she would survive this. This should be easier than outliving the wars. In theory. Even if every part of her frail body ached and twitched.

For her children.

She dreamed of Emma talking to her about everything and anything, of Bronwyn's warm hugs. Of Jacob's eyes, wide and full of impossible curiosity. She dreamed of Hugh's bees buzzing in joy when she praised him. Of Olive floating gently, asking her endless questions.

They had made her whole again.

And she had promised to protect them.

Even now, caged and battered, her thoughts never left them.

Was Fiona eating well? Did Claire remember to brush her hair? Did Horace’s nightmares return in her absence? Had anyone made sure Enoch hadn’t reanimated something inappropriate again?

She shook, once, her entire body shivering with agony. Pain exploded through her ribs. Her vision tunneled.

She would not die.

She would not break.

Then the whole room shook.

Voices. Real voices.

"She's here!" shouted Enoch.

"Careful! The door's trapped!" Horace's voice rang with panic.

The lock sparked, clicked, opened.

Emma gasped. "Miss Peregrine... God. What has he done to you?"

There she was. Frail. Feathers patchy. A wing limp. Her small falcon body trembled with exhaustion.

Emma reached into the cage gently, hands shaking. Miss Peregrine chirped weakly, barely clinging to consciousness.

"It’s okay," Emma whispered. "We’ve got you now."

Tears welled in Olive's eyes. "She looks so hurt."

The children encircled her protectively, shielding her from the memory of the torture room as they carried her out. Bronwyn cradled her gently in her massive hands, like one might hold the last ember of a dying fire.

They reached the boat—their only way out of Blackpool—but just as they climbed aboard, a crack of lightning split the sky.

Dr. Barren.

"Leaving so soon?"

He stepped from the shadows, blade in hand, white eyes gleaming. He forcibly grabbed Miss Peregrine out of Bronwyn's hands, pushing Millard and Fiona out of his sight.

"Let her go!" Jacob stepped forward, hands trembling but firm.

Dr. Barren only smiled. "She’s not worth saving. She is pathetic! But if you insist on seeing her in her true, pathetic form—so be it."

He raised his hand. A pulse of dark energy swept through the air, seizing Miss Peregrine's falcon body mid-flight.

She resisted. Oh, how she resisted. Clinging to the form that protected her, the form that gave her the smallest shred of dignity.

But she was too weak.

"Stop!" Emma shouted. "She’s too weak!"

"Then let her break."

"Let her go!" Jacob lunged.

Dr. Barren tossed him back with a flick of his hand.

"Now, Alma. Let them see." He snickered.

The transformation tore through her.

Bones cracked. Wings reshaped. Flesh grew.

With a shudder and a gasp, Miss Peregrine's body convulsed in the children's arms. Feathers twisted to flesh, wings to arms, her form shifting in raw, forced agony.

"Make it stop!" Olive sobbed.

Feathers peeled away. Skin stretched. Limbs grew.

She fell to the ground.

She screamed.

Then silence.

She lay in Emma's arms, naked, battered, broken.

Miss Peregrine curled inward.

"You see?" Barren grinned. "This is who protects you."

Miss Peregrine met his eyes with all of her remaining energy left in her body.

"I dare you to step even an inch closer to my children!" She tried to lift her head as much as possible and screamed.

"Even like this? Broken and incredibly vulnerable? You are not even wearing a strand of clothes, Alma."

"I dare you, Barron!"

Barron laughed. His eyes never left Miss Peregrine as he stepped closer and closer towards her. " What are you going to do about this, Miss Peregrine?"

Jacob rose, knife in hand.

"Get away from her."

Mr. Barron smirked. This boy was shaking to his boots and still had the stupidity to meet his eyes.

"Boy, you do not want to mess with me." He whispered venomously.

Then choked.

His face was turning in a vile shade of purple as Millard suffocated him from the back.

Dr. Barron coughed up the last breath of air before collapsing loudly on the floor.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Emma, without hesitation, wrapped herself around Miss Peregrine, shielding her from the world. "Don’t look! Turn around," she snapped.

She pulled off her own coat and covered her mentor.

Miss Peregrine sobbed. The first time they had ever seen her cry.

"I tried," she whispered. "I tried to protect you all."

"You do," Emma said fiercely. "You still do."

Behind them, Jacob charged. Even with the scars and experiments, Miss Peregrine still was protecting them. With a fierce anger, he drove the final blow into Dr. Barron.

Mr. Barron's collapsed body flew high up into the grey sky of Blackpool and landed in the harsh waves. They watched as Mr Barron's body sank deeper and deeper into the ocean.

The children didn’t cheer. There was no triumph. Only aching, unbearable silence.

Miss Peregrine sat upright, limbs shaking. Her skin was bruised, covered in scratches, her arm bent unnaturally. Her spine slumped forward from pain. She winced with every breath.

"I’ll be fine," she said, voice trembling.

She took one weak step.

Collapsed, faster than they could hold her.

"She hasn’t eaten. She hasn’t had water," said Millard urgently.

Bronwyn lifted her gently. "I've got you, ma'am."

She whimpered in Bronwyn's arms, her eyes rolling closed. But her hand curled slightly toward Emma.

They got her onto the boat.

The sea was quiet. The sky grey.

Miss Peregrine stirred briefly. Her voice was almost inaudible.

"Emma... keep them safe."

"Always," Emma whispered. "Just rest now."

As they drifted away from the hell that had held her captive, Miss Peregrine, wrapped in warmth and surrounded by her children, whispered one final time:

"Thank you."

Then, finally safe, she let herself fall into deep sleep.

And for the first time in days, she allowed herself to be weak.

She had protected them for so long. Now it was their turn to shield her, at least for a little while.

Chapter Text

The boat rocked gently as they pulled farther from Blackpool. Bronwyn laid Miss Peregrine on a makeshift cot in the lower deck, covering her with every spare blanket they had. Emma never left her side.

"She's shivering," Emma whispered, touching the back of Miss Peregrine's hand. "Still burning up."

"The fever’s from the stress," Horace murmured. "Shock, maybe. Or whatever he did to her."

Miss Peregrine stirred again. Her lips moved.

"Emma... water..."

Emma was already there, carefully tipping a tin cup to her lips. "Small sips. We’ve got you."

The children huddled nearby, watching silently. Even Enoch looked rattled, his usual scowl replaced with something raw.

"Why did she stay a bird that long?" Olive asked.

"To protect us," Jacob said quietly. "If she turned back, she'd be vulnerable. And she didn’t want us to see her like that."

"She thought we’d be scared of her?" Claire asked, incredulous.

Emma brushed hair from Miss Peregrine’s face. "She thought she could not show vulnerability. Unbreakable. But she’s just... exhausted."

Bronwyn sat down beside the bed. "Then we take care of her. Like she did for us."

They did.

They rotated through the night, one always sitting at her side. Jacob wrote everything down. Emma kept her warm. Claire held her hand. Horace told her stories about how they found her. Even Enoch offered a warm brick for her feet.

Morning came. Miss Peregrine opened her eyes.

She saw all of them.

She smiled. Weak. Grateful. But it was there.

"You’re all here."

Emma nodded. "Where else would we be?"

Tears welled in Miss Peregrine’s eyes again. A silent apology. From love and pain.

She whispered, "You all... are all the reason I held on this long. Thank you."

And for once, she allowed herself to be held. As the sun rose higher, casting soft light over the boat, Miss Peregrine whispered again, voice hoarse but clear: "I wish to head home."

Jacob, sitting at the helm, turned gently. "We will. We're on our way there."

Emma helped her sit up. She winced, but steadied herself.

"There’s tea, if you can keep anything down," Emma said.

Miss Peregrine managed a dry chuckle. "Tea. Always tea. Even after everything."

Bronwyn returned with a teacup. Claire helped hold it steady.

"Your wing—arm," Olive corrected herself, "it’s still..."

"It’ll heal," Miss Peregrine said, though she wasn't sure. But the confidence in her voice settled everyone else.

As the sun climbed higher and the quiet rhythms of the sea gave way to gentle winds, Emma sat with Miss Peregrine near the lower deck. The ymbryne was swaddled still in thick blankets, a shawl draped around her shoulders, her dark hair slightly disheveled from restless sleep.

Emma handed her a cup of warm tea and sat cross-legged beside her, careful not to jostle her injured arm.

"You've been unusually quiet," Emma said after a moment. "Not that I mind the quiet. Just... you know. You've been through hell. And you're still here."

Miss Peregrine looked into her tea. The steam curled upward, ghostlike and fragrant.

"When I was your age," she said slowly, voice thinner than usual, "I had no one to sit beside me after something like this. No Emma. No warm blanket. Certainly no tea."

Emma tilted her head, studying her face. "Were your parents peculiar?"

Miss Peregrine let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "No. They were very, very ordinary. And they wanted a very ordinary daughter."

Emma said nothing. She just waited.

"When I shifted the first time... I was five. In the middle of a family dinner. I thought they'd be impressed, even proud. Instead, they screamed. My father locked me in the attic. My mother didn’t visit once."

Emma’s face hardened. "That’s awful. I’m sorry."

Miss Peregrine smiled faintly. "It taught me something. That safety does not always come from blood. That love... is sometimes found in those we choose. And those who choose us."

She reached out slowly, fingers brushing through Emma’s hair, smoothing it gently. Her movements were soft, maternal.

"You are more my family than anyone I ever shared a name with."

Emma blinked fast.

Miss Peregrine leaned back, the effort visible in her every breath.

Emma, trying to lighten the mood, gave her a pointed look. "You know, you’ve been wrapped in that same blanket for three days. We could find you actual clothes, Miss P."

Miss Peregrine gave her a side glance. "Blankets are perfectly respectable garments."

Emma snorted. "Not when they start smelling like seaweeds, dust, and stress."

A rare chuckle escaped from the ymbryne’s lips. She winced slightly, but her smile remained. "Very well. I’ll allow a wardrobe change."

Emma stood, brushing dirt from her trousers. "Finally. I’ll dig something up. Maybe even something with lace."

Miss Peregrine’s eyes twinkled, tired but amused. "Just not polka dots. I draw the line at polka dots."

Emma hesitated, looked at her again. "Thank you. For telling me. About your childhood."

"You’ve earned the truth," Miss Peregrine said. "All of you have."

Emma stepped forward, bent down, and hugged her again—this time without hesitation.

And Miss Peregrine, surrounded by warmth and laughter and her true family, let herself be held once more.

Emma quietly slipped away from the group, the weight of the past days pressing heavily on her chest. She needed a moment away—just a moment alone. Her footsteps echoed softly down the narrow corridors of the boat as she made her way to the engine room, a place usually humming with steady mechanical life.

The heavy steel door groaned as she pushed it open, stepping inside the dim, cramped space filled with the scent of oil and metal. The low rumble of the engines vibrated through the floorboards beneath her feet, but it was a lonely sound, one she welcomed.

She sank onto a cold metal crate, wrapping her arms around her knees. The walls felt like they were closing in, the air thick and suffocating. She swallowed hard, blinking back tears. It was too much—the constant fear, the endless worry for Miss Peregrine, the children, the fight with Dr. Barron. She had to be strong. But strength had a limit.

The tears came unbidden, slipping down her cheeks as she let out a trembling breath. Her body shook quietly with sobs, the years of bottled-up stress breaking free in the silence of the boiler room.

"Emma?" a soft voice startled her.

She wiped her face quickly, but it was too late.

Jacob stood in the doorway, concern etched across his face. He stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him.

Without a word, he sat beside her, close but respectful.

Emma swallowed again, her voice barely a whisper. "I... I thought I could do this. For them. For her. But... it’s like I’m drowning."

Jacob nodded slowly. "I get it. I do. But we’re not alone, Emma. We have each other. We have them."

She looked up at him, eyes red and raw. "What now? After everything... what do we do?"

Jacob took a deep breath. "We restart. We heal. We protect each other, like she protected us all this time. We figure it out... one step at a time."

Emma managed a small, tired smile. "One step at a time."

He reached out, squeezing her hand gently.

"I should head back to Miss P, you know."

" Yeah, of course." Jacob looks slightly disappointed, but Emma does not have the emotional capability to do anything.

Emma returned nearly twenty minutes later with an armful of clothes—simple but clean, mostly things she'd swiped from trunks tucked into corners of the boat. A long charcoal skirt, soft at the edges from age. A white blouse with delicate embroidery at the collar. A navy cardigan with elbow patches she thought might suit Miss Peregrine’s sharp, intellectual manner nicely.

She nudged the door open with her hip, careful not to drop anything. "I found a few things. No polka dots, I swear."

Miss Peregrine looked up from the chair where she sat curled beneath the blanket. Her eyes—still slightly sunken, still rimmed with exhaustion—softened when they met Emma’s.

"Is that wool?" she asked, eyeing the cardigan.

Emma arched an eyebrow. "Would you like the blanket back instead?"

A pause. Then: "Wool will do."

She helped Miss Peregrine stand—slowly, carefully, one hand at her elbow and the other ready to catch her if she swayed. She’d lost weight. The curve of her back had a slight stoop now, and her breathing, though steadier, still came with effort.

Emma laid the clothes out on the edge of the cot, then held the blouse up for her to inspect. "This was mine. Before I outgrew it. It's not too shabby."

Miss Peregrine didn’t answer right away. Her fingers hovered over the collar before she finally reached for the buttons and began to undo the blanket around her shoulders. Her movements were cautious, each one betraying a quiet vulnerability. Emma turned slightly, offering privacy without making a show of it.

There were bruises along Miss Peregrine’s ribs, a deep purple fading to green. Her collarbone jutted out too sharply, a visible reminder of how long she’d gone without real food or care. Still, she dressed with quiet dignity, adjusting the blouse over her shoulders with a straightening of her spine that looked more habit than strength.

" You're staring, Emma. Is my appearance that horrifying?"

" No!", she said it louder than she intended. "Here," Emma murmured, stepping forward to help with the buttons.

Their fingers brushed, and Miss Peregrine let her hands fall away, letting Emma do the work. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of fabric shifting and the soft tick of the old wall clock.

"You’re still shaking," Emma said softly.

"It will pass."

"You don’t have to rush. We’re not expecting you to be… the same."

Miss Peregrine looked up then, her gaze steady. "But I need to be. For all of you."

Emma finished the last button and reached for the cardigan. "We just need you alive."

The cardigan draped easily over her narrow frame. Emma stepped back, hands on her hips, and looked her over.

"You look like yourself again," she said with a small, warm smile.

Miss Peregrine glanced down at the outfit, then at Emma. "Do I?"

Emma tilted her head. "Close enough."

Miss Peregrine reached for the chair again, sinking into it with a long breath. Emma knelt in front of her, gently tucking the blanket around her legs one last time. Not because she needed it for modesty—but for comfort. Familiarity. Warmth.

"Thank you, Emma," Miss Peregrine said quietly.

Emma hesitated for a moment. Then, without a word, she rested her forehead lightly against Miss Peregrine’s knee—just for a heartbeat.

And Miss Peregrine, in a gesture more vulnerable than any she’d shown before, reached down and brushed a hand through her hair again, slow and soothing.

Emma had just helped Miss Peregrine into the blouse and was reaching for the cardigan when the door creaked open.

"Miss Peregrine? Emma? I brought—" Bronwyn’s voice cut off mid-sentence as she stepped into the room, holding a tray with tea and small plates of toast and jam. She froze.

Miss Peregrine straightened instinctively, her fingers curling around the hem of the blouse as though bracing herself. Though she was dressed, the change had shifted something intimate, something raw. Her hair still hung loose, her collarbone exposed through the slightly too-wide neckline, the cardigan not yet in place.

Emma snapped her head around. “Bronwyn! Knock, maybe?”

Bronwyn blinked hard, embarrassment flooding her face. "Oh! I—I’m so sorry, I thought— I didn’t think—"

"It’s alright, Bronwyn." Miss Peregrine’s voice was soft but steady. "You’ve done nothing wrong."

Bronwyn, unsure where to look, focused on the tray in her hands. "I just thought you might like breakfast."

"You were thoughtful to bring it." Miss Peregrine gave a small nod. "Could you just give us a moment?"

"Of course. Of course, yes." Bronwyn stepped back, nearly bumping into the doorframe on her way out. “I’ll… just leave this here.”

She placed the tray down on the side table and quickly slipped out, shutting the door behind her with a mortified click.

Emma exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “She meant well.”

“She always does,” Miss Peregrine said, smoothing her blouse where it puckered at the waist. “It’s the timing that’s unfortunate.”

Emma picked up the cardigan and gently helped her into it, careful with her injured shoulder. “You handled it better than I would’ve. I’d be shrieking and shouting at her.”

A faint, dry smile. “That is why I run this house, and not you.”

Emma grinned. “Exactly.”

Miss Peregrine buttoned the cardigan slowly. The trembling in her fingers was slight but noticeable. Emma didn’t point it out. She stepped away and adjusted a small mirror on the dresser so Miss Peregrine could see herself.

The ymbryne studied her reflection for a long moment.

"It’s strange," she said, almost to herself. "To see my own face and not feel… quite inside it."

Emma didn’t know what to say to that. So instead, she reached for the brush resting nearby. “Want me to help with your hair?”

Miss Peregrine nodded once.

As Emma gently untangled the strands, she caught a glimpse of something she hadn’t expected—Miss Peregrine’s eyes closed, her shoulders softening, just for a breath, into the sensation of someone taking care of her. Not as a leader. Not as a protector. But as a person.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” Emma murmured. “You don’t always have to… pretend either.”

“I know,” Miss Peregrine said. But her voice was distant. Like she didn’t quite believe it.

Emma finished brushing the last strands into place and set the brush down. "There. You’re presentable. Ready to go remind everyone you're still in charge."

Miss Peregrine gave her a look that almost—almost—reached amusement. “Only if I get to scowl at someone before lunch.”

“I’ll send Bronwyn back in for scowling practice.”

“Perfect.”

They both smiled then, tired but real.

Chapter Text

The sun dipped low across the horizon, spilling its last golds and reds across the windows of the manor. For the first time in days, laughter floated out through the open kitchen doors.

The scent of broth and salt hung in the air. Kelp, potatoes, and seaweed simmered in a wide pot over the stove, steam curling upward as Bronwyn stirred with exaggerated seriousness. Olive danced nearby, her feet hovering inches above the ground as she floated back and forth with bowls and spoons.

“Jacob, don’t burn it this time,” Olive teased, plucking a ladle from his hand.

“I didn’t burn it,” Jacob said, hands still wet from gutting the fish they'd caught earlier. “I just… enhanced the flavor.”

“You charred the flavor,” Enoch muttered from the doorway, arms crossed, but he didn’t leave.

“Still better than when you tried cooking,” Bronwyn added with a grin. “Remember the boiled apple disaster?”

“That was an experiment and for your information, it went better than I thought it would ever be.”

Emma snorted as she carried in the tin plates. “Well, tonight we’re sticking to the sea theme. Kelp soup. Salt-roasted fish. And somehow, Enoch didn’t sneak any organs into the side dishes.”

“I make one anatomical pie and no one lets me live it down.”

Miss Peregrine sat in the armchair by the hearth, her cardigan buttoned properly, her hair gently pulled back. She hadn’t said much, but her eyes followed everything. The soft clatter. The teasing. The make-shift table slowly filling with mismatched cups and bowls. The children moving together like they had before the boat. Before the capture.

It wasn’t perfect. There was still weight behind their smiles. Still flickers of shadow in their glances. But they were here. Together. Eating. Laughing.

And that mattered.

Jacob brought over the fish—grilled golden, steaming—and placed it near her. “I made sure yours wasn't too bony. Thought maybe you’d want a piece.”

Miss Peregrine looked up at him, one brow lifting. “That’s unusually thoughtful of you.”

He grinned, not quite sheepish. “I’m maturing.”

“I’ll alert the others of your new development," amused.

Emma elbowed him on her way past.

As everyone found seats, Bronwyn brought over the pot of soup. “Careful, it’s hot.”

Miss Peregrine accepted her bowl quietly. Her spoon trembled slightly as she lifted it, but no one commented.

“I think this is the best dinner we’ve had since… well, since the house burned down,” Olive said, floating inches off her seat again.

“It is,” Miss Peregrine said after a quiet moment. “It’s lovely.”

They ate in companionable noise—slurps, scraping spoons, the occasional groan of satisfaction.

“So,” Jacob said with a full mouth, “what do we call this dish? Kelp Soup of Healing? Seaweed Stew of Emotional Recovery?”

“Fish and Feelings,” Emma offered.

“No one’s naming my cooking,” Bronwyn muttered, flushing slightly.

Miss Peregrine let out a soft chuckle. “I rather like ‘Fish and Feelings.’ Quite apt.”

“You would,” Enoch muttered, but he reached for seconds anyway.

Later, after the last spoon clinked against the bottom of the last bowl, and Olive had floated the dirty plates toward the sink, they all sat for a few moments in the quiet hum of fullness.

No monsters. No screams. No cages.

Just the sound of waves, and the warmth of old soup and older love.

Miss Peregrine leaned back, eyes drifting half-shut, the shadows behind her eyes a little less sharp.

Tonight, they had dinner like normal people.

_____________________________________

The ship had long gone quiet.

The deck creaked with the gentle rock of the sea, waves brushing against the hull in slow, rhythmic laps. Most of the lanterns had been extinguished, leaving only a few low oil-lamps flickering in their sconces. The children were scattered across makeshift sleeping spaces — hammocks, piles of blankets, bundled coats and crates pulled close together.

Miss Peregrine stepped away carefully from the cabin, the oversized cardigan Emma had draped over her still wrapped around her shoulders. Her bare feet made no sound on the damp planks.

The night air smelled of salt and distant kelp, cool against her skin. The stars overhead were smeared by a light mist, but some still pierced through, clear and ancient.

She walked quietly along the outer edge of the ship, fingers trailing against the railing. Below, the sea churned softly, uncaring, endless.

From this angle, she could see them all.

Emma was curled next to the mast, arms loosely wrapped around a folded blanket, hair falling over her eyes. Jacob, not far, slept sitting up, head slumped against a coil of rope. Olive and Claire had found shelter beneath the lifeboat canopy, Bronwyn stretched protectively nearby like a great mountain range guarding a valley.

She paused there.

Watching.

One by one, breathing in and out.

Safe.

She let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.

The pain in her body still flared — bruises across her ribs, the echo of restraints at her wrists, the humiliation that lingered after Barren’s torment. She had endured much. Too much. But the sight of her flock sleeping — worn, healing, breathing — was worth every feather she’d lost and every torture endured.

Her hand tightened slightly on the railing.

She didn’t know what would happen next. If another hollow would find them. If another ambush waited beyond the mist.

But she knew this much

They were together.

And she would burn the skies before letting that be taken from her again.

The ship groaned softly beneath her.

She turned her head, catching one last glimpse of Jacob twitching in his sleep, brow furrowed.

Miss Peregrine stepped back from the edge and sat slowly beside the cabin’s wall. Pulling the cardigan tighter, she rested her head against the cool wood and closed her eyes.

As the boat gently rocked with the motion of the waves, the night settled into a deep stillness, broken only by the distant calls of sea birds and the quiet hush of the wind. The stars shimmered above in vast constellations, and the moon cast a cold silver sheen across the deck.

Jacob stirred.

Something—a soft step, a faint creak of wood—had roused him. He sat up abruptly, rubbing his eyes, heart pounding. The boat was silent, but he could just make out the faint silhouette of a figure through the dusty glass of the cabin window.

He slipped out from under the thin blanket and padded through the narrow hallway, careful not to wake the others.

On the deck, Miss Peregrine stood still and poised at the edge, her arms wrapped around her shawl, her dark hair gently tousled by the ocean wind. Her silhouette was illuminated by the moon, making her appear otherworldly—equal parts fragile and powerful.

Before Jacob could speak, she did. Her voice was low and calm, as if she’d known he was there all along.

“Nightmares, Mr. Portman? Or you simply can’t sleep?”

Jacob blinked. “Neither. I… heard someone walking. Guess it was you.”

She nodded slowly but didn’t turn to face him. “The sea is quieter at night. It helps me think.”

Jacob stepped beside her. The ocean stretched endlessly around them, black and silver, haunting and beautiful. The moon hung low, a glowing crescent barely skimming the horizon.

“ Do you miss flying,” he said.

Miss Peregrine smiled faintly. “More than I can describe. This… stillness—it suits some. But not me. Flying gave me clarity, a sense of control. I’ve never quite learned how to be still.”

“Your arm,” Jacob said gently. “It’s healing, though, right?”

“It is,” she answered. “Slowly. With help from all of you, of course.”

They stood in silence for a moment. The cool wind tugged at their clothes, and the water churned softly below.

“The moon looks different out here,” Jacob murmured.

“Yes,” Miss Peregrine agreed. “It feels ancient. Like it’s been watching us for a very long time.”

“Do you think…” Jacob hesitated. “Do you think we’ll find somewhere? Somewhere safe?”

Miss Peregrine took in a long breath. “There are only a few things I can not answer in this world. But that question…” She turned to look at him now, her eyes solemn. “That one I have no answer to.”

Jacob looked down. “The loop’s closed. The house is gone. We’ve just… been drifting.”

Miss Peregrine turned her gaze back to the sea. “We will run out of fresh water, or food, or proper clothes. Or engine coal. Sooner rather than later. Eventually, we’ll have to dock somewhere. Hope someone takes us in. Hope it’s safe.”

Jacob said nothing.

She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “But we will face that together, Mr. Portman. That much, I am certain of.”

He nodded.

And for a long moment, they simply stood together in silence, the moonlight washing over them like a shared secret.

Morning came quickly.

Miss Peregrine was the first to notice it—far before any child stirred, she stood on the deck, staring at the horizon. The peaceful sky of the night before was gone. Now, thick clouds billowed in the distance, an ominous mass of grey swallowing the morning light. The wind had changed, picking up in speed and temperature.

A storm was coming.

Miss Peregrine turned quickly, moving with quiet urgency back inside. She knelt beside each child, one by one, and gently shook their shoulders to wake them.

“Up, my dears,” she whispered to Claire, to Fiona, to Hugh.

When she reached Olive and Bronwyn, the youngest stirred groggily. Olive rubbed her eyes with tiny fists. Bronwyn groaned and turned over.

“Give me a minute, Mommy,” Bronwyn mumbled sleepily.

The word stopped Miss Peregrine in her tracks. Something like emotion flickered behind her tired eyes—but her face quickly returned to calm, almost maternal patience. She gave their shoulders one more shake.

“Now, Olive. Bronwyn. We haven’t the time.”

The girls stirred more purposefully this time, yawning and blinking in confusion.

“What’s going on?” Olive asked.

“The weather’s turning,” Miss Peregrine said. “We must prepare.”

The children emerged slowly, still half-asleep, only to stop in their tracks when they reached the deck. The clouds had rolled in closer now, blotting out the sun. The waves had grown more aggressive, slapping against the boat’s hull.

Emma's eyes darted to Miss Peregrine. “You shouldn’t be out in this, not in your condition.”

Miss Peregrine waved off the concern with a small smile. “This isn’t the first storm I’ve piloted through, Miss Bloom.”

“Still…”

“I’ll manage. What I need from you is help securing our belongings. Make sure nothing that can be washed away is left out. Enoch, Jacob—help her.”

The three of them nodded and sprang into action, while Miss Peregrine gripped the helm.

The wind howled louder now, rattling loose ropes and snapping torn canvas. The boat swayed violently as waves crashed against it.

In the chaos, one of the moving trunks slid across the deck. It slammed into something unseen—

“Ahh!”

Millard’s voice cried out. The trunk had caught his leg, and he lay groaning, clutching his bruised knee.

“Millard!” Emma called.

Miss Peregrine’s voice rang over the gale. “Enoch! Help Millard. He’s by the mid-mast. You’ll have to feel for him.”

Enoch scowled but obeyed, navigating the heaving deck and crouching beside the injured boy.

“Hold still, invisible nuisance,” he muttered. “Let me see.”

The storm had arrived.

And Miss Peregrine, her hair whipping in the wind, gritted her teeth as she fought the wheel.

Miss Peregrine, her hair whipping in the wind as she fought to hold the wheel. The deck grew slick with saltwater and rain, and her shoes struggled to have a decent drip at the drenched wood. Again and again, her feet slipped, and her soaked dress clung tightly to her frame. Rain pelted down in icy needles, and visibility dropped.

Still, she held firm.

For four long hours, she steered through the chaos. Her knuckles were white from the pressure, her injured arm aching with every jolt. But she did not yield.

At last, the winds began to ease. The worst of the storm had passed.

Miss Peregrine exhaled, slumping slightly as the adrenaline wore off. Her clothes were utterly soaked, her hair plastered to her face. She blinked the water from her lashes and looked up.

Through the lifting fog and drizzle, a familiar shape emerged on the horizon.

Land.

Their island.

She recognized the faint outline of the cliffs and shore. The storm had thrown them off course—but brought them closer, faster, to home.

Or what was left of it.

She tightened her grip on the wheel. “Prepare yourselves,” she said softly to no one in particular. “We’re nearly there.”

Chapter Text

They docked on the beach they had left weeks ago, when they’d risked everything to save Miss Peregrine.

The children disembarked in silence, their shoes sinking into the damp sand. The salty wind tugged at their clothes as they looked around, uncertain, wary.

Then they began the long hike inland.

Through the twisted trees and familiar hills. Past the overgrown gardens and stone paths.

Until they reached it.

Their house.

Or what remained.

It had once been their sanctuary. A place where peculiarity was safety, not danger. But now—

Now, the house was a hollow shell.

Walls blackened and broken. Shattered glass glittered in the earth like tears. Bricks scattered like bones. Vines crept up what little remained, nature trying to reclaim what had once been theirs.

No one spoke.

Bronwyn’s eyes welled with tears. Emma clutched Jacob’s hand tightly. Hugh removed his hat and held it to his chest.

Miss Peregrine stepped forward, her face unreadable. She walked slowly to the edge of the ruins, her shoes crunching over broken tiles.

She stood there a long while, saying nothing.

Then finally, her voice came, soft and steady.

“We begin again.” The silence that fell as they stared at the wreckage was broken only by the crunch of glass beneath careful steps. The house—their house—was hardly more than a husk now. The glass dome where Fiona had once grown ivy and lilacs now lay shattered, jagged shards sparkling like bitter snow.

Miss Peregrine was the first to move.

“Watch your feet,” she said softly, kneeling to begin clearing a section of the floor near what had once been the library hearth.

The children followed her lead.

Bronwyn began lifting beams and bricks, setting aside anything that might be useful or salvageable. Claire brushed away glass fragments with the back of a torn blanket. Enoch knelt by the old piano, prying free a warped but still recognizable music box from under the debris.

“I can’t believe it,” Olive whispered, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. “It’s really gone.”

“We knew it might be,” Emma said gently, crouching beside her and placing a hand on her back. “But seeing it like this…”

“Still hurts,” Olive finished.

They worked in silence for a time, creating a small safe area in the center of what had once been the grand room. Some of the chairs were burned, others too broken to hold weight, but a few pieces survived: a battered armchair, the kitchen bench, the edge of a shelf that was mostly intact.

Millard—limping slightly—sat on the dusty step of what used to be the conservatory. “We should find a new place,” he said, his voice quiet. “Somewhere with a roof. Somewhere dry.”

“No,” Horace said immediately. “This was our home.”

“I agree,” said Olive, still clutching the scorched remains of a photo frame. “We can't just leave it. We grew up here.”

“But there’s no roof,” Enoch pointed out. “No kitchen, no beds. We’re not ghosts. We can’t haunt ruins.”

“We could rebuild,” Bronwyn offered, standing tall with her hands on her hips. “Piece by piece.”

Miss Peregrine watched them from the edge of the room. She picked up a burnt book—one of her own old ledgers—and turned its singed pages with care.

“There may not be time to rebuild,” she said softly. “And even if there were... we would never return it to what it once was. That loop is gone. The magic that preserved this place with it.”

“So what do we do?” Fiona asked. She knelt in a patch of dust where her garden had once bloomed, holding a cracked terracotta pot in her lap. “Where do we go?”

“We find somewhere new,” said Jacob. “Somewhere safe. Big enough for all of us. A house. Not just any house—one that can be a home.”

“But it won’t be this home,” Claire said.

“No,” Miss Peregrine agreed. “It won’t. But it could become one, in time. If we let it.”

Emma looked around the space. She moved toward the back wall, where the burnt remains of her bedroom were barely recognizable. She picked up a silver ring that had somehow survived. Her fingers closed around it.

“I’ll move,” she said. “If it means we can all be safe. If it means she gets a room again—” she nodded to Miss Peregrine “—with a door and a lamp and time to heal.”

One by one, others began to nod. Not everyone. Not right away. Horace stood in the corner, shoulders hunched. Claire’s lower lip trembled.

But they were listening.

Miss Peregrine stood and brushed the dust from her dress. “We’ll rest here for tonight,” she said. “What remains of it. But tomorrow... we look forward. Not back.”

She glanced around the ruins once more. Her eyes lingered on the scorched wallpaper, the cracked photographs, the crooked doorframe still clinging to the wall.

Then she turned away. As the sun dipped low behind the tangled trees, casting long shadows across the shattered stones, Fiona moved quietly among the ruins. With practiced hands, she gathered soft plants, long blades of grass, and sturdy leaves, weaving them together with slender vines to fashion makeshift tents and beds.

“We’ll need shelter for the night,” she said softly, her voice steady but gentle. “These won’t be perfect, but it will keep us warm and dry.”

Miss Peregrine nodded, grateful for the small comfort. The ruins might be broken, but here—together—they still found safety.

Fiona’s handiwork soon took shape: delicate canopies stretched above clusters of grass mats, cradling the children like fragile nests. She arranged them in little groups—Emma, Claire, and Bronwyn in one; Enoch, Jacob, and Horace near the old library hearth; others in quiet corners.

Miss Peregrine took the remains of the old couch, clearing it of debris as best she could. It was charred and mostly destroyed, but familiar, a small island of comfort amid the wreckage.

The children settled in as twilight deepened.

Bronwyn’s eyes drooped, her usual vivacity quieted by exhaustion. Millard lay curled beneath a leaf blanket, his knee still sore but soothed by Enoch’s careful ministrations. Olive hummed softly, a fragile melody that danced through the crumbling walls.

Dinner was simple. Jacob and Horace shared some dried fish they had caught on the way back, passing small portions to the younger children. Bronwyn and Olive helped Fiona prepare a humble soup of seaweed and kelp, boiling it over a small fire safely sheltered from the wind.

They ate in relative silence, the weight of the day pressing on their shoulders.

Afterward, Miss Peregrine moved from one sleeping spot to the next, kneeling to tuck each child gently beneath their leafy blankets.

She brushed stray hair from Emma’s face, whispered a quiet goodnight to Claire, and pressed a soft kiss to Bronwyn’s forehead.

At the edge of the ruins, she knelt beside the youngest, tracing a finger along their cheek, murmuring promises of safety and hope.

It took hours before Miss Peregrine finally allowed herself to rest.

Even then, her sleep was shallow and restless. Every creak, every whisper of wind stirred her alertness. The chance of someone approaching—friend or foe—pulled her back from the edge of dreams.

Each time, she rose and moved through the ruins, checking on every child, her heart hammering as she reassured herself that all was still.

Only when she was certain of their safety would she return to the broken couch, collapsing onto its worn cushions with a weary sigh.

Wrapped in the cold night air and the fragile peace of the ruined sanctuary, she closed her eyes.

But the weight of the day and the uncertainty of tomorrow lingered, heavy on her chest. The morning sun filtered weakly through the shattered roof, casting pale, fractured light onto the worn stones of their ruined home. Miss Peregrine sat on the tattered couch, her usual composure softened by exhaustion and pain. Her raven-black hair, loose and unbound for the first time in days, framed a face that bore the weariness of too much suffering. Her slender frame trembled slightly as she struggled to move her injured arm.

She looked up at Bronwyn and Olive woken up, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Girls… I need your help. My arm—it's still too weak. I can’t… I can’t change by myself yet.”

Bronwyn’s large eyes, bright with concern, met hers without hesitation. “Of course, Miss Peregrine. We’ll help you.”

Olive nodded in quiet agreement, stepping forward with gentle determination.

Bronwyn’s mind flickered briefly to the boat, to the moment she had seen Miss Peregrine change there, awkward and vulnerable, with Emma wrapping a cloth around her trembling body. At first, Bronwyn had been shocked, confused by the sight of their protector so exposed, so human. But she remembered how Emma had treated Miss Peregrine with nothing but respect and care.

Now, helping her here in their ruined sanctuary, Bronwyn felt a courage growing inside her—a sense that there was no shame in vulnerability, no weakness in needing help.

“Let’s start slowly,” Bronwyn said softly, her hands trembling a little as she reached for the edge of Miss Peregrine’s damp, heavy dress.

Miss Peregrine took a slow, steadying breath, bracing against the dull ache that pulsed from her shoulder down her arm. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Take your time.”

Together, Bronwyn and Olive worked carefully. Bronwyn lifted the hem of the dress while Olive eased the fabric gently over Miss Peregrine’s shoulder, mindful not to cause pain. Each movement was deliberate, slow, as though they were navigating a fragile treasure.

Bronwyn’s fingers brushed against cool skin, pale and marred by scratches and bruises. She looked up at Miss Peregrine’s face—stoic but tired—and felt her heart swell with admiration.

“Almost there,” Olive whispered, tugging the fabric carefully down and away.

Miss Peregrine closed her eyes for a moment, the vulnerability of the situation unspoken but understood between them. It was a moment of trust, a silent bond sealed by gentle hands.

Bronwyn found herself brushing a stray lock of hair from Miss Peregrine’s forehead, a tender gesture that surprised her with how natural it felt.

“There,” Bronwyn said quietly, “Now let’s get this clean dress on.”

Olive unfolded the soft, fresh fabric—a simple shift, worn but dry and comforting. Carefully, they helped Miss Peregrine raise her arms just enough, slipping the garment over her head and settling it gently on her shoulders.

Miss Peregrine’s good arm trembled as she adjusted the fabric herself, a small smile flickering at the corners of her mouth.

Bronwyn’s eyes glistened. “You’re very brave, Miss Peregrine.”

Miss Peregrine opened her eyes, meeting Bronwyn’s gaze. “So are you, Bronwyn. Bravery comes in many forms.”

The two shared a quiet moment, the weight of pain and exhaustion melted by the warmth of care.

Nearby, the other children moved with purpose, gathering the salvaged belongings. Claire led the way, lifting a cracked teacup and placing it carefully into a bundle of cloth. Emma and Jacob sorted through a pile of scorched books, while Horace gently carried a small music box—one of the few treasures left untouched.

Miss Peregrine sat back, her body lighter, comforted not only by the fresh clothes but by the love and trust in the room.

The morning stretched on, silent but filled with unspoken strength.

After their silent breakfast among the ruins, Miss Peregrine cleared her throat, her voice barely lifting above the rustling of wind through the broken rafters.

“Horace,” she said, managing a small smile, “Perhaps you could show us your dream. Like before.”

The children nodded. It had become a strange kind of ritual—Horace’s dreams often bizarre, sometimes beautiful, and occasionally, as Miss Peregrine feared, prophetic. But watching them together made it easier to carry the weight of what they saw.

Horace lay back gently, folding his gloved hands over his stomach as his eyes fluttered shut. Within seconds, the dream began to flicker above them, soft and glimmering like light caught in dew.

At first, the dream showed waves. Endless ocean, churning and foaming beneath a stormy sky.

Then, a figure emerged.

Wet, limping, and unmistakably alive.

Mr. Barron.

His hair slicked back, black coat heavy with seawater, he staggered onto a rocky shore—somewhere unknown—but he was alive. His sunken eyes gleamed with purpose. He dragged himself to a rusted train track, and the scene shifted.

A train. Barrels. Metal cases. Scientific instruments. Strange machines humming low and eerie.

Miss Peregrine sat upright, her breath caught halfway in her chest.

The dream zoomed inside the train car, where other men stood around glowing diagrams—some wearing long coats and goggles, others hunched over notebooks scrawled with formulae and anatomical sketches of hollows. The images moved too quickly to study in full, but what they implied was terrifying.

Not immortality.

Weaponization.

They weren’t trying to become immortal like before—they were creating hollows on purpose.

Controlling them.

Building an army.

Miss Peregrine stood abruptly, her eyes wide and glistening. “Stop,” she said, her voice sharp.

Horace twitched awake with a gasp, the dream evaporating into the air like mist in sunlight.

A thick silence followed.

Claire turned toward Miss Peregrine, her soft voice trembling. “Are you okay, Miss P?”

Miss Peregrine didn’t answer right away. Her body shook slightly, her lips parted as if grasping for the right words. Then, finally, she blinked and forced a tight smile, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes.

“I’m fine, Claire. Thank you.” Her voice was composed, but her hands trembled at her sides.

The children didn’t believe her, and she knew it.

Still, she turned to them, voice firmer this time. “We need to begin packing. We can’t stay long. Not here.”

Emma frowned. “But we just got back.”

“Yes,” Miss Peregrine nodded, “And we are all quite brave for coming back. But if Mr. Barron is alive—if he truly survived and others are following his ideas—then it is a risk to remain in a place he already knows. The loop is gone. We are exposed.”

“Will we come back?” Hugh asked quietly.

Miss Peregrine’s expression softened at that. “In time. When it’s safe. We’ll leave this house behind for now—but not forever. We’ll carry it in our hearts. And if the world allows it, we’ll return.”

She gave a small nod, then turned sharply. “Excuse me for a moment.”

Without another word, she strode across the ruined courtyard, the broken stones crunching softly underfoot, and disappeared into the half-collapsed library.

Inside, the library was quieter than the rest of the house. Dust floated in slow swirls in the shafts of light breaking through holes in the ceiling. The walls still smelled faintly of old paper and pipe smoke and her favorite tea.

Miss Peregrine closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her body shaking.

She pressed a hand to her mouth to stop her from hyperventilating.

The image of Mr. Barron, half-dead and crawling out of the sea, seared her mind. And those experiments—the diagrams of hollows under command—no, it was too much. It was her worst fear realized: that their enemies had not died with Mr Barron, but evolved.

Her back slid down the wall as she sank to the floor, folding her knees to her chest. For the first time in years, she allowed herself to feel the helplessness she often denied. She curled inward, not crying but trembling from the cold pressure of dread.

What would she tell the children if even she didn’t have answers?

What kind of headmistress could protect them from an enemy reborn in secret?

Still, after several long minutes, she lifted her head. Her hand smoothed her loose black hair back, and her jaw set.

She would find a way.

She always had.

Chapter Text

The air was heavy with a mix of determination and sorrow as the children moved quietly among the ruins of their home. Miss Peregrine’s voice guided them, calm but resolute.

“Pack only what we can carry."

Claire carefully wrapped the cracked teacup in soft cloth, while Emma gathered the remaining books, sorting them with care. Jacob and Enoch worked together, stacking the salvaged belongings onto makeshift carts and baskets.

Horace stroked the small music box gently, as if it were a fragile piece of their fading past.

Miss Peregrine moved slowly, still favoring her injured arm, her gaze lingering on familiar spots—the fireplace, the broken window, the overgrown garden where they had once laughed and played.

Once their belongings were packed, the group made their way down from the ruined sanctuary toward the small ferry at the edge of the island. The journey was quiet, each child lost in thought as the landscape blurred by the window.

Miss Peregrine sat near the back of the carriage, her eyes distant but watchful. She spoke softly to Fiona, who sat beside her.

“Fiona, when we arrive, I need you to grow as many vegetables and fruits as possible.”

Fiona nodded, curious. “For the trip?”

“No,” Miss Peregrine answered, “For the time we will stay in Edinburgh. We need to be prepared. We will be there at least a few days, maybe longer.”

Jacob glanced over, curiosity beat his nervousness. “Why Edinburgh?”

Miss Peregrine’s lips curved into a faint smile. “The loop in Edinburgh was created by my mentor. She was a powerful ymbryne who knew the dangers of exposure. She hid the loop deep within a dense forest—so even if someone knows the general location, the exact entrance remains elusive.”

Emma leaned forward, eyes bright. “That sounds safe. Hidden in the woods.”

“It is,” Miss Peregrine said, nodding. “But the journey from here will be long. The forest is vast, and the terrain challenging. We must be ready.”

She looked at each child in turn. “We will rest there, regroup, and plan our next steps carefully. This is not the end of our journey.”

As the ferry rumbled on toward the mainland, the children settled into the hum of travel, the promise of sanctuary offering a flicker of hope amid the uncertainty.

_____________________________________________________

The entrance to the forest loomed like a threshold into another world—massive trees rising like ancient sentinels, their trunks wide enough for five children to wrap their arms around. The branches formed a dense ceiling high above, muffling the sound of wind and birds, casting the forest in a hushed twilight even though it was still midafternoon. Sunlight slanted in through the canopy in gold-tinted shafts, making dust motes dance in the air.

The children stood in silence, gazing at the natural wonder before them.

“This is it,” Miss Peregrine said quietly. “The entrance to the Edinburgh loop. Deep within these woods.”

They stepped forward, their feet crunching over pine needles and damp leaves. The path was barely a path—twisting and overgrown, speckled with mossy stones and exposed roots that tugged at ankles. The farther they walked, the softer the ground became. After half an hour, their boots were heavy with mud and their socks soaked through. The air turned damper the deeper they went, cool mist curling around their calves.

At first, the forest had felt magical—like something out of a story. But that feeling faded as the hours dragged on.

Time became slippery in the woods. They couldn’t tell how long they had been walking. Maybe two hours? Maybe four? The trees all looked the same—tall, silent, and close together. There were no birds anymore. No animals. Just the sound of their own trudging footsteps and the occasional sigh from someone trying not to complain.

“My shoes feel like they’re full of soup,” Enoch muttered darkly, kicking at a patch of moss.

“I’m starving,” Claire whispered, her curls damp with mist. “Did we bring food?”

“We ate all of it on the train,” Emma replied, glancing at the others. “Remember the biscuits?”

They had forgotten. The train ride to the edge of the forest felt like a distant memory. The excitement had drained out of them, replaced by a dull ache in their limbs and a slow-growing doubt.

“We’re not lost, right?” Olive finally asked the question everyone was wondering. Her voice was soft, but even she sounded unsure.

“I don’t know,” said Bronwyn, frowning. Her arms, usually so full of strength, hung limply at her sides. “Everything looks the same. We could’ve been going in circles.”

Jacob slowed, peering around at the dense, silent forest. The trees seemed to press in tighter with each step. The path had thinned into little more than a suggestion. His stomach growled.

“No one said we’d have to hike through a haunted forest,” he mumbled.

Miss Peregrine said nothing. She walked slightly ahead of them, her pace slower than usual, her posture more guarded. She limped—barely noticeable at first, but it became clearer the longer they watched her. She didn’t complain. She didn’t ask for help. But she was hurting.

Finally, after what felt like a small eternity, they reached a clearing. It wasn’t large—just enough room for the light to fully touch the forest floor. At the far edge of it stood a crooked wooden post. Nailed to it was an old, hand-drawn map, its corners curled and peeling. The ink was faded, but still visible: a rough sketch of the loop’s location, like a whispered secret made visible.

Miss Peregrine halted in front of the post. The children dragged to a stop behind her, panting, covered in sweat and mud.

She let out a deep breath, then said, “Well… we’re here.”

The children looked around, blinking. There was nothing but trees.

“Here?” Enoch raised a brow. “Where’s here?”

Miss Peregrine turned to face them. “This is the entrance to the Edinburgh loop. My mentor, Miss Allister, created it. Before we go in… I should tell you something.”

She hesitated, her gaze sweeping over the tired faces of her wards.

“Miss Allister can be a little… particular. She values discipline and punctuality—deeply. She may seem strict at first. But… she’ll love all of you.”

She gave a small, weary smile. “She’s one of the finest ymbrynes I’ve ever known.”

The children didn’t respond right away. There was too much hunger and heaviness in their bones. Still, Jacob caught a flicker of something in Miss Peregrine’s face. Not quite relief. Not quite joy. Something more complicated.

Why didn’t she seem glad to be here?

She turned back to the path and stepped forward, passing the wooden post. A low, resonant sound—like a bell tolling under the earth—hummed through the air as she crossed. The invisible boundary of the loop. The children followed, shuffling behind her one by one.

Miss Peregrine’s limp worsened. The forest in the loop looked the same, but something had shifted. It was quieter. Older. As they walked, she stumbled slightly over a large knot of roots. Jacob reached forward without thinking and caught her elbow.

She steadied herself, then looked at him with a quiet gratitude. “Thank you, Jacob.”

They continued on for another half hour through the misty woods. And then—almost out of nowhere—the trees parted.

The forest opened into a hidden clearing, and the children stopped in their tracks.

Before them sat a small village of cottages, nestled together like a forgotten storybook illustration. Stone walls and moss-covered roofs, crooked chimneys and shuttered windows. Smoke drifted lazily from a few of them, curling into the air like ghosts. There was a garden nearby, and the faint scent of rosemary and peat.

The children stared, dumbfounded.

This... this quiet, hidden village in the middle of the Scottish woods… this was where Miss Peregrine had grown up?

Jacob looked at her again. She was standing still, gazing at the village with a strange expression—equal parts nostalgia and burden.

None of them had expected this. And none of them knew what was waiting behind those old stone doors. Miss Peregrine led them through the village square with slow, deliberate steps. The cottages looked like they’d been pulled out of a foggy dream—weathered stone, moss growing between the cracks, the faint scent of chimney smoke in the air. The largest of the cottages stood at the far end of the clearing, its windows darkened and its roof partially swallowed by ivy.

She approached the thick wooden door and knocked—three sharp, polite raps.

“Miss Allister?” she called, voice a little too steady. “It’s Alma. May we come in?”

They waited.

A full minute passed. It was the kind of minute that felt longer than it was. Emma shifted her weight. Olive clung to Bronwyn’s arm. Jacob stared at Miss Peregrine, who stood perfectly straight, her hands folded in front of her, her eyes fixed on the door as though trying not to blink.

Finally, the door creaked open.

A slim woman with short silver hair stepped into view. Her face was angular and precise, like it had been carved by someone who didn’t believe in softness. She wore a navy skirt suit, pressed to perfection, and a brooch in the shape of an owl pinned to her collar.

She looked Alma Peregrine up and down, her gaze not unkind but certainly sharp.

“My, my,” she said, her voice clipped with an Edinburgh accent. “Look who came back.”

Miss Peregrine dipped her head. “It’s good to see you again, Miss Allister.”

Miss Allister’s eyes narrowed slightly—then drifted past her, to the group of children huddled awkwardly behind.

Her expression changed.

“Oh!” she said, eyebrows raising, lips stretching into a smile that was just a touch too wide. “Hello! Hello, children! Welcome!”

The children flinched at the suddenness of it. Enoch raised a brow. Claire instinctively stepped closer to Hugh.

“Are you all… Alma’s—” she glanced sideways at Miss Peregrine, “—I mean, Miss Peregrine’s wards?”

There was a beat of silence before Emma stepped forward.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said with a nod. “Emma Bloom.”

One by one, the others introduced themselves.

“Millard Nullings.”

“Horace Somnusson.”

“Claire Densmore.”

“Bronwyn Bruntley.”

“Olive Abroholos Elephanta.”

“Jacob Portman,” Jacob added last, unsure what to do with his hands.

Miss Allister clapped her hands together with a surprising amount of energy. “Oh my goodness, Alma. Are you just going to keep these poor children out here in the cold? They look like they’ve been dragged through a bog! Look at those shoes. What have I taught you about proper presentation?”

The children shared glances.

Miss Peregrine didn’t respond right away. Her shoulders had tightened—just slightly—and she seemed to be standing even straighter now, if that were possible.

“Of course,” she said, voice soft. “Children, inside, please.”

Miss Allister stepped aside, ushering them through the doorway like they were long-lost grandchildren. “We’ll get you some tea. Maybe a bath. And we must talk all about what happened in Blackpool, Alma. I heard it was quite a fright for the ymbrynes. But not here in the cold, no, no—inside! Come in, come in!”

The children filtered in hesitantly. The cottage was warm, with a crackling fire in the hearth and the faint smell of earl grey and lavender polish. But the warmth didn’t quite make it into Miss Peregrine’s expression. Her face had gone still.

Jacob noticed it first. Then Emma. Then the others.

Miss Peregrine, who was usually composed but firm, elegant but capable, looked… off.

Uncomfortable.

She lingered in the doorway for a moment too long.

Emma leaned closer to Jacob and whispered, “She doesn’t want to be here.”

He nodded silently.

Miss Allister’s voice called from the sitting room. “Alma, do bring the tea, won’t you? And the biscuits? There’s a plate in the pantry.”

Miss Peregrine took a breath and stepped inside, her back still ramrod straight.

The children trailed after her, eyes flicking around the room. Everything in the cottage was neat to the point of obsession. The curtains were ironed. The armchairs were arranged in precise angles. Even the firewood was stacked in an exact triangle.

Bronwyn sat down heavily, the wooden floor creaking beneath her. “What kind of childhood did she have?” she whispered to Millard.

Millard, unusually quiet, just adjusted his glasses and shook his head.

Was this what she meant when she said Miss Allister was strict?

Was this why Miss Peregrine never talked about where she grew up?

Jacob sat near the window and glanced at her again. She was in the corner, pouring tea with perfect posture, answering Miss Allister’s sharp questions with clipped replies. But the knuckles of her hands had gone white from how tightly she gripped the teapot.

Something here wasn’t quite right.

And the children—tired, dirty, and confused—were beginning to wonder if they had stepped into a place far stranger than they had expected.

Chapter Text

Inside the main cottage, the sitting room smelled of dried lavender and pinewood. The tea was warm but slightly bitter, the way Ms. Allister always liked it. The children sat on worn sofas and mismatched armchairs while Ms. Peregrine perched stiffly on the edge of her seat, her back straight despite the way her shoulders trembled now and then. Emma sat beside her, one protective glance away. Jacob, ever observant, watched both ymbrynes closely.

Ms. Allister poured tea with flourish, her every movement deliberate and precise. "So," she said, her eyes scanning the room. "Blackpool. I heard quite the tale. Ymbrynes scattered, loops shattered. Hollows and those… things.”

Her voice lowered with disgust.

Miss Peregrine shifted in her seat. “Yes. We were lucky to escape. We—”

“We were on a boat,” Millard interjected, voice suddenly full of color as he forgot to hold back. “Miss Peregrine got hurt—protecting us. And then we floated for days, and we thought she—”

“She was unconscious for days,” Emma added quickly. “We didn’t think she’d wake up at all.”

Miss Peregrine's hand tightened on her teacup, and she cast a quick glance at Ms. Allister.

The elder ymbryne’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Floating at sea. Hm. And where was the loopkeeper of your island? The one who let the house burn?”

“We… we went to rescue Miss Peregrine,” Bronwyn said, rubbing the back of her neck. “We had to leave fast.”

“I see,” Ms. Allister replied. “And how long have the children gone without proper shoes? Or meals?”

“We hiked forever,” Enoch muttered under his breath. “And the ground sucked our shoes right in. I’ve still got muck in mine.”

Hugh lifted one foot for dramatic effect, showing the damp and dirt with a theatrical sigh. “Fiona almost cried when she stepped on a patch of squashed mushrooms. She said it was a ‘botanical tragedy.’”

Despite the heavy conversation, a ripple of laughter moved through the children.

Ms. Allister chuckled lightly. “Well, my my. What an ordeal.”

Miss Peregrine tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Jacob noticed her jaw tighten every time one of them spoke. And each time Ms. Allister turned to her, that tension worsened. There was a quiet, unspoken pressure in the air. As though Miss Peregrine was both guest and student again. Like she didn’t quite belong in her own skin here.

“She’s also prophetic,” Miss Peregrine said suddenly, her voice quiet. “Ms. Allister. She has visions. Less frequent than Horace’s, but… more accurate.”

“Oh?” Horace looked intrigued. “You knew Mr. Barron would return?”

“I suspected someone would,” Ms. Allister said, calmly sipping her tea. “There are always consequences when balance is broken. And those who fear death rarely stop at failure.”

A moment of silence followed.

“My my, Alma,” she continued, her tone soft but laced with a blade beneath. “Our job is to protect our children. You’ve done well… considering.”

Emma shifted, frowning. The room went still.

Then Ms. Allister stood, the warmth returning to her tone like flicking a switch. “Now, children. You should rest. Sleep in any of the cottages outside. Alma, dear—will you be returning to your old room, or shall we give it to young Emma?”

Before Miss Peregrine could answer, Emma protested. “She’s still recovering. That room—if it’s comfortable—it should be hers.”

Ms. Allister raised one eyebrow, lips curled into a half-smile. “The role of an ymbryne, Miss Bloom, is to ensure her wards’ comfort and safety. Don’t worry about Alma.”

Miss Peregrine’s expression faltered, just for a moment. Then she stood and nodded. “Emma may take it. I’ll find a quiet corner somewhere.”

Later, after the cottages had been assigned…

Miss Peregrine moved from cottage to cottage, tucking her wards in like she always had. Her hands trembled when she touched Claire’s curls and whispered goodnight. She brushed Fiona’s hair off her forehead and lingered for a moment longer than usual.

“You’re safe,” she whispered, mostly to herself.

Outside, Emma met up with Jacob and Enoch. The night air was brisk, scented with damp leaves and distant smoke.

“She’s acting strange,” Emma murmured. “Miss Peregrine. I don’t like it.”

“Ms. Allister’s the strange one,” Jacob said. “She keeps looking at Miss Peregrine like she’s… I don’t know. Like she is disappointed by anything Miss P does.”

“She treats her like a helpless kid,” Enoch said bluntly. “And I don’t like how Peregrine just takes it.”

The three of them made their way to Miss Peregrine’s old room, where Emma was supposed to sleep. It was neat, preserved, almost untouched—frozen in time like the rest of the loop. Framed photos hung on the walls: Alma in her teens with her hair tightly braided, eyes cold and serious. A carved bird-shaped paperweight rested on the desk. A single journal sat beneath it.

Emma hesitated.

“Maybe we shouldn’t.”

Jacob gave her a look. “You think she’d tell us anything if we asked?”

They opened the diary together. Page after page of careful, slanted handwriting. Miss Peregrine—young, focused, humorless even then. Rules, notes on transformations, loop theories. One margin read: Ms. Allister said my control is insufficient. Must not let her see me cry.

Emma bit her lip.

“Let’s stop,” she whispered. “She was just a girl.”

But they heard it then—the sound of voices, muffled but sharp. The window was slightly ajar.

They leaned in.

“…reckless, Alma. Irresponsible! Bringing children here in that state—”

“I had no choice,” Miss Peregrine’s voice, soft but steady. “We were hunted.”

“You let your loop be destroyed.”

“We survived.”

A pause.

“You always were too sentimental for your own good,” Ms. Allister spat.

There was no reply. Just the silence of someone enduring.

The three listened, rooted to the floor.

Then a quieter voice, trembling: “I did what I had to.”

“Then sleep in the barn, Alma,” Ms. Allister hissed. “Ymbrynes don’t need comfort. I told you a million times again and again. Do I need to repeat myself? Ymbrynes are ONLY created for the safety of these children. Not Your comfort nor your little adventures!”

The three of them—Emma, Jacob, and Enoch—had gone quiet the moment the muffled voices floated in through the cracked window. The air inside the old cottage room was still, thick, almost afraid to move. Emma’s hand was still resting on one of Miss Peregrine’s old photo albums. Jacob leaned in first, straining to hear.

“…You shouldn’t have come back here like this,” came Miss Allister’s voice, sharp as broken glass wrapped in velvet. “Dragging all those poor children across half the country like stray cats. Is that what being an ymbryne means to you now?”

Miss Peregrine’s voice followed, soft, low. “They’re not stray cats, Miss. They’re my wards. My family.”

“Family?” Miss Allister scoffed. “You’ve always been sentimental to a fault. You forget yourself, Alma. These children look to you for survival, not affection. That house you built for them—it burned, didn’t it?”

A pause.

“Yes,” Miss Peregrine said.

“And your arm?”

“…Not fully healed.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Miss Allister said. “Because you’re reckless. Still chasing hollowgasts and wights and foolish ideas of heroism. You’re not twenty anymore. So stop acting like it and close your mouth. You look like a blubbering idiot,”

Silence.

Then Miss Allister’s voice dropped lower. “You failed in Blackpool, Alma.”

Jacob heard Emma’s breath hitch beside him.

Miss Peregrine didn’t respond at first.

“I didn’t fail them.”

“You failed us all.” Miss Allister’s tone cracked—not out of cruelty, but something else. Disappointment, perhaps. Grief, poorly hidden. “Do you know how many ymbrynes we lost? How many loops collapsed while you were 'sacrificing yourself' for your pet hollow-slayer boy?”

Emma’s hand clenched. Enoch’s jaw tightened, but Jacob reached out to quiet them both.

“I was trying to protect the children,” Miss Peregrine replied, voice thinner now.

Miss Allister laughed bitterly. “You always think you’re the exception. I trained you better than this, Alma. You were supposed to rise above weakness. We are the last line of defense against monsters who crawl out of the dark. And instead I find you limping, your loop gone, your house in ashes—hiding behind wide eyes and a smile, pretending you still have control.”

Another long pause. The silence this time stretched so long Jacob thought the conversation had ended.

Then—

“I never wanted to be like you,” Miss Peregrine whispered.

The sound of a chair scraping. Miss Allister’s voice came quieter now, but no softer.

“You should have. I gave you everything. My time. My energy. My home. I made you strong. Without me, you would’ve been some fragile little girl with dreams and no teeth.”

Emma’s eyes widened at that. Even Jacob blinked.

There was a sharp breath on the other side of the window. A storm was rising.

“Oh? No response, I see. How many more children will you let suffer before you stop pretending love is enough to keep them safe?”

And then the words that followed were almost too quiet to catch.

Miss Peregrine said, “Don’t you dare speak about love like it’s something ugly.”

Miss Allister replied, voice like ice, “Love is weakness. Affection breeds error. And error gets people killed.” Emma, Jacob, and Enoch stared at one another, the old photo album now forgotten on the floor. None of them said a word for a long while.

Emma was the first to whisper. “She… she was trained like that?”

Jacob felt something tight in his chest. “No wonder she never talks about her past.”

“She grew up here,” Enoch muttered, nodding toward the window. “In this quiet little prison.”

Emma looked back down at the floor. “And she got out.”

Then, through the window, came the sharp, unmistakable crack of skin on skin.

A slap.

Not a metaphor. Not a whisper. A sound so sudden and violent, it seemed to knock the breath out of all three of them.

Jacob flinched.

They waited for Miss Peregrine’s voice. For any response.

But nothing came.

Only footsteps—slow, deliberate—walking away across wooden floorboards.

Then the slam of a door.

Silence.

They didn’t open the photo album again that night.

Emma woke before the sun.

Her chest was tight with panic, her throat dry. The images from her nightmare clung to her like damp wool: Miss Allister towering above Miss Peregrine, hand raised again, again, until the slap turned into something much worse. She saw blood. She saw Miss Peregrine crumpled on the wooden floor, unmoving. Emma had desperately screamed for help in her dream, but no one heard her.

It was still dark outside. A faint violet bled at the horizon—dawn wasn’t far off. She pulled on her coat and crept out of the cottage.

The barn smelled like hay and silence. She blinked. Miss Peregrine was already there, seated on a low stool near the open door, her spine straight as ever. A shawl draped loosely over her shoulders. Her face was turned toward the edge of the sky.

“Good morning, Emma,” she said gently, as though this were a perfectly ordinary hour.

Emma startled, almost retreated, but swallowed it down. “Didn’t expect anyone to be up.”

Miss Peregrine offered a half-smile. “I could say the same to you. Couldn’t sleep?”

Emma hesitated. “Nightmare.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Emma’s gaze fell to the floorboards. “Not really.”

A beat of silence passed. Then another. Miss Peregrine didn’t press.

They just sat, together, in the hush of early morning. Wind moved softly through the trees, rustling branches like secrets being exchanged far above them.

The sun breached the edge of the hills. Pink and gold spilled across the sky, turning the clouds into streaks of coral and peach.

“This place…” Miss Peregrine’s voice was quiet. “Say what you will of the woman, but the sunrises here are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”

Emma turned to look at her. Miss Peregrine’s profile was calm—but her cheek still held the faintest blush of red. A mark that hadn’t been there yesterday.

Emma didn’t speak of it.

Instead, she stood up slowly, stepped close, and wrapped her arms around her headmistress.

The hug was firm, wordless, and deeply felt.

Miss Peregrine didn’t flinch. She didn’t question it. She simply leaned into Emma’s shoulder, her eyes briefly closing.

Her face, though poised, revealed just enough to show the complicated storm she’d kept so carefully hidden from them all.

Then—

The barn door creaked loudly.

“Alma!” came Miss Allister’s sharp voice from the path. “Breakfast doesn’t make itself, you know.”

Miss Peregrine straightened quickly, the moment snapping like a taut string. “Of course,” she said evenly. “Coming.”

Miss Allister looked to Emma, eyes narrowing slightly before flicking to her hand, which was still warm from the hug. “Emma, dear, would you be a help and join Alma in the kitchen? I hear your particular talent is useful for tea water.”

Emma nodded once, tight-lipped. “Sure.”

She followed Miss Peregrine back inside, fire already sparking softly in her palm to heat the kettle. The kitchen was old, uneven, and cluttered with dried herbs and ceramic jars. Miss Peregrine worked in silence, chopping roots, stirring a pot of porridge. The smells of cinnamon and browned butter slowly filled the air.

One by one, the children shuffled in, drawn by the scent.

“Mmm, yum!” Hugh exclaimed as he plopped into a chair. “You never make breakfast enough, Miss Peregrine. You’re a natural.”

Miss Peregrine froze, just slightly. Her eyes darted to Miss Allister, who gave her a sidelong glance—something unreadable but sharp in her stare.

Oblivious, Hugh reached for a spoon. Emma, Jacob, and Enoch all exchanged a look across the table. None of them spoke.

As they finished eating, Miss Allister stood and clapped her hands once. “Children,” she announced, “you’ll be helping around the property today.”

She began assigning tasks without waiting for feedback:

“Fiona, the garden beds are in desperate need of attention. Grow what you can—we’ll need fresh food.”

“Bronwyn, there’s wood piled near the east path. Bring it into the shed, won’t you?”

“Hugh, the bees have been busy. Time you collected some honey.”

The others—Olive, Claire, Enoch, Horace, and Jacob—were given sweeping, dishwashing, polishing, and organizing duties, all in various corners of the house and grounds.

Emma was told to remain in the kitchen to help with the next meal.

Miss Allister didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. Her words carried the same weight as a thunderclap. The authority in her tone was a pressure you could feel in your ribs.

And all the while, Miss Peregrine never once contradicted her.

Not when Hugh made a joke. Not when Fiona dropped a plate. Not even when Olive asked quietly, “Why are we helping with chores when we’re supposed to be hiding?”

Emma tightened her jaw.

Something was wrong here.

And if Miss Peregrine couldn’t say it—then Emma would find out for her.

Chapter Text

The sun had long dipped behind the trees when Jacob, Emma, and Enoch finally collapsed onto the steps behind the cottage. Their shoulders sagged, their hair damp with sweat, dirt smudging their sleeves and fingernails. Jacob's arms ached from scrubbing the barn floors. Emma’s fingers were raw from polishing window panes and lifting firewood. Enoch, despite doing “light” duty, grumbled loudest of them all.

“I’m telling you, I think she makes up tasks just to watch us suffer,” Enoch muttered, flopping back dramatically against the railing. “Sweep the attic, mop the hallway, brush the leaves off the shack roof, and organize every spoon in the kitchen by shape and polish level? Who even notices the spoons?!”

Jacob exhaled, rubbing his eyes. “She didn’t give us a single break. Just when you think you’re done, she snaps her fingers and gives you something else.”

Emma leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “And she smiles while she does it. That weird, polite smile like she’s enjoying pretending she’s not working us into the ground.”

They fell into a short silence, the kind that made the aching in their backs settle heavier.

“We haven’t even had a second to look through the rest of Miss Peregrine’s things,” Jacob muttered. “That journal, her old letters, the trunk in the attic. None of it.”

“She’s keeping us too busy to breathe, let alone think,” Emma agreed, her voice low. “And speaking of—has anyone actually seen Miss Peregrine today?”

Jacob frowned. “Barely. Every time we catch a glimpse, she’s either flying out of the woods or being ordered off somewhere again. I don’t even think she’s been in the house more than twice.”

“And she shouldn’t be flying that much,” Emma added quickly, almost bitter. “Her wing’s still healing, you saw it yesterday. She’s wobbling just walking.”

That was when the back door creaked open behind them.

Miss Peregrine stepped through, swaying slightly.

She was barely recognizable. Her dark hair had come loose from its usual neat twist, and she wore nothing but her underdress, soaked through with mud and brambles. Her bare feet left small prints of forest muck behind her. Her arms hung at her sides, trembling.

Jacob was on his feet first, catching her elbow before she stumbled.

Emma rushed to her other side. “Miss Peregrine, are you alright?”

Her eyes were glassy. She blinked as if they were underwater.

“I just need a moment,” she said faintly. “Just a moment.”

They helped her to her room—her old room—and guided her down onto the bed.

Emma pulled a blanket gently over her legs.

Miss Peregrine gave them both a tired, grateful smile. “Thank you,” she whispered. And within seconds, she was asleep.

Her breathing was shallow. Her hands twitched slightly, like her body was still trying to respond to commands even in her dreams.

Jacob brushed a damp strand of hair from her cheek.

Then—

“Alma?” came Miss Allister’s sharp call from the hall. “Alma, I have one more task for you—where have you gone?”

Jacob’s jaw tightened. Enoch, standing in the doorway, scowled.

Emma stood up.

She stepped outside, shutting the door gently behind her. “She’s asleep,” she said as she faced Miss Allister in the hallway. “I—I can do it. I can do whatever you need.”

Miss Allister raised an eyebrow, a coy expression curling her mouth. “That’s very noble of you, Emma. But no. These tasks are for Alma.”

Emma flinched. “But she’s—she’s clearly exhausted—”

“Yes.” Miss Allister smiled wider. “That’s the point. These aren’t punishments. These are correctives. I am simply encouraging her to be a better ymbryn. One who remembers what her perpose in this world is.”

Emma’s blood ran cold.

Behind her, she could hear the faint creak of floorboards.

Miss Peregrine had gotten up.

Still bleary-eyed, still swaying slightly—yet she walked past them without a word. Not even a glance. Her hands were clenched. Her back was hunched. Her bare arms were streaked with fading bruises and dried dirt.

She followed Miss Allister silently down the corridor and out the front door.

None of them tried to stop her.

They couldn’t.

Not yet.

But the quiet horror settled deeper in all three of them as they returned to the back steps in silence.

“She’s breaking her,” Emma finally said. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Piece by piece.”

“And she’s letting it happen,” Enoch added grimly.

Jacob didn’t respond. He was too busy watching the woods where Miss Peregrine had disappeared again.

He knew this couldn’t go on.

They had to do something.

And soon.

Chapter Text

The attic was stuffy, full of moth-bitten linens and cracked trunks that reeked of dust and time. Jacob sneezed the moment they stepped in.

“You said this was a two-person job,” Enoch muttered, swatting a cobweb out of his hair. “This is a five-person crime scene.”

“I had to say something to get us in here,” Jacob whispered. “Besides, we’ll pretend we’re organizing and dusting if she checks. Just keep an eye on the stairs.”

He shoved an old trunk open with the heel of his boot, sending a waft of dust into the air like ash. Enoch leaned in, arms crossed, skeptical. But when Jacob pulled out a stack of yellowed newspaper clippings tied together with string, Enoch fell quiet.

The first headline read:

“Fifteen-Year-Old Girl Found at Clifftop Edge – Saved Just in Time.”

Another:

“Local Orphan Refuses to Speak After Being Pulled from River.”

And another:

“Girl Found Wandering Woods at Dawn – Marks on Arms Consistent With Sharp Thorns or Self-Harm.”

Dozens. Some had photos, grainy black-and-white smudges that still showed a familiar pair of dark eyes under thick bangs.

Jacob stared.

“Is that…” Enoch started.

He didn’t need to finish.

Jacob flipped through a few more. Many were clippings from small local publications, different towns, different dates—but always the same child. Sometimes named Alma. Sometimes just “the orphan girl.”

“I don’t understand,” Jacob muttered. “She would’ve been... what, fourteen? fifteen?”

Enoch knelt beside him, brushing aside old scarves and cracked books until his hand hit something harder: a diary.

Then another.

And another.

All lined up and hidden beneath a false bottom panel of the chest.

Enoch opened the top one. It was written in elegant cursive, young but meticulous. A girl trying very hard to sound older than she was.

Today I made breakfast for everyone again. Miss Allister told me my eggs were too dry. Said a real ymbryn should never do a sloppy job. I told her I’m trying. She said trying isn’t good enough.

None of the others came down until hours later. They smiled at me but didn’t sit with me. I think they’re scared of Miss Allister too. But she likes them more, I think. Because they’re normal.

She says I should be alone anyway. To focus.

Enoch’s jaw clenched. He turned the page.

I asked if I could rest today. She said I don’t need rest if I want to be great. She says pain is what turns a ymbryn into something worthy. I told her I hurt all the time. She told me to stop complaining.

I watched the sunrise from the barn again. It’s beautiful. The others won’t wake for hours. But I like it up there. I can cry without being seen.

Jacob felt a lump rise in his throat.

He took the next diary, flipping pages at random.

I’m scared of turning into her.

But what if she’s right? What if this is what I’m meant to become? Cold. Alone. Obedient.

Enoch abruptly closed the book.

He rubbed at his eyes furiously. “It’s not fair.”

Jacob sat back, slowly piecing it all together. “She trained Alma by… isolating her. Working her until she broke. And calling it a gift.”

“Training,” Enoch said bitterly. “She tortured her.”

He picked up a final note tucked into one of the books—an old, folded scrap. The ink was faded.

She says I was born for this. I think I was born to be alone.

Neither of them said anything for a long time.

Eventually, Enoch cleared his throat. “Don’t get me wrong—I’d usually vote yes on a confrontational approach. A classic ‘march down the stairs and punch someone in the face’ sort of thing.”

Jacob glanced at him.

Enoch gave a weak smile. “But not this time. Not yet. Not until we talk to Emma.”

“You’re thinking what I’m thinking,” Jacob said quietly. “She’s the most levelheaded out of all of us.”

“And she cares about Miss Peregrine,” Enoch added.

Jacob hesitated at that but didn’t argue.

Enoch sighed, resting his head against the wall. “If we tell Miss Peregrine too soon… and she’s not ready to hear it… it could really push her over the edge.”

Jacob nodded slowly, holding one of the diaries like it might vanish if he let go. “Let’s talk to Emma tonight. Just the three of us.”

He didn’t say what they were both thinking.

They just hoped Miss Peregrine would still be herself long enough for them to save her.

It was near midnight by the time the three of them met under the old willow behind the farthest cottage. The stars were sharp in the sky, unusually clear, like someone had washed the heavens clean just for tonight. Jacob sat cross-legged on the blanket they’d spread out on the grass, the pages of one of Miss Peregrine’s old journals clutched in his lap.

Emma held a lantern low between them. Its glow was soft and golden against her freckled skin, but the light didn’t reach the far edge of her frown.

“So,” she said, “this is real.”

Jacob nodded. “It’s all hers. The clippings, the diaries… everything.”

“And Miss Allister did that to her?” she asked. “All of it?”

Enoch, still hugging his knees to his chest, gave a short, bitter laugh. “She raised Miss like she was preparing a soldier, not a child. Didn’t even let her be a person. Just another ymbryn in training born for the purpose.”

Emma looked down. Her lips trembled, but she pressed them into a hard line.

They sat in silence for a while, save for the chirp of cicadas and the occasional rustle of wind through the grass.

Then Jacob said, “So what do we do now? Do we tell her we know? Or do we leave it?”

“She’s already barely standing,” Emma whispered. “You saw her. The way she collapsed in the kitchen today, the way she looked through us like she didn’t even recognize where she was—”

“She’s fading,” Jacob murmured. “Fast.”

“If we don’t tell her,” Enoch said, “we’re leaving her to rot in this. If we don't separate Ms allister and Miss Peregrine… we might break her entirely.”

They all stared at the grass, lost in the weight of a choice that felt impossible.

A shadow moved from the edge of the trees.

None of them heard footsteps. Not a rustle of fabric or a crack of twig. Just a quiet presence.

Miss Peregrine.

She stepped out from the gloom and slowly sat beside them on the grass, silent and gentle, as if she’d always been part of the circle. Her hair was loose tonight, her usual pins gone, and she wore a robe over her black nightdress, stained faintly at the hem with dried mud and crushed petals.

The three of them froze.

No one breathed.

Had she heard everything?

Her eyes were on the sky, unreadable.

Then, in a voice so soft it might’ve been mistaken for the wind, she said:

“When was the last time any of you looked at the sky? Really Studied the way the sky is organized.”

They exchanged uncertain glances but said nothing.

Miss Peregrine continued, still not looking at them.

“Look at how peaceful it is. How still. How effortless.”

Jacob followed her gaze up. The stars winked like ancient eyes, quiet and removed from the chaos below.

Then she said, “Now imagine what could happen if something came to ruin that peace.”

Slowly, she turned her head to face them. Her face was pale, but calm. Her smile, when it came, was knowing—and so unbearably sad it hurt to see.

“If something or someone were to disturb that quiet,” she said, “the first ones to bleed and suffer the consequences are always the young.”

Emma let out a quiet breath. Enoch’s mouth fell open, but he said nothing.

“Young always pay the price,” Miss Peregrine whispered. “For the storms that came before them. For the monsters they never invited in.”

No one dared move.

Then, slowly, Miss Peregrine pushed herself to her feet. Her joints cracked as she stood and she dusted the grass from her skirt with her usual poise. But even that looked tired tonight.

“I believe it is for the best to leave the sky alone. Goodnight, boys,” she said softly.

She turned to Emma, and with a mother’s warmth returned for a brief flicker of a second, she kissed her on the forehead.

“Rest well, love.”

And just like that, she walked back to the cottage, lantern light swallowing her shadow as the door shut gently behind her.

The moment she disappeared, the night felt heavier.

Enoch exhaled. “What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know,” Jacob muttered. “But it sounded like she knew exactly what we were talking about.”

Emma stared at the empty doorway where Miss Peregrine had vanished.

“She’s telling us something,” she said. “She just doesn’t know how to say it.”

“So she’s hoping we’ll hear it anyway,” Jacob added.

The three of them looked up at the stars.

And for the first time that day, they were too afraid to feel comforted by how quiet it all was.

The sun spilled golden warmth across the field, the kind of rare clear morning that begged for laughter, for books in laps and juice-stained fingers and wildflowers braided into hair. Miss Peregrine had arranged the children in a semi-circle on the grass, her long skirts folded neatly beneath her as she sat with her spine straight, a chalkboard balanced on a crate behind her.

Claire was giggling as Fiona wove tiny violets into her curls. Hugh was trying to explain insect anatomy, but Claire kept interrupting him to draw little wings on the paper with too much glitter.

Miss Peregrine smiled as she corrected a pronunciation. Her voice was gentle, even melodic. She complimented Hugh’s diagrams. She clapped once, lightly, when Fiona explained how moss retained moisture. It looked, from a distance, like nothing had changed.

To the younger ones, maybe nothing had.

But from the tree line, where Emma leaned against a sun-warmed fence post with Jacob and Enoch, it was obvious.

“She’s shaking,” Enoch said flatly.

Jacob squinted. “Her hands?”

“Her whole body,” Enoch muttered. “You can see it. She’s barely holding the chalk.”

Jacob watched her more closely. Miss Peregrine’s shoulders sagged every time she thought no one was looking. Her smiles never reached her eyes. And sometimes—just for a flicker—her eyes glazed over completely, like she wasn’t seeing the kids in front of her at all, but something far away. Something horrible.

“She’s not okay,” Emma said under her breath. “She’s trying so hard. Like she thinks if she keeps smiling, none of us will notice.”

“Claire’s looking at her like she’s the sun,” Jacob said. “She can’t break in front of them.”

Then Enoch stiffened.

“Don't look up fast. But glance up to the window, now.”

Jacob followed his gaze up to the main house window. Miss Allister was there, watching from behind the glass. Her arms were crossed, her expression unreadable—until her eyes locked with Enoch’s.

Her face shifted in an instant. A slow smile. Eyes softened. A nod, warm and approving. Almost motherly.

Enoch narrowed his eyes, unmoving.

And then—

Miss Peregrine glanced up.

Her eyes found Enoch. Just for a second.

A subtle shake of her head.

Look away.

Enoch did.

But his chest burned.

Later, after the lesson, Miss Peregrine stood and took Fiona’s hand to help her to her feet. Her posture looked steady, but only just. Jacob noticed the way she hesitated when she turned, just a millisecond of sway, a blink of lost focus. Emma pretended to tie her boot tighter to give Miss Peregrine a moment to sit again, but Miss Peregrine waved her off with a smile and a quiet, “We must keep moving, Ms.Bloom. We do not wish to attract any attention from monsters, as you can recall.”

And keep moving they did.

That’s when the orders started coming in again.

Miss Allister’s voice rang down from the second floor window. She had a list. A full itinerary. Every fifteen minutes accounted for.

First, it was sweeping the main path—again, though it had been done yesterday.

Then sorting the herb jars by expiration date—most didn’t have one.

Then, the barn.

The barn.

It hadn’t housed animals in years, not since Miss Peregrine was young. The structure still carried the smell of wildflower and dust in its bones.

“Why the hell are we cleaning that?” Enoch whispered as they were handed buckets and brushes.

Jacob looked toward the tree line. “Hollows could be in the woods, and she wants us scrubbing barn doors?”

Emma was staring at Miss Peregrine again. Their mentor was dragging a mop slowly across the floor, too slowly. She didn’t even seem to realize it wasn’t wet.

“She’s not just tired,” Emma said. “She’s running on nothing. This isn’t about keeping us busy anymore. It’s about controlling her.”

Jacob looked back toward the house.

Miss Allister was no longer in the window.

But the door to her study was cracked open.

And for the first time since the attic discovery, Jacob felt the hair rise on the back of his neck—not at the memory of hollows and their experimentation, but at the quiet, creeping certainty that Miss Allister was preparing something.

And whatever it was, it wasn’t meant for their safety.

It was meant to keep Miss Peregrine quiet.

Forever.

Chapter Text

The morning passed quietly, deceptively so. Sunlight dappled the canopy, the forest alive with birdsong and the occasional gust of wind weaving through the trees.

“Fiona and Bronwyn,” Miss Allister called from the porch, arms crossed, clipboard in hand. “Be dears and fetch more firewood. We’ll be needing extra tonight.”

Bronwyn nodded immediately, already pulling on her boots. Fiona smiled and gave a small nod, brushing a leaf from her shoulder before following her friend toward the woods.

No one thought twice about it.

By noon, Bronwyn returned alone, a huge stack of wood balanced easily in her arms.

“Where’s Fiona?” Emma asked, glancing up from the garden bed she was kneeling in.

Bronwyn looked back toward the woods and shrugged. “She said she forgot something deeper in. She told me to go ahead, that she’d be back by supper.”

Supper came.

Fiona didn’t.

The clock struck five thirty, casting long golden shadows across the clearing, and the worry that had been whispering in the back of their minds all day turned sharp.

“She’s never late,” Emma muttered, pacing just outside the door. “She lives by the rhythm of things. Plants, light, time—it’s who she is. She wouldn’t just forget supper.”

Miss Peregrine had been quiet through most of the meal, hardly touching her food. When Bronwyn’s chair remained empty, her hands trembled slightly on the tablecloth.

“I’ll go look for her,” she said suddenly, pushing back her chair.

Miss Allister’s voice cut clean through the tension. “It’s far too early for that, Alma. It’s only five-thirty. She could be in the garden or up a tree or tending to a patch of moss and lost track of time.”

Emma stood. “She wouldn’t.”

Miss Allister raised a brow. “Children do strange things when they're given too much freedom.”

Miss Peregrine didn’t respond. She sat, still and pale.

But when the sun sank and the stars blinked to life overhead, the air in the cottage grew unbearably heavy. At 8:00, flashlights were handed out. Emma, Jacob, and Enoch led one group, while Hugh and Claire held hands and followed behind Miss Peregrine.

The forest was a blur of shifting shadows and broken twigs.

“Fiona!” Miss Peregrine shouted, voice raw and breaking. “Fiona, please!”

Enoch scanned the trees with a narrowed gaze. “No signs of broken branches. No tracks. It’s like she vanished.”

Emma was sobbing, barely able to keep her flashlight steady between trudging through the forest and wiping her tears. “She wouldn’t just wander off like this. Something happened to her. I know it!”

“I’ll head back to the house,” Miss Allister called after them, her voice calm. “If she returns, she’ll need someone here.”

That struck Jacob as strange, but he said nothing.

They searched for nearly two hours.

By the time midnight neared, even the bravest were shaking. Claire was crying quietly into Olive’s sleeve. Bronwyn’s hands were clenched so tight, her knuckles had gone white.

Miss Peregrine’s voice cracked with every shout. Her shawl hung lopsided, her hair unpinned and blowing in the wind.

Then finally, she stopped.

She turned to them with hollow eyes and said, “Children. It’s time to go back.”

They didn’t argue.

One by one, they trudged back through the trees, defeated.

The porchlight was on. Ms Allister was standing next to someone drinking tea.

She was there. Miss Peregrine stood frozen at the threshold, the open door casting her in dim moonlight. Her shadow stretched long across the floor, shoulders still heaving from the hours of calling Fiona’s name through the woods. Her hair, once immaculately pinned, had fallen loose around her pale face, and the wind had tugged her shawl crooked. Her boots were caked in mud.

Her gaze locked onto Fiona—sitting cross-legged on the armchair by the fire, cheeks flushed from the warmth, a porcelain teacup in her hands.

“Oh! Miss Peregrine,” Fiona said cheerfully, clearly oblivious to the hysteria she’d caused. “I’m sorry I worried you. I fell asleep by the moss patch near the river, and by the time I woke up, it was too dark to find my way. I figured I’d get more lost if I wandered around, so I came back carefully. Miss Allister found me and gave me tea.”

Miss Peregrine didn’t speak.

She blinked slowly. Once. Twice. Her mouth opened slightly, as though forming a reply—but no sound came. Her eyes dropped to the teacup in Fiona’s hands, then drifted back up to her face, studying it, as though trying to assure herself the girl was real. Alive. Unharmed.

“That’s… that’s wonderful, Fiona,” she finally said. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

She took a small step forward.

Then another.

Her body seemed to tremble as though each step cost her something she didn’t have to give. Her hand drifted up to her chest, clutching just over her heart. Her skin had lost all colour. Even her lips had gone slightly dry and grey. The tension in her jaw had not released—in fact, it only tightened, her teeth clenching like she was trying to keep herself upright through sheer will.

Then—her shoulders fell.

She let out a long, thin exhale, a ragged breath like a final release of everything she’d held in for days, weeks, maybe longer.

And she collapsed.

There was no warning. No stumble or catch. Just a sudden, silent drop—like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

The sickening thud of her body hitting the wooden floor echoed through the room. Her head struck the edge of the rug, bouncing slightly before going still. Her arms were splayed awkwardly. Her legs bent beneath her like they no longer knew how to hold her.

“MISS PEREGRINE!” Bronwyn screamed, her voice high and cracking.

Claire shrieked and clutched Olive’s arm in terror.

Emma was frozen for a split second, eyes wide and uncomprehending. Then her instincts kicked in, and she rushed forward, slipping to her knees beside Miss Peregrine.

“Miss Peregrine—Miss Peregrine, please—” she cried, patting her cheek gently, then more urgently. “Wake up, please, please, wake up!”

“She fainted,” Jacob said hoarsely, dropping beside her. “She just… she fainted—”

“No,” Emma said quickly, her voice frantic. “She doesn’t faint. She never faints. She’s—she’s always the, she—she’s not supposed to—”

“She needs to lie down,” said Enoch, suddenly there behind them, his voice low but firm. “Bronwyn, help me lift her—carefully.”

Bronwyn, wide-eyed and visibly shaking, moved immediately. She knelt at Miss Peregrine’s side and gently slipped her arms beneath her mentor’s shoulders.

“I’ve got her legs,” Enoch muttered. “Jacob, clear the hall.”

The other children stood frozen, clinging to one another, their expressions pale and hollow. Claire was trembling so hard she could barely stand. Olive had tears spilling down her cheeks, even as she whispered, “She’ll be okay. She has to be okay.”

Millard hovered unseen, but his voice floated out shakily: “I’ll—I’ll run ahead and turn down the covers in her bed.”

Enoch and Bronwyn carried Miss Peregrine down the hall, slow and steady, as though any jostle might break her. Emma followed close behind, holding the lamp high to light their way, her lips moving silently in prayer—or maybe pleading.

In the main room, Fiona had set her teacup down.

She was still seated, blinking with a stunned sort of guilt. “I—I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she said softly. “I thought she’d be glad I was back.”

No one answered.

Even Jacob, who usually rushed to fill silences, said nothing.

Miss Allister, seated near the fire, had remained calm through it all. Too calm.

She stood, brushed off her skirt, and said gently, “Poor Alma. She’s probably exhausted from the move. That’s all.”

Then she turned toward the kitchen, her heels clicking softly on the floorboards.

What no one saw—what none of the children caught as they filed out behind the stretchered Peregrine—was the faint smirk tugging at the corner of Miss Allister’s mouth.

Her eyes glinted.

Not with sorrow.

But something colder.

They had laid Miss Peregrine gently into the old bed in the cottage’s sunroom—the only room with wide enough space and windows to watch the moon. The bed creaked under her weight, her small frame swaddled in blankets, her hair brushed back from her face by Emma’s trembling hands.

The windows were cracked open for air, but the chill of night seeped in slowly, settling into their bones.

She hadn't stirred. Not once.

Emma sat closest. Cross-legged on the edge of the bed, she hadn’t moved in hours. Her hand rested over Miss Peregrine’s, unmoving, like she could lend her pulse to her.

Her expression was unreadable. Not calm—just... still. Set. Too old for her age. The golden curls around her face cast long shadows in the lamplight. She stared at Miss Peregrine’s pale face with an intensity that looked more like silent fury than sadness.

Jacob was on the floor beside her, back against the bedframe, legs drawn up to his chest. His jacket was draped over Emma’s shoulders, but he didn’t seem to notice the cold himself. He kept stealing glances at her, at Miss Peregrine, then back at the wall. His jaw was clenched tight, like he was biting back something—words, tears, maybe both.

Enoch sat by the foot of the bed, arms crossed, his long coat half buttoned, half forgotten. He was staring too, but not with shock. His expression was cold, calculating, almost furious in its control. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

“She needs rest,” he had said earlier, in a voice with more steel than concern. “And none of you pacing around is helping.”

But now he was here. And he hadn't left either.

Claire lay curled on a small armchair nearby, clutching her teddy bear to her chest, two of her mouths sucking in short, shallow breaths, trying to stifle the sobs. Olive sat beside her, rubbing her back and whispering over and over, “She’ll be okay. She always is. She always is.”

Bronwyn sat on the floor just beside Miss Peregrine’s bed, knees pressed to the wood, fingers laced tightly like she was praying—except she wasn't speaking aloud. Her lips moved occasionally, but no words escaped. She was crying again, quietly this time, so she wouldn't scare the others.

Millard was invisible somewhere in the room, but they could hear the soft sound of paper turning—his notebook. Even now, he was documenting everything. Maybe it brought him comfort. Maybe he just didn’t know what else to do.

Hugh stood at the windowsill, his bees unusually still under his coat. One had even crawled out and was perched on his hand, unmoving, like it understood this wasn’t the time to buzz.

Drizzle clung to the outside glass like condensation. The world was quiet except for the crackle of a fire and the soft breathing—or crying—of children who had never been this afraid.

No one spoke much after the first hour.

When they had carried her in, when her body was still limp and her pulse shallow, Bronwyn had cried out, “She’s not waking up, why isn’t she waking up—”

Emma had shut that down fast. “She will. Don’t say things like that.”

But now it was nearing 3am, and Miss Peregrine still hadn’t opened her eyes.

Someone had lit candles in the corners of the room, their light flickering in and out like weak stars. The air smelled of wax and damp wool and the faint remnants of the chamomile tea Fiona had brought in for her earlier.

Fiona herself hadn’t come into the room. Not yet. She had stayed outside, alone in the hallway, guilt written plainly across her freckled face. Every few minutes, she poked her head in—but Emma hadn’t said anything to her. Neither had Jacob. And Enoch had only spared her a brief, cold glance.

She couldn’t bring herself to step all the way in.

“Maybe she’s just sleeping,” Olive whispered into Claire’s hair. “Just sleeping for real this time. She’ll wake up soon and tell us all to clean our shoes or study Latin or not sit too close to the fire.”

Claire hiccuped and nodded into her chest.

Enoch let out a long breath through his nose, more scoff than sigh, but even he didn’t say anything sharp.

Because the truth was—they were all thinking the same thing.

Miss Peregrine never wants to let them see her break.

She never stumbled, never faltered, tried never to cry in front of them. She had always been the pillar. The constant. The immovable force of safety in their strange and dangerous lives.

And tonight, that pillar had crumbled—right in front of their eyes.

She had collapsed like a worn-out ghost, and the sound of her fall was still echoing in their ears.

Jacob rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand and whispered, “I hate this.”

Emma didn’t respond.

She just kept holding Miss Peregrine’s hand, like her grip alone could pull her back from wherever she’d gone.

A creak in the floorboard made them all glance up.

Miss Allister stood in the doorway, shadowed by the flickering hallway lamp. She smiled softly.

“How is she?”

Emma stood immediately, shielding the bed with her body before she even knew what she was doing. “She’s fine,” she said shortly.

“Do let me know if she wakes,” Miss Allister said, voice smooth. “It’s probably best not to crowd her.”

Then she vanished again.

The children didn’t say anything until her footsteps were gone.

Jacob let out a long breath. “Why do I feel like I’m going to throw up every time she enters the room?”

Enoch looked toward the door. “Because you have good instincts.”

That night, none of them went back to their rooms.

They lay down wherever there was space. On the rug, beside the hearth, curled on armchairs or pressed close to the bed. Bronwyn took the floor beside the headboard, hugging a pillow and humming broken lullabies under her breath.

Jacob eventually leaned back against the mattress and closed his eyes.

Emma sat with her head bowed beside Miss Peregrine, fingers still wrapped around hers, and in that moment, it looked like she was praying, too.

But not for miracles.

For strength.

For answers.

For the woman who had raised them all from fear.

And in the corner of the room, unseen, a single candle flickered twice and died.

Miss Peregrine stirred with a breath so soft it barely moved the air. Her eyelids fluttered, lashes brushing her cheeks like falling feathers. The ceiling above her slowly came into focus—low, wooden beams, darkened by age. The scent of beeswax and smoke hung in the stillness.

She blinked again.

Her body ached in places she hadn’t realized could ache. Her mouth was dry, her head heavy and swimming, like her mind had been dragged up from deep underwater and wasn’t sure it wanted to stay above the surface.

There was warmth in her right hand.

Emma.

The girl had fallen asleep with her fingers laced through Miss Peregrine’s, her head resting lightly against the bedframe, golden hair haloed in the glow of a dying candle nearby. She looked… calm. Serene, even. The tension that usually framed her brow was gone, and for a moment, Miss Peregrine allowed herself the silent grace of watching her sleep.

She looked so young like this. So unburdened.

Alma twisted her wrist slightly, slow enough not to wake her. Her joints protested. Her ribs ached sharply when she moved to sit up, and her breath caught in her throat—but she did not make a sound.

The room was dim, the early grey light of morning slipping between the curtains.

All around the room, her children lay scattered like tiny guardians. Olive was curled up in a chair, her cheek pressed to the armrest. Hugh was at the window, knees tucked to his chest. Bronwyn had a blanket over her lap, one hand still resting near Miss Peregrine’s foot. Enoch sat half-upright against a wall, eyes closed, but brows furrowed like he’d been frowning even in his sleep.

Each of them had drifted off in the same room as her. They hadn’t left her alone.

Her throat tightened.

She barely had time to take a breath before the soft creak of the floorboards behind her sent a warning chill up her spine.

She didn’t need to turn.

“Alma,” came the low voice from the doorway, syrupy sweet. “You woke up.”

Miss Peregrine turned just enough to see Miss Allister stepping inside, arms folded, long skirt whispering against the wooden floor. Her hair was pinned perfectly, not a strand out of place. She looked like someone coming to offer warm tea.

But her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“Let’s whisper,” she continued, her voice lilting slightly as she tilted her head. “Since your children are still sleeping so soundly.”

Miss Peregrine did not answer right away.

She straightened as best she could, her back stiff and breath shallow. “Yes,” she said harshly. Her voice cracked like dry leaves. “Let’s.”

Miss Allister walked closer, her shoes making no sound. “You gave us quite a scare,” she said with a soft laugh, placing a hand on the edge of the bed as if she belonged there. “Collapsed in the field like a puppet with its strings cut. It was all rather dramatic.”

Alma’s eyes flicked to the children. No one stirred.

“You’ve been under a lot of strain,” Miss Allister continued, voice cooing now, like a mother to a child. “You can’t possibly be expected to do it all. Especially not with the Loop gone and your body in such… drastic decline.”

Miss Peregrine said nothing.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Allister added, her smile stretching just a little wider. “I’m not your enemy, Alma. Quite the opposite. I’m the only one who sees how fragile you’ve become.”

She leaned in, lowering her voice to a hush that only Alma could hear.

“You’ve been putting on a show for them. Teaching them on the grass. Smiling like it doesn’t cost you everything to not break in front of your children. I suppose that’s noble, in a way. Or pathetic.”

Alma’s eyes did not flinch.

“If you truly loved them,” Miss Allister whispered, “you would begin thinking about what happens when you’re no longer strong enough to protect them. Before they realize it themselves.”

A silence fell over the room. The faint wind moved the curtains. A floorboard groaned under one of the children shifting slightly in their sleep.

Miss Peregrine’s voice was quiet, but steady now. “Get out of this room.”

Miss Allister didn’t move.

“I won’t say it again,” Alma added, louder, but not enough to wake the others. “You’re not welcome here.”

Miss Allister slowly drew herself upright, that strange serenity never leaving her face.

She gave a shallow bow. “Of course. Rest well, Alma. Don’t forget… they’re watching. And so am I.”

With that, she glided out of the room like a shadow fleeing dawn.

Miss Peregrine exhaled, the weight in her chest doubling now that she was alone again—but only for a moment.

Because a soft voice broke the silence.

“…Miss Peregrine?”

Emma.

Her eyes had blinked open, slow and cautious. She looked groggy, confused. Then she realized her hand was empty.

And that Miss Peregrine was sitting up.

The others began to stir. First, Hugh, rubbing at his eyes. Then Bronwyn, who sat bolt upright the moment she saw Miss Peregrine awake.

One by one, heads lifted. Blankets rustled. The room filled with gasps and relieved whispers.

“Miss P?”

“She’s awake—!”

Claire was crying already.

Bronwyn launched herself forward and hugged Miss Peregrine’s waist before she could stop her. Fiona stepped quietly inside, as if summoned by instinct, her expression unreadable but her hands clasped tight in front of her.

Emma still hadn’t said anything. She just stared, lips parted, hand trembling as she reached forward again—this time to feel the pulse in Miss Peregrine’s wrist.

Warm.

Alive.

Miss Peregrine, for the first time in days, smiled a real smile. Small. Weak. But real.

“Yes, I am alive,” she whispered. “You can all breathe now.”

But even as they hugged her and laughed and cried and fussed over pillows and tea and soup she wouldn't eat, her gaze drifted once more to the window.

Miss Allister was gone.

But the air she left behind was still heavy.

And Miss Peregrine knew—the true fight had only just begun.

Chapter Text

Miss Allister didn’t show her face for the rest of the morning.

No condescending orders. No hovering over Miss Peregrine’s shoulder. No suspicious commentary. It was almost... too quiet. Too sudden.

“Where is she?” Emma whispered to Jacob as they helped Claire braid wildflowers into Miss Peregrine’s hair.

“She hasn’t said a word since this morning,” he murmured back. “Not a lecture, not a scolding. Nothing.”

“She’s up to something,” Enoch muttered from behind them, arms crossed. “She doesn’t just vanish like this. Not unless she’s planning something.”

Miss Peregrine smiled—genuinely, delicately—at Fiona’s giggle as the girl tucked a purple bloom behind her ear. It was a fragile moment of peace, and even if it was fleeting, the children basked in it.

But the older ones—Emma, Jacob, and Enoch—shared glances over the children’s heads.

Something wasn’t right.

And they needed answers.

By midafternoon, the three slipped away from the others, weaving quietly through the overgrown paths behind the cottages toward the shack.

The structure leaned slightly to the left, its roof sagging with years of neglect. Thick webs dangled like lace from the beams, and every step inside stirred clouds of dust. The air was musty, heavy with rotten wood and something faintly metallic.

“Ugh,” Emma groaned, brushing cobwebs from her forehead. “This place is a nightmare.”

“It’s perfect,” Enoch said darkly, swiping dust off a cracked desk. “No one’s been in here in years.”

They split up, searching in silence, disturbed only by sneezes and grumbles.

It took them almost two hours.

Behind a false panel in the attic floor—loose and nearly disintegrating—Jacob found it.

A thick, leather-bound book. No markings on the cover. The clasp was rusted and brittle. He opened it with a cautious hand.

It was Miss Allister’s journal.

The first entries were ordinary enough. Notes about lesson plans, peculiar development, loop theory in neat cursive. Observations of unnamed children's behaviour. It seemed harmless.

But then the handwriting changed.

Sloppier. Angrier.

The ungrateful chick returns to the nest.
She flies high but forgets what her purpose is.
I will correct her. I will amend her wrong philosophies and twist her mindset back to normal .
They think they’re free—none of them are.
The children can still be saved. Reformed. Made obedient.

Then came the last entry. Written the night before they arrived.

She’ll be arriving tomorrow. Alma. Like a lamb to the slaughter.
I’ll welcome her kindly. Let her think it’s her idea.
They’ll all see. Fragile and worthless. The version of her I saw every day.
This time, I won’t let her leave.

Emma’s fingers curled around the journal tightly. “She knew. She knew we were coming.”

“She planned this,” Jacob whispered. “All of it.”

“She listed us by name,” Emma added. “She knew our peculiarities. But we never told her when we first arrived.”

“She’s prophetic,” Enoch said grimly. “But this… This isn’t prophecy. This is obsession.”

Jacob felt a chill ripple up his spine.

Emma looked down at the final page again.

“She said ‘this time.’”

“Meaning there was a last time,” Enoch finished.

They all went silent.

“Miss Peregrine never told us much about her ymbryne training,” Emma said slowly. “Only that Miss Avocet helped her become who she is.”

“But what if Miss Allister was not part of it?” Jacob asked. “Did she… hurt her?”

“I mean... are you really surprised. She avoids Ms. Allister's eyes like the plague and flinches whenever someone contradicts her.” Enoch muttered.

They had more questions than answers—but one thing was certain now.

They were not safe here.

And definitely not Miss Peregrine. The air in the shack felt colder now, like the journal had sucked all the warmth from the walls.

Emma tucked the book into her coat, holding it to her chest as if it might try to leap away. “We need to show her. Now.”

“She’s only just gotten better,” Jacob said, biting his lip. “If we show her this, it might—”

“She deserves to know,” Emma snapped, already halfway down the ladder. “She came to stay with Allister. She still might.”

“She won’t after this,” Enoch muttered, brushing off his sleeves before following.

The three of them slipped out the back of the shack and hurried up the slope toward the garden, where Miss Peregrine now sat beneath the pine tree, a book in her lap and Olive resting drowsily beside her, humming a nonsense tune. Claire sat cross-legged by her feet, humming back in return. Wildflowers still decorated her neatly braided bun.

She looked... happy.

Or at least, as close to happy as she could seem after days of unconsciousness.

That made it worse.

Jacob hesitated as they approached. He hated being the one to shatter it.

Miss Peregrine looked up and smiled gently at them. “There you three are,” she said. “I was beginning to think you’d taken up permanent residence in that dreadful shack. Enoch, you’ve got a cobweb on your eyebrow.”

“Not now, Miss P,” Emma said softly.

She sat beside her and opened the journal to the final entries without a word. Miss Peregrine’s eyes dropped to the page, reading in silence.

As she turned each line, her body language shifted from confusion to horror. Her spine straightened. Her fingers tightened ever so slightly on the edge of the page. By the last sentence, her mouth was a thin, pale line.

“She knew we were coming,” Jacob said. “Before we arrived.”

“She didn’t just know,” Emma whispered. “She planned for it.”

Miss Peregrine didn’t speak for a long time.

When she finally did, her voice was low and strained. “I had hoped... perhaps foolishly... that perhaps she had changed. That time had buried what we left behind. Or have enough compassion to shield us from the outside world for a while, at least.”

Enoch crossed his arms. “But it didn’t. She just got better at hiding it.”

“She trained me, when I were still fledgling,” Miss Peregrine said. “She was brilliant. Protective of her chicks. But... she always believed the new ways were too lenient. She thought children should be shaped—controlled. Molded like wax to fit the her needs.”

Emma’s brows furrowed. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Miss Peregrine shut the journal gently. “Because I still foolishly believed she would be different this time. I believed she could finally accept me and love me as whole.”

There was a long silence.

“You’re not foolish or weak,” Jacob said. “You trusted someone because you hoped they were better than before. That’s not weak. That’s human.”

Miss Peregrine looked at him, her expression unreadable.

Then she nodded once.

“Thank you, however, humans can not effectively protect peculiar children. We, ymbryns have to be someone strong enough for the protection of children as of yourself.” she said. "Like Ms. Allister preached before, the path of weak ymbryns is death of every single loved one around you." She exhaled harshly.

Emma exhaled sadly. “What now?”

Miss Peregrine stood, still unsteady, but stronger than she had looked in days.

“Now,” she said, “we find out exactly what she’s planning.”

—

That evening, they ate quietly. Miss Allister didn’t show up to dinner.

It was the first time she’d missed a meal since their arrival.

The children noticed. They whispered. Whispered so much that even Claire, usually quite oblivious, started asking questions.

“She’s up to something,” Bronwyn said. “And I don’t like it.”

“She’s been gone all day,” said Olive, her hands floating just slightly off the table. “What if she left the Loop?”

“She wouldn’t,” Miss Peregrine said calmly, though her eyes flicked toward the window. “Not yet.”

The children didn’t sleep easily that night. They gathered close again, some by Miss Peregrine’s bedside like before, others resting near the fire, whispering and clutching blankets too tightly.

But this time, Miss Peregrine didn’t drift into unconsciousness.

She stayed awake, watching over them like she used to. Eyes sharp. Listening.

Emma sat closest to her, Jacob beside her.

“Are you afraid?” Jacob asked.

Miss Peregrine looked at the children nestled in blankets around them—her flock.

“I’m never afraid when I am with all of you,” she said softly. “But I am wary. And that’s enough.”

Emma nodded and leaned against her shoulder. “Then we’ll be wary, too.”

Miss Peregrine’s hand closed gently over Emma’s, and her other one brushed Jacob’s knuckles.

They didn’t speak again.

But outside, in the shadows of the trees, something shifted.

A branch snapped.

And Miss Allister watched from the dark—eyes glinting, breath fogging the night air. It was Enoch who noticed first.

He'd been complaining under his breath about the dew soaking through his socks when he stopped abruptly, squinting into the trees. “Did you see that?”

Emma paused, letting her flame hover just above her palm. The soft light cast flickering shadows over the bramble and roots, stretching across their faces.

“See what?” Jacob whispered, pulling his coat tighter around him.

“There,” Enoch muttered, nodding toward a gap in the trees. “Eyes. Watching us.”

Emma’s jaw tightened. “She’s in the woods.”

Without another word, they started moving faster, their footfalls muffled on the damp earth. Branches creaked above them, and the forest’s silence was heavy—like even the owls didn’t want to make a sound.

This is our chance and it might be our only one,” Emma whispered. “We just need to see what she’s doing.”

They thought they were being stealthy—moving low, keeping to the edges of the clearing, Emma’s fire cupped and dimmed to a smolder. But for all their effort, the air still held something… wrong.

And then—

A voice behind them.

“Now, now. What are three little chicks like you doing out of your nest so late?”

They froze.

Emma’s fire sputtered in her hand, nearly going out.

Jacob spun around first, breath catching in his throat.

Miss Allister stood barely an arm’s length away, her dark skirts rippling around her like smoke. Her eyes gleamed in the shadows—too sharp, too aware.

Enoch’s voice was barely audible. “How did she—?”

Emma grabbed Jacob’s wrist, keeping herself steady, but her hand trembled with contained flame. “Just a midnight stroll, that's all.”

Miss Allister smiled—an elegant, deliberate curve of her lips, no warmth behind it. “Children can be so naive. I could tell what each and every one of you will do in the next minute. Didn't your headmistress tell you lying to adults is very terrible?” She clicked her tongue.

She took a step forward, and they instinctively stepped back.

“Now, could you be able to tell old Alllister the truth of,” she continued smoothly. “ why are you still here at this hour, hm? Shouldn’t you be tucked safely into your beds, dreaming pointless dreams?”

No one answered.

Miss Allister tilted her head and clicked her tongue softly. “Or has Miss Peregrine’s discipline slipped again since I last visited? A headmistress who can’t keep her wards in bed... It doesn’t say much about her ability, does it?”

Enoch opened his mouth, but Emma stopped him with a subtle shake of her head.

Miss Allister’s eyes glittered. Her voice dropped—soft, lilting, too calm. “Your headmistress must be terribly worried by now. Especially if one of her dear children were to wander too far... take a wrong turn in the forest...”

She leaned closer.

“Or worse.”

The words landed like ice water, crawling down their spines. The trees seemed to bend closer, the air thinner, heavier.

Emma clenched her fists. “Are you threatening us?”

“Oh, dear me, no,” Miss Allister said, her smile growing colder. “I’m simply reminding you how dangerous the world can be. Especially for curious children who forget their discipline.”

She turned then, skirts swirling with a rustle of dried leaves. “Run along now. It’s late.”

And just like that, she was gone—disappearing into the trees as if she’d never been there at all.

Jacob exhaled, finally remembering to breathe. “Did… did that just happen?”

“She was behind us,” Emma whispered. “We would’ve heard her. We should’ve heard her.”

Enoch’s jaw clenched. “She’s not just a former ymbryn. She’s something else. Something's... wrong.”

They stood in stunned silence.

A twig snapped somewhere deeper in the woods.

Emma extinguished her flame.

“We need to get back,” she said. “Now.”

What they didn’t know—what they couldn’t possibly know—was that they would never make it back to their beds.

The forest was hushed, windless, and watching. The second they turned their backs on Miss Allister and sprinted into the trees, dread clawed its way up Jacob’s spine like ice-soaked fingers. Emma’s flame flickered weakly in the dark, casting only the smallest circle of gold against the suffocating blackness of the woods. Twigs cracked beneath their feet, breath short and ragged, hearts pounding like war drums in their ears.

They didn’t get far.

Hands—unseen, waiting, hungry—shot from the shadows like vipers. In one horrific breath, everything went wrong.

Jacob was grabbed first. Arms coiled around him from behind, steel-tight, pulling him violently off his feet. He barely had time to shout before a blade pressed against his throat—just enough to nick the skin. He choked on a cry as blood trickled down his neck, hot and thin.

Emma shrieked. Her flame flared in panic, illuminating pale faces with hollow eyes—strangers with no light in them. She fought—she tried to fight—but someone grabbed her wrist and twisted it until the flame died with a hiss, like a candle snuffed in a storm. A thick cloth was shoved into her mouth, muffling the scream as her hands were bound.

Enoch snarled and kicked and cursed. He punched one of them square in the jaw before two more swarmed him. A third person slammed a knee into his back, dropping him like a stone. The sharp tip of a blade was pressed to his neck, drawing a trembling bead of blood. His eyes were wide and wild, flicking between Jacob and Emma, all of them equally helpless.

They were outnumbered. Overpowered. Trapped.

Then came the laughter.

It cut through the forest like a blade through silk—smooth, melodic, and wrong.

Miss Allister stepped into the weak circle of moonlight, her face eerily calm, almost maternal. But her eyes—her eyes glowed with something cold and venomous, something far older than the lines on her face. She tilted her head at them like they were misbehaving puppies.

“Children,” she crooned softly, almost sweetly. “I already told you wandering the woods so late was dangerous out here.”

Jacob tried to struggle, but his captor yanked his head back tighter. He caught Emma’s eyes for a fleeting second—wild with panic, tear-filled and burning. Enoch was shaking with rage, his jaw clenched, a growl rumbling behind his gag.

Miss Allister walked closer, slowly, hands clasped behind her back like a schoolmistress about to give a lesson. Her smile never reached her eyes.

Jacob tried to scream, to spit at her, anything—but a hand clamped tighter over his mouth.

Emma thrashed harder now, trying to burn something, anything, but her hands were tied too tightly. Enoch’s body was shaking—not with fear, but with fury so profound it made his eyes glisten.

Miss Allister leaned forward just enough to whisper between them, voice laced with a quiet, gleeful malice.

And then—it happened. Miss Allister stepped forward, and the faint light caught her face in an unnatural way—her pupils vanished.

Her eyes turned a blinding, milky white.

Not like someone possessed or blind, but aware. Familiar.

Jacob felt his chest tighten. He’d seen eyes like that before.

So had Emma. So had Enoch.

White as snow, glowing faintly in the shadows—the same eyes the leaders of the hollows bore when they stepped out of the skin of their borrowed forms. Those eyes that didn’t blink. That didn’t feel. That saw straight through you and into the space where your soul lived.

Emma let out a muffled gasp behind the gag, and Enoch stilled completely. Even his trembling stopped. They were not just in danger now.

They were prey.

Miss Allister smiled, but her voice dropped, low and cold.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she said softly, her white eyes gleaming like frost. “Did you honestly think your kind were the only ones who could wear lenses?”

The signal was unspoken. The moment Jacob blinked, the forest exploded into pain.

Rough cloth pressed to their mouths, the bitter smell of chemicals. Something that burned their throats and blurred their vision. Everything grew distant, dull. Jacob’s legs buckled. Emma’s flame burst once more and then snuffed again. Enoch let out a muffled roar that turned into a groan, then a silence.

The last thing Jacob saw, through swimming eyes, was Miss Allister’s face leaning over him.

Her smile widened.

And she said, ever so gently:

“Sleep tight, my darlings.”

Darkness fell.

Chapter Text

It began with a scream.

Horace shot upright in his bed, drenched in sweat and trembling violently. The sound echoed off the cottage walls, sharp enough to make even the insects outside fall silent. Miss Peregrine, pale and hollow-eyed from her recent fainting spell, jolted awake. She crossed the room to Horace with a mixture of urgency and care, kneeling by his bed and brushing back his damp curls.

“Horace, darling, what is it? Was it another dream?”

“It—it was Emma, Jacob, and Enoch,” he choked out. “They were in the woods. Tied up. Someone was laughing. I think... I think they were taken. There was blood—there was so much blood—”

“Shhh,” Miss Peregrine whispered, attempting to soothe him, but her heart dropped into her stomach.

She turned toward Emma’s bed to show him it was all right—just a dream, surely—but the bed was empty. Untouched. Cold.

She blinked. No, no—no, no, no.

In a panic, she ran across the room, scanning each of the cots with trembling eyes. Jacob—gone. Enoch—gone.

Her hands gripped Horace’s arms like claws, nails pressing into the fabric of his pajamas.

“Miss, that hurts—”

“Tell me everything,” she hissed, voice tight with dread. “Don’t leave out a single detail.”

Horace, pale and shaking, recounted the dream with fearful precision: the firelight, the forest, Ms. Allister’s smile, the knives, the laughter.

Miss Peregrine did not wait another second. She stormed across the room, flinging open curtains and shouting, louder than the children had ever heard before:

“Everyone, RISE! Pack your things. Now. We are leaving this place immediately. Danger is upon us.”

The younger children scrambled awake, some crying from the harshness of her voice. Olive clung to Fiona. Bronwyn instinctively stood in front of Claire, shielding her. Hugh looked around in bewilderment, bees buzzing nervously in his hair.

“Miss Peregrine?” Bronwyn asked, voice quivering. “What’s wrong?”

“Emma, Jacob, and Enoch,” she said, breath ragged. “They’ve been taken. By Ms. Allister.”

Gasps broke out. A wave of fear pulsed through the room like a ripple through still water.

That’s when the door slammed open.

Ms. Allister stood there, framed in the doorway like a shadow from a nightmare. Her smile was polite, but her eyes gleamed like twin shards of broken glass.

“Well, well,” she cooed. “Not so fast, Alma.”

In an instant, she grabbed Miss Peregrine’s wrist, twisted it, and dragged her outside into the cold.

The moonlight revealed them.

Emma, Jacob, and Enoch were bound and gagged, their eyes wide with terror, blood trailing in fine lines down their necks where blades kissed skin. Their faces were ghost-pale, clothes dirtied from being dragged through the forest floor.

Miss Peregrine’s breath hitched. She stepped in front of them, shielding them with her body like a hawk guarding her fledglings.

“What do you want?” she asked hoarsely.

“You,” Ms. Allister said, smiling wide.

She reached up and slid a thin lens from her left eye. Beneath it, her eye was completely white—like the leaders of the hollows.

Fiona shrieked inside.

“Children,” Miss Peregrine said, voice steel, “stay behind me.”

Ms. Allister cackled. “These three followed me, Alma. Imagine that! How stupid can they be? But I suppose that’s what happens when their Ymbryn is pathetic and uneducated. A mother who lets her children jump into the arms of monsters.”

Miss Peregrine didn’t respond. She only stared.

“Oh, nothing to say?” Allister continued. “You really should have stayed with me, Alma. We could have built something great. The Ymbryn Academy was always too soft.. They turned you against me. Against our work.”

“I’m grateful I left when I did,” Miss Peregrine snapped. “Or I would’ve ended up like you. Twisted. Submitting my body and mind to hollow experiments in the name of power. You think that’s strength? That’s cowardice.”

“Oh,” Ms. Allister’s smile dropped. “And I suppose this is strength? Standing in the mud, begging like a mother hen for your hatchlings?”

Miss Peregrine narrowed her eyes. “And I suppose your cowardice has earned you a promotion.”

A voice came from the shadows. Cold and quiet.

“I always knew you were special, Alma.”

Mr. Barron stepped into the light.

The children gasped. Even bound and bloodied, Enoch flinched. Emma’s fingers tightened. Jacob went still.

Miss Peregrine’s jaw tensed. “Mr. Barron. I would say it is a pleasure to meet with you again, but it would be insincere.”

Mr. Barron chuckled. “Of course. You always could smell death. When your little band of misfits left me to drown, I clawed my way out. I survived. And now, dear Alma, I thrive. You know Ms. Allister and I have done good work—real work.”

“I know what you are and what your goons do for a living,” Miss Peregrine hissed. “And I know they sell people. Children. Peculiars.”

He stepped forward. “I offer a deal. Your life… for theirs.”

She stiffened.

“They’re not even your real children,” he added, grinning. “No blood. No birth.”

“They are my children in every way that counts,” she snarled. “And I swear to you, Barron—if you lay a single finger on them—I’ll gouge out your eyes and feed them to the bog.”

Even he hesitated. “Still so poetic.”

"I agree and I will submit myself to everything. But! You will let my children stay with Miss Cuckoo. The children need a stable place, and most certainly not with a lunatic!"

Ms. Allister stepped forward. “This wasn’t part of the agreement! I captured the children. I—”

“You’ll get your experiments,” Mr. Barron cut her off. “But times change, and so will our agreement. I accept the terms. Ms. Cuckoo will raise the children. A more suitable mother figure than you.”

Ms. Allister’s face twisted in rage. “I risked everything! You promised!”

Mr. Barron turned his back on her with a smirk. “The children need a protector, not a butcher after all, at least until they mature and have the full strength of their peculiarities.”

Miss Peregrine’s hands trembled. Slowly, she turned back to her children. She forced a calm expression and whispered, “Everything will be fine.”

Then she roared, “Let them go!”

Mr. Barron nodded. The knives were lowered, and the children were shoved forward. Miss Peregrine caught them, removing their gags, checking their faces with trembling fingers.

“Are you alright?” she asked, desperately.

They nodded.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Emma whispered, voice hoarse. “It wasn’t fair.”

Miss Peregrine smiled weakly. “That’s my job as an Ymbryn. And a mother. I promise you. I'll come back for you.”

For a moment, they thought they saw a tear glistening in her eye. But they weren’t sure.

She rose, squaring her shoulders, facing Mr. Barren and Ms. Allister like a queen at war.

“We’ll go inside,” she said. “I’ll summon Isabelle. We’ll leave. And you’ll never lay a finger on my children again.”

Mr. Barren smiled coldly. “Of course. After all… you’re coming to London with me.”

As the cottage door creaked open behind them, Miss Peregrine whispered to the children, “Pack only what matters. We leave these wretched cottages before dawn.”

Then, under her breath, she added, “Pray the stars are still watching.”

Chapter Text

Inside the cottage, the children fumbled through the dark, only half-aware of where their hands landed. Their suitcases were thrown open, drawers yanked from their slots. Little Olive was sobbing quietly, her flame flickering weakly in her palm, barely illuminating the panic-stricken room. Bronwyn moved with mechanical precision, folding items and jamming them into bags while her lips trembled. Hugh’s bees buzzed nervously around his head, sensing their keeper’s distress. Claire clutched her teddy bear like a lifeline.

Miss Peregrine stood in the middle of it all, hands shaking as she pressed the old rotary receiver to her ear. Her voice, usually firm and calm, cracked under the pressure.

“Is this Isabella Cuckoo?” she whispered hoarsely.

The line crackled for a moment, and then came a voice—gentle, alert. “Yes. Who is this?”

Miss Peregrine swallowed the lump in her throat. “Isabelle. It’s Alma.”

“Alma?” Isabelle’s tone instantly sharpened. “What’s going on?”

“Isabelle, it is time to activate The Lighthouse Protocol.”

A pause on the other end, then: “What do you mean?”

Miss Peregrine closed her eyes tightly, holding back tears. “They came for us. Allister and… and Barron. They took Emma, Jacob, and Enoch. I traded myself for them. Isabelle, I need to get them to you. You’re the only one left I trust.”

The line was silent, and then Isabelle replied, her voice wavering, “Where?”

“Big Ben. Tomorrow morning. Be there. I’m bringing everyone.”

There was a breath on the line. “Of course. Of course. Bisou, love.”

“Bisou,” Miss Peregrine repeated, voice soft and raw. Then she hung up with a click.

Without hesitation, she spun on her heel, stepping into the center of the room. “Children,” she said. “I’m going to stop time. Do not leave this cottage until I return. You have fifteen minutes to pack—frantically. Everything you need. We won’t be coming back.”

The grandfather clock ticked once, and then—silence. Time froze.

Miss Peregrine stepped outside into the unmoving night. The moon hung in the air like an open eye. Allister and Barron’s crew were frozen mid-movement. The white glint of blades, the cruel smirks on their faces—it made her stomach churn.

She walked silently to a small box tucked beneath the porch. Inside it was a glass vial—glowing, swirling, dark blue.

The sleeping powder.

She scattered it liberally over the entire scene, dusting it into mouths, eyes, skin. Their bodies relaxed immediately as the substance overrode even time's halt. Mr. Barron, still sneering even in pause, was first. She stepped up, knelt beside him, and without a sound, struck him across the jaw with a force that cracked bone. She heard his leg snap under the torque of her boot. His arm folded under another twist. His body slumped awkwardly, but he stayed under, drugged and broken.

Then she turned to Allister.

Her former mentor.

Her betrayer.

With trembling fingers, she drew a sharpened silver implement from the folds of her coat.

She hesitated… for just a breath.

Then she drove it forward, striking one eye, then the other. A whisper escaped her lips as she worked: “For my children.”

She broke Allister’s legs at the knees, and the woman crumpled like a doll, limp and twitching. The once-polished Ymbryn’s face twisted in pain.

The goons—those who had dragged blades across Emma’s throat, Jacob’s collarbone, Enoch’s cheek—came last. Miss Peregrine stood over each in silence, her eyes hollow. She slashed each one in a swift, precise motion, the blade catching moonlight as it opened their throats. The gruesome blood sprayed onto her boots and soaked her hemline.

She wiped the dagger off on a rag, calm and cold now.

When she returned inside, the children turned to look at her—and then instantly turned away.

Her sleeves were dark, soaked. The collar of her blouse was flecked with dark shade of red.

“I told you not to watch,” she said softly.

Olive pressed her face into Bronwyn’s side. Claire was silent. Hugh’s bees clustered tightly to his neck.

Miss Peregrine stood there for a moment, breathing hard. Then she shook out her coat, wiped her hands clean, and looked at them with grim determination.

“It’s a long way to London,” she said. “To Miss Cuckoo’s place. We leave now.”

But before they could move, Emma reached for her, her fingers shaking. “Miss Peregrine… you..... ”

Jacob looked away. “They had her cornered. She protected us—”

Enoch, pale and stiff, added, “She did that. For us. Look away, Emma.”

Miss Peregrine looked at each of them, one by one. Her jaw trembled for a moment, and she closed her eyes. “Sometimes.....That’s the job of a Ymbryn,” she said. “And the job of a mother.”

They blinked. The candlelight caught on something in her eyes—a glint, just one, that might have been a tear.

But none of them dared say a word.

She turned away. “Keep packing.”

The children obeyed, silently, shoving boots and coats into bags, strapping knives into belts, packing bread and water and bandages. The cottage buzzed with frantic motion.

Miss Peregrine, blood drying on her sleeves, walked over to the mantle, wound the clock forward, and prepared to unfreeze time.

There was no going back. The forest trail was barely visible in the pre-dawn dark, but Miss Peregrine pressed forward with unwavering certainty. Her silhouette moved swiftly between trees, gliding almost too easily for someone who had just crushed bones and spilled blood. The children followed behind her in a somber line, boots squelching through thick mud, their clothes damp and clinging to them from the morning dew and sweat. Tree branches clawed at their skin and hair, but none of them dared to complain.

Not one word was spoken.

Even Emma, normally the boldest, kept her hands clenched at her sides and her fire unlit. Jacob’s thoughts were tangled, flashing with images of red-streaked grass and Miss Peregrine’s face—serene, determined—as she broke Mr. Barron’s arms like twigs. He couldn’t unsee it. Enoch, too, walked stiffly, lips pressed thin, the dried blood on his collar still sticky from earlier. They weren’t sure if they feared her… but they feared what she had become.

Or maybe what she had always been, hidden behind the lace and poise.

Forty minutes passed like that, a slow trudge through shadows, the forest eerier than it had been just days before. Then, at last, the woods broke open. A small clearing revealed the edge of civilization: a quiet, nondescript train station, barely more than a bench and a signpost under a flickering lamp.

Miss Peregrine finally turned to them, framed by the dull yellow light. Her expression was tired, but calm. “I know what you must think of me at this moment,” she said softly. “And forgive me. Forgive me, as I have failed to protect you from the violence in this world.”

Her voice cracked just slightly at the end. Claire sniffled and moved closer to Fiona, who immediately pulled her into a protective hug. Bronwyn offered her arms to both of them, holding them close. Olive rubbed at her eyes, wide and scared, and Hugh was gently stroking a trembling bee clinging to his sleeve.

Miss Peregrine continued, more firmly this time. “From here, we’ll take a train back to London. Once we arrive, a bus will take us into the countryside. Ms. Cuckoo—Isabelle—will meet us at Big Ben, as arranged, and lead us to her home. It’s not ideal, but she is the only one I trust now.”

She said no more. She didn’t tell them how she had met Isabelle Cuckoo years ago, how she had once saved Alma's life, or how her house had never once been found by the wights or the hollows. That would be a story for another day, if they ever got another.

The train arrived far too quickly. No one else was waiting. The platform was empty, and when the doors hissed open, it felt like stepping into a tomb. They boarded in silence, settling into cracked leather seats and peeling cushions. The carriage was dimly lit, trembling with every motion, and the windows gave nothing but black outside—no stars, no moon, only the endless night.

Miss Peregrine sat at the front, hands folded tightly in her lap, staring straight ahead. Her back was perfectly straight, but her shoulders sagged slightly under the weight of the night. The blood on her cuffs had dried into dark rust-colored patches, and there was a thin red line across her cheek that none of them had noticed before.

Emma sat beside Jacob, their hands close but not touching. “She saved us,” Jacob whispered at last, barely audible over the low rumble of the train.

“I know,” Emma said. She glanced toward Miss Peregrine. “But I don’t know if she’ll ever be the same.”

“Maybe none of us will,” Enoch muttered, seated behind them, his knees drawn to his chest. His eyes were wide open and unreadable.

The train rattled on through the quiet, the only sound in the world. Behind them, the forest faded. Ahead of them, London waited.

And beyond that—whatever safety Isabelle Cuckoo could offer.

But for now, all they had was the silence, the throb of their aching limbs, and the sharp memory of Miss Peregrine’s voice, calm as she said: “Don’t watch what I’m doing, children. It’s for the best.”

None of them would ever forget it.

Chapter Text

The train ride into London remained quiet for most of the journey. The rhythmic clatter of the tracks lulled the younger children to sleep, one by one. Olive had curled up on Bronwyn’s lap, murmuring something incoherent as she drifted off. Claire’s head rested gently on Fiona’s shoulder. Even Horace, who always tried to remain composed, had slumped against the window, snoring lightly.

Jacob stayed awake, though. His thoughts wouldn’t let him sleep.

He sat beside Emma, watching as the sky slowly shifted from a deep indigo to the soft blush of dawn. The sun broke over the horizon in slow motion, washing the cityscape in gold and rose. Emma didn’t say anything—she just quietly reached for his hand. He let her hold it.

Across the aisle, Hugh and Millard had fallen asleep leaning on Enoch, whose expression remained fixed in a silent mix of exasperation and tolerance. Miss Peregrine glanced back from her seat and, despite everything, allowed herself a small smile. It was a strange, rare softness—something almost maternal in the midst of such dread.

That moment, however fleeting, was beautiful. And maybe that was the point.

They arrived in London just before noon. The station bustled with ordinary people going about their lives, none the wiser to the fact that a group of peculiar children and their ymbryne mentor were passing among them, carrying more fear and trauma than most would know in a lifetime.

London felt louder than usual. Bigger. More exposed.

They wandered cautiously through the winding streets, trying not to draw attention, until they reached a broad square near Westminster. There, just beneath the towering silhouette of Big Ben, stood a woman waiting for them.

She was about Miss Peregrine’s age, perhaps a year younger, but the contrast between them was striking. Where Miss Peregrine wore her signature black coat and high collar like a blade of authority, Ms. Cuckoo wore a soft yellow blouse tucked into a long blue skirt, with a scarf loosely tied around her neck in a sunny pattern of orange and red. Her eyes sparkled, and her smile—wide and genuine—lit up the square as soon as she saw them.

“Alma!” she called, hurrying forward. “Oh, Alma, you’re really here.”

Miss Peregrine rushed toward her, and the two women embraced tightly. It was the kind of hug that came from years of trust and shared hardship—one that said: You’re not alone anymore. Jacob stood close enough to hear Ms. Cuckoo whisper gently into Miss Peregrine’s ear.

“We’ll deal with this together. You can talk to me. You don’t have to hold it all alone anymore.”

And something in Miss Peregrine shifted. Her spine seemed to straighten—not in pride or posture, but in relief. In safety. Her shoulders eased ever so slightly, the tight set of her jaw relaxed, and when she finally stepped back, there was something different in her eyes. Not healed, but comforted. Not whole, but no longer bleeding alone.

She turned to her children and gestured for them to gather.

“Everyone,” she said, her voice gentler than it had been in days, “this is Isabelle Cuckoo. My oldest friend, and someone I trust with my life. She has agreed to shelter us for as long as needed.”

Ms. Cuckoo stepped forward, folding her hands in front of her heart. “Hello, my dears,” she said brightly. “I’ve heard so much about you all, and it’s a true joy to finally meet you. I know things must be difficult right now, but I promise you—you’re safe with me.”

She smiled at each of them, taking her time—Bronwyn, Claire, Fiona, Hugh, Horace, Millard, Olive, Enoch, Emma, Jacob. And it was something in the way she looked at them—without pity, without caution, but with genuine warmth—that made some of the children feel a little more human again.

Emma gave a small, tired nod. Bronwyn looked cautiously at Miss Peregrine and then back at Ms. Cuckoo, before finally stepping forward with Claire still in hand. Enoch gave a skeptical grunt but didn’t say anything else.

The children still held their wounds—both visible and not—but as they followed Ms. Cuckoo toward the quiet street where her home stood, it felt like the beginning of something different.

Not peace, perhaps.

But maybe safety.
The bus ride to Ms. Cuckoo’s countryside home began with quiet anticipation. The city’s gray rooftops and bustling noise faded behind them as the vehicle rolled steadily through winding roads, past leafy hedgerows and fog-kissed fields. The sky had cleared now, casting golden light through the windows, and for the first time in days, the air didn’t feel heavy with fear.

The children didn’t say much at first. They shifted in their seats, watching the buildings melt away into meadows and farmland. Millard, invisible again, sat between Hugh and Olive, softly narrating the kinds of birds he spotted out the window. Hugh seemed content just to listen, his head resting back with a rare, peaceful expression on his face.

Claire and Fiona had claimed a seat together near the back, their foreheads touching as they shared a single pair of earphones from a dusty little music player Fiona had managed to keep in her coat pocket. Every now and then, one of them would giggle quietly, and Claire even leaned into Bronwyn’s shoulder when she passed them a piece of chocolate she’d hidden for emergencies.

Even Enoch, usually brooding and distant, had his boots kicked up on the metal bar in front of him, his arms folded—not in anger this time, but in tired ease. He didn’t protest when Horace leaned over to talk about the strange dreams he’d had during his nap on the train. Instead, Enoch just gave a grunt and muttered, “Could be worse,” which, coming from him, was practically a love letter.

At the front of the bus, Miss Peregrine and Ms. Cuckoo sat side by side. For the first hour, they spoke in hushed tones—catching up on the years that had passed, on battles fought and children raised. But eventually their laughter floated back to the rest of the bus. It wasn’t loud or careless, but it was real.

Jacob watched Miss Peregrine as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and leaned back with a small, content sigh. The sharp edge she always carried—always poised, always alert—had dulled just slightly, replaced by something softer in the presence of her old friend. The difference was subtle, but undeniable.

“I’ve never seen her this relaxed,” Jacob whispered to Emma, who was curled beside him.

Emma smiled faintly. “Me neither.”

Jacob looked around the bus again. The low hum of conversation and the occasional bursts of laughter felt like music. Warmth bloomed in his chest as he realized something important—something he hadn’t let himself believe until now.

They were safe.

For now.

The countryside rolled past in endless fields of green and gold, dotted with sleepy sheep and crooked stone fences. The road dipped through a tunnel of trees that cast long, dappled shadows inside the bus, and no one flinched. No one braced for an ambush.

Instead, Ms. Cuckoo turned around in her seat and called back with a grin, “We’ll be home soon, little ones! And I’ve baked shortbread.”

A cheer rose up from the children, and Olive actually clapped her hands. Hugh gave a whoop. Even Bronwyn cracked a smile.

And for that brief, golden stretch of time—rolling through the countryside with the sun on their faces, surrounded by laughter and the promise of safety—the horrors of the night before felt far away, like a bad dream left behind in the shadows of London.

They weren’t whole.

They weren’t healed.

But they were still together.

And that, somehow, was enough. The bus rumbled down a narrow coastal road, the tires crunching over gravel as it curved along the edge of a windswept cliffside. The sea shimmered just beyond the trees, catching the afternoon light in ripples of silver and blue. After nearly two hours of travel, the children sat forward in their seats, alert again—not from fear this time, but from quiet anticipation.

“There it is,” Ms. Cuckoo said softly, her voice warm as she pointed out the window.

The house emerged like a secret whispered between the trees. A three-story cottage nestled beside a gentle slope of sand and sea grass, its walls painted in soft white, warm cream, and faded light brown. The sunlight made the colors glow like a watercolor come to life. Wide windows reflected the clouds overhead, and delicate lace curtains fluttered in the breeze.

The bus pulled into a curved driveway edged with climbing roses and potted herbs. As the engine quieted, a silence settled over the group—not heavy like before, but still and reverent, as if they were afraid to disturb the peace they had stumbled into.

Jacob stepped off first, his boots sinking a little into the sand-dusted path. He turned slowly, taking in the scent of saltwater and fresh earth, the sound of gulls crying faintly in the distance, and the breeze that rolled in from the sea like a sigh of relief.

Behind him, the others followed. Claire gasped softly at the sight of the tall hedges blooming with tiny white flowers. Fiona smiled wide, kneeling to inspect the neat rows of herbs and the winding stone path that led around the back of the house. Bronwyn’s shoulders dropped for the first time in hours, her arms no longer clenched protectively.

The garden wrapped around the house like a blanket—overgrown in a beautiful, lived-in way. Wildflowers danced in the wind beside stacked crates of vegetables and watering cans. Books were stacked beneath an awning, some open and ruffled from past reading sessions, others waiting patiently for new hands to hold them.

But it was the beach that truly captured their hearts.

Just beyond the garden, a small footpath led directly to the shoreline. The beach stretched wide and quiet, the sand soft and pale, the waves rolling in gently and endlessly. No cities. No traffic. No hollows. Just the ocean and the sky and a horizon that promised distance from danger.

“This,” Emma whispered as she stepped beside Jacob, “feels like a real safe place.”

Jacob nodded, feeling the weight in his chest loosen.

“Because it is,” Ms. Cuckoo said gently behind them. “You’re far from Allister’s reach here. No one comes around much—closest house is five miles inland. My children are all temporarily relocated, so you’ve got it to yourselves. Every bed. Every blanket. Every quiet corner. It’s yours, little ones.”

Miss Peregrine stood on the porch, her hands lightly resting on the wooden railing. The sea wind tugged at her dark coat and loosened a few strands of her hair. She turned her head slightly to look at Ms. Cuckoo, her eyes softening with unspoken gratitude.

“It’s perfect, Isabelle,” she said.

“Merci, love,” Ms. Cuckoo replied with a wink. “Go on in. There’s warm tea and bread inside. The kitchen’s stocked, and I’ll give you the full tour after you’ve all had time to breathe.”

One by one, the children moved toward the porch. Enoch paused to gaze at the ocean with a puzzled expression, as if he didn’t know what to do with a view so peaceful. Olive clutched Horace’s hand. Hugh crouched near the garden, gently coaxing a beetle onto his palm.

And Jacob looked back once more at the open sky, the quiet waves, and the home that seemed to rise up out of the land just to hold them. The moment Ms. Cuckoo mentioned the beach, the house erupted into chaos—not the kind that causes stress, but the bright, infectious kind that made the old house feel alive again.

“Beach day!” Claire squealed as she bolted upstairs, dragging Olive by the hand.

“I’m claiming the seashells first!” Fiona shouted, already halfway out of her shoes.

Shoes thudded against walls. Doors banged open and shut. The sharp rhythm of feet on creaky floors was paired with laughter that echoed through every hallway.

Ms. Cuckoo chuckled fondly. “So that’s a no on the house tour, I guess.”

Miss Peregrine stood at the bottom of the staircase, arms folded with a half-smile pulling at the corners of her lips. “Apparently so.”

Despite the exhaustion still hanging in the air from the night before, something had shifted. The children were lighter. Their joy felt real. Perhaps it was the ocean air—salty, warm, a touch wild—or maybe it was simply the feeling of safety, of finally being somewhere no one could follow them.

Miss Peregrine remained grounded in her usual solemn grace, but even she couldn't deny the soft comfort curling in her chest as she turned to help the youngest ones change.

She knelt by Olive, untangling the buttons on the back of her sundress. “Arms up,” she murmured.

Olive giggled and obeyed.

Claire, already dressed in a frilly pink swimsuit, pirouetted around the hallway like she was on stage. Fiona sat cross-legged by the wall, plucking wildflowers from her dress pocket and weaving them into a crown.

All of it—every little sound and color—was a balm to Miss Peregrine’s frayed edges.

As she finished tying Fiona’s ponytail with a ribbon, Ms. Cuckoo leaned casually against the stair rail.

“And what about you, Alma?” she asked. “You swimming too?”

Miss Peregrine glanced up. “I hadn’t planned on it. Someone must supervise the children.”

“You can supervise just as well from the shore.” Ms. Cuckoo grinned. “Besides, I’ve got a swimsuit you can borrow—something simple, nothing flashy.”

Miss Peregrine gave her a dry look.

Ms. Cuckoo winked. “Okay, maybe a little flashy. But just a little.”

“I suppose it would be unfair of me to keep to the shade while they run wild in the waves,” Miss Peregrine muttered, brushing invisible dust from her skirt.

“That’s the spirit.” Ms. Cuckoo patted her shoulder, then shouted over her own shoulder, “The suit’s in the washroom on the left, Alma! Don’t take too long or we’ll start the beach games without you!”

Miss Peregrine sighed as the children cheered again and Ms. Cuckoo vanished down the hill toward the beach like a skipping stone. For a moment, Miss Peregrine lingered in the hallway, glancing at her reflection in the nearby mirror.

Out of place. That’s what she always felt when it came to things like this—sun, sand, bare feet. She didn’t belong to that kind of world. She belonged to old books, ticking clocks, leather gloves, war rooms and chess pieces. Not sunscreen and swimsuits.

But the house was warm, and the beach was so close she could hear the distant sound of waves kissing the shore. The laughter of her children floated through the open window like music.

With another quiet sigh, she walked to the washroom.

Inside, hanging neatly on a hook, was a black one-piece swimsuit. Sleek. Modern. Understated—until you turned it around and saw the delicate cross-straps and open back.

She held it up with two fingers, inspecting it like a particularly strange artifact. It was tasteful by today’s standards, she supposed, but certainly more revealing than anything she was used to.

Still… she changed.

A few minutes later, she stepped out of the washroom and made her way down the garden path toward the beach, her towel clutched tightly around her like a cape. The breeze tickled her bare legs and ruffled her damp curls, and she instantly felt exposed.

Utterly, uncomfortably exposed.

The moment she stepped onto the sand, one by one, they paused in their play, eyes wide.

“Whoa,” Jacob murmured. Emma let out a low whistle and grinned.

Even Enoch, who looked like he hadn’t smiled since 1842, arched an eyebrow.

Miss Peregrine cleared her throat. “What?”

Emma was the first to speak, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Miss Peregrine, are you trying to snatch someone’s heart today or what?”

A few of the others chuckled, but before Miss Peregrine could respond, a voice cut in smoothly:

“Oh, too late,” Ms. Cuckoo called from a cluster of beach towels, hands on her hips and sunglasses perched atop her head. “Alma already caught mine.”

Silence.

Miss Peregrine went rigid.

Then turned her head—slowly, sharply—toward Ms. Cuckoo, who simply gave a little shrug and the faintest smirk, like she hadn’t just sent everyone on the beach into stunned silence.

A faint blush rose to Miss Peregrine’s cheeks. Not dramatic, but real.

She looked away, adjusting her shawl again with slightly fumbling fingers. “You’re being absurd,” she muttered under her breath.

Jacob glanced at Emma, who was now squinting suspiciously between the two women.

“Wait…” Emma whispered, her brows drawing together. “Was that a joke, or…”

Jacob didn’t answer. He just grinned and lay back on the sand, soaking in the sun.

The rest of the afternoon unfolded like a dream.

The children splashed in the waves, built elaborate sand fortresses, and collected armfuls of driftwood for bonfires they begged to have later. Hugh showed Claire a harmless beetle he’d found in a shell. Bronwyn and Enoch teamed up to build a sand moat that stretched nearly the length of the shore. Even Millard, invisible though he was, left a line of footprints beside Fiona’s.

And through it all, Miss Peregrine remained near the edge of the water, watching.

Not stiff. Not cold.

Just… thoughtful. Present.

She’d let the shawl fall to the side now, her hands clasped behind her back as the wind danced around her. Ms. Cuckoo walked up beside her after a while, holding two glasses of lemonade.

“I got you one,” she said casually, offering it.

Miss Peregrine took it without looking at her. “Thank you.”

They stood side by side, shoulders brushing, watching their peculiar children laugh like regular children.

Ms. Cuckoo sipped her lemonade and tilted her head toward the sun. “You looked happy today.”

Miss Peregrine didn’t respond.

“You should do it more often.”

Miss Peregrine’s lips twitched, and she finally turned to look at her.

“Maybe I will,” she said quietly.

Night had settled gently over the house, the sky outside a velvet navy scattered with stars. The scent of the sea lingered in the windowsills, carried in by the open breeze, soft and cool. The sounds of waves were a lullaby of their own, distant and steady.

Upstairs, Miss Peregrine moved from room to room, gently tucking in each of her children. She pulled up blankets, brushed back curls, and kissed soft foreheads as she went.

“Goodnight, Claire,” she whispered, straightening the ruffle of her pillow.
“Goodnight, Bronwyn. Sweet dreams.”
“Sleep well, Olive,” she murmured, kissing the air just above Olive’s brow as she floated, eyes already fluttering shut.

She sang to them, her voice low and rich and soothing. It was an old lullaby, one from her own childhood—melancholy but safe, like being wrapped in memory. The little ones melted into sleep, breaths deepening, shoulders slackening. Even Hugh, who always pretended to be too grown for lullabies, had stopped fiddling with his bone doll and simply lay there, listening.

In the hallway, the older children exchanged mischievous smiles. Emma nudged Enoch with her elbow, who looked too pleased with himself. Millard, though invisible, was certainly grinning.

Miss Peregrine noticed none of it. Her eyes were far away—watchful, soft, but distant—as she finished the last line of her final lullaby.

She turned to close the door behind her—and paused.

Ms. Cuckoo was standing in the doorway, arms crossed lightly, a smirk playing on her lips.

“Don’t let me disturb your singing,” Isabelle said, leaning against the frame. “I always told you you had a beautiful voice. And now, look at that—you finally listened to me.”

Miss Peregrine’s eyes crinkled as she smiled. “We can talk downstairs,” she said quietly, glancing once more at the sleeping children. “Where no one will hear us.”

Downstairs, the kitchen was dimly lit by the warm glow of a single lamp. The tea was already steeped when they arrived—Ms. Cuckoo always seemed to have things ready before anyone realized they needed them.

Miss Peregrine cradled her mug between her hands, the steam curling gently under her nose. They sat on the old velvet couch in the living room, just the two of them, the night humming around them like a secret.

She spoke slowly, quietly. The words came hard at first—small details, clipped phrases. But Ms. Cuckoo didn’t interrupt. She only listened.

Miss Peregrine told her everything: about Mr. Barron, the experiments he forced her to endure, the constant fear of her time loop fracturing. She explained the escape, the return to their shattered home, and the desperate visit to Miss Allister’s refuge. Every sentence left her a little smaller, as if speaking them made the weight of the past weeks that much heavier.

When she finally exhaled, her voice trembled. “It’s been… a lot.”

Ms. Cuckoo didn’t offer advice. She didn’t speak at all. She simply leaned forward and pulled Miss Peregrine into a tight hug. It was quiet, grounding, firm.

“Alma,” she whispered into her hair, “I know you’ve been through hell. But you’re here now. And with me, at least… you’ll be a little safer.”

Miss Peregrine didn’t pull away. Her breath caught in her chest. “Isabelle… I—”

Before she could finish, Ms. Cuckoo leaned down and kissed her forehead. Gently. The same way Miss Peregrine had kissed each of the children.

“Sleep,” Isabelle murmured. “Do you want me to sing you a lullaby too?”

Miss Peregrine turned her head with a smirk. “Shut up. This was a nice moment.”

Isabelle only grinned wider. “Careful, or I will sing. I’ve got a whole choir in me, you know.”

“If I fall asleep, I’m making you carry me upstairs like one of the children,” Alma warned, settling deeper into the couch cushions, the mug of tea now forgotten on the coffee table.

“Deal,” said Isabelle, stretching her legs out beside her.

And so they stayed—side by side, in that quiet coastal house filled with sleeping children and soft waves. Sometimes talking, sometimes simply sitting in silence, the kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled.

Eventually, their heads tipped together.

And sometime between one breath and the next, they both fell asleep.

Chapter Text

Morning came with the sound of gulls and the golden haze of sunlight bleeding in through the curtains. The sea air was crisp, fresh, and full of life.

For the first time in… well, possibly ever, all the children were awake before Miss Peregrine.

They’d crept downstairs like a troop of mischievous foxes, led by Emma and Millard, who had proudly declared it was a “historic morning.”

Bronwyn tiptoed first, peeking into the living room—and nearly tripped over her own feet.

“Guys,” she stage-whispered, “come. Look. Now.”

The children crowded around the doorway in stunned silence.

There, on the couch, were Miss Peregrine and Ms. Cuckoo. Fast asleep. Alma’s head was resting against Isabelle’s shoulder, one of her hands loosely draped over her lap. Their teacups were cold on the table, untouched. A blanket had somehow ended up over both of them, pulled up to their chins.

Claire was the first to giggle. Olive clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle hers. Enoch raised a single eyebrow and muttered, “Well, well, well. Would you look at that.”

“She’s cuddling,” Emma whispered, eyes wide with something between delight and disbelief. “Miss Peregrine is cuddling.”

“Should we… make them breakfast?” Horace asked gently.

“No,” Emma said, eyes gleaming. “We should document this. Where’s a camera?”

“I’m invisible, I am a camera,” Millard offered.

Enoch crossed his arms. “I say we start teasing immediately.”

“She’s still sleeping,” Fiona whispered, as if it were a miracle of nature.

Bronwyn nodded seriously. “Do you think she’s dead?”

“She’s snoring,” Claire noted. “She’s not dead.”

They were giggling so loudly now that Miss Peregrine stirred.

She blinked.

Then she blinked again.

And froze.

All of her children—all of them—were standing in the doorway, grinning at her like cats who had caught her napping in a sunbeam.

“Oh,” she said, sitting up far too quickly, her voice going high with alarm. “Oh—hello. Good morning. I—what time is it?”

“Past eight,” Emma said sweetly, arms behind her back. “Slept in, did we?”

Miss Peregrine looked down and realized she was still half-curled under the blanket next to Isabelle Cuckoo, whose eyes were very much open and who was smiling like a cat with cream.

“You looked peaceful,” Isabelle said, stretching with the satisfaction of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.

“Miss Peregrine,” Millard said in a mock-serious voice, “we have gathered this morning to inform you that your position as the earliest riser has been revoked. You are, for the first time in history, the last to wake.”

“Oh please,” Enoch added, “let’s just call it what it is: scandalous.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Miss Peregrine said, smoothing her hair and rising with all the dignity she could muster. “There is nothing scandalous about two adults falling asleep while talking.”

“On the same couch,” Emma pointed out.

“Under the same blanket,” said Bronwyn.

“With forehead kisses,” added Claire, far too innocently.

Miss Peregrine flushed pink. “That is quite enough.”

“Miss Peregrine,” said Olive, eyes shining with delight, “were you cuddling Ms. Cuckoo?”

“I was—asleep,” Miss Peregrine said firmly, though the tips of her ears had turned red. “Children, please—”

“I just think it’s sweet,” Fiona said with a dreamy smile. “You looked very happy.”

“And safe,” Millard added.

That quieted them a bit.

Miss Peregrine paused, glancing at Isabelle, who only gave her a gentle smile and a shrug, as if to say, I warned you they’d be relentless.

“I suppose,” Miss Peregrine said finally, her voice softening, “there are worse things to wake up to than all of you being horribly nosy.”

Emma stepped forward, eyes narrowed teasingly. “So, Miss Peregrine… is this your beach house girlfriend arc?”

“Emma,” Miss Peregrine said sharply, “don’t make me assign chores on vacation.”

“You already did,” Emma chirped. “And I happily accept, as long as it means we get to keep watching this romance unfold.”

Miss Peregrine sighed, one hand on her hip.

“I swear,” she muttered, “you give them one peaceful night, and they turn into wild beasts.”

“Wild matchmakers,” Millard corrected.

Isabelle stretched, walking past her and toward the kitchen. “I’m making eggs and toast. Alma, dear, do you want some coffee? Or do you prefer tea when you're this flustered?”

Miss Peregrine groaned into her hand, but the corners of her lips betrayed her. She was smiling.

“Coffee,” she muttered. “Strong.”

“Coming right up, cuddlebug,” Isabelle called back.

A collective ooooooh went up from the children.

Miss Peregrine gave up and sat down at the kitchen table.

“You are all grounded,” she said flatly, sipping her coffee ten minutes later.

No one believed her. The breakfast table was a chaotic shrine to joy, and Miss Peregrine had completely lost control of it.

Scrambled eggs were being passed like sacred offerings. Toast, buttered and slightly burnt, was stacked high in the middle. There was jam everywhere—on the table, on cheeks, suspiciously smeared along the edge of a napkin that Olive swore she “didn’t mean to use like that.” Horace was slicing oranges with an elegance entirely at odds with the grin splitting his face in two.

And every single child—every single one—was grinning like the Joker. Not that they knew the reference. But if they did, they would’ve claimed it.

Miss Peregrine sat stiffly at one end of the table, back straight, tea untouched.

She had tried, briefly, to regain order.

“Children, use forks properly.”

“Claire, stop licking the jam knife.”

“Enoch, that is a threat disguised as a compliment.”

But it was no use.

Bronwyn had given her a suspiciously long hug as she placed a plate in front of her and whispered, “I’m proud of you.”

Emma had blown her a kiss across the table.

Enoch had folded his napkin into the shape of a swan, and then whispered, “You can use it for the wedding reception.”

Miss Peregrine, for the record, did not dignify that with a response.

And from the opposite end of the table, Ms. Cuckoo was watching it all with unholy delight. Her chin rested lazily on her palm, eyes fixed on Alma like a cat who had caught something precious in her paws and was watching it squirm.

“You’re handling this well,” Isabelle called, sipping her coffee slowly.

Miss Peregrine shot her a warning look. “Don’t you dare.”

“I’m just saying,” she replied, shrugging with all the innocence of a guilty saint, “if you had let me raise these children, I would’ve taught them far worse things than relentless teasing. Consider this the gentle version.”

“They’re already monsters.”

“They love you,” Isabelle said simply.

Miss Peregrine fell silent at that.

It was true. It was… dangerously true. And the way they were smiling this morning, it wasn’t just teasing. It was fondness. Warmth. Relief. Even Enoch, under his sarcastic scowl, looked like someone who’d been scared and didn’t know how to say it. They all had.

So they grinned like devils because Miss Peregrine had woken up next to someone safe, and because she was smiling back.

Horace passed her the butter.

“Here you are, Miss Peregrine. For your toast. And your future.”

“Horace.”

“Yes?”

“I will personally hide your sewing kit.”

He gasped.

“Savage.”

At the end of the table, Ms. Cuckoo leaned back in her chair with a lazy stretch and said, “I think this is the happiest breakfast I’ve seen in years. Honestly, I should invite you lot over more often.”

“You should,” Bronwyn said seriously, before adding, “You make really good eggs.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Miss Peregrine sipped her tea. It was finally cool enough. She didn’t speak for a while, letting the chatter hum around her.

Millard was arguing with Olive about whether an invisible person could serve as an officiant for a wedding. Fiona was quietly feeding scraps to a bird that had perched on the open windowsill. Claire was braiding Emma’s hair with wildflowers. The sunlight cast soft shadows across the table, and the sea could be heard crashing gently in the background.

Eventually, Miss Peregrine glanced at Isabelle, who was already watching her with raised eyebrows.

“What?” Alma muttered.

Isabelle smirked. “You’re glowing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You are. It's repulsive. Keep it up.”

Miss Peregrine rolled her eyes—but her lips twitched.

The chaos continued. Jam was spilled. Toast was dropped. Someone knocked over the sugar bowl and Claire declared it an emergency.

And Miss Peregrine?

She just smiled and let it happen.

After breakfast, Miss Peregrine attempted to return to normalcy—though, in hindsight, perhaps “normal” had already been redefined.

The morning sun had risen higher, golden light pouring through the gauzy curtains of the sitting room as she arranged the children in a loose circle, chalkboard balanced against a bookshelf and lesson plan in hand. Her handwriting was crisp. The subject today was French conjugation followed by basic arithmetic.

“Now,” she began, poised like a general before battle, “can anyone tell me the difference between je suis and j’ai?”

The room was quiet.

Claire raised her hand. “One has an ‘s’?”

Miss Peregrine sighed. “Technically accurate, but not helpful.”

Hugh kept scribbling something in his notebook. Emma yawned. Olive was already halfway off her chair. Fiona had her chin in her palms, eyes slowly wandering toward the open window.

And they weren’t subtle about it, either.

Every thirty seconds—exactly every thirty seconds—one of them would glance longingly toward the beach.

Horace kept “accidentally” drawing waves in his notebook instead of vocabulary words.

Millard, invisible but very much present, narrated quietly from his corner, “If Miss Peregrine allows us to swim within the next fifteen minutes, history will mark her as benevolent and just.”

“Millard, I will assign you a five-page essay on overstepping boundaries,” she snapped, trying very hard to remain composed.

She pressed on. Two more grammar exercises. A review of simple division. A spelling test.

But the air was thick with impatience. Even she was distracted—every time the ocean breeze floated through the window and curled around her collar, she found her own eyes drifting.

At exactly 11:14 a.m., after Olive whispered “I can hear the waves calling me,” Miss Peregrine shut her lesson book with a sigh loud enough to silence the room.

“Fine,” she said.

The children froze.

“I can see the beach has captured your hearts and stolen your minds. Off with you, then. But don’t dare drown or track sand into Ms. Cuckoo’s house.”

A cheer erupted. Children scrambled to their feet, laughter spilling from their lungs like it had been waiting all morning.

“YES!”

“You’re the best, Miss P!”

“You’ll be a national hero for this!”

“Millard, record this moment!”

Miss Peregrine barely managed to get out of the way before they bolted for the stairs, swimsuits already in hand, towels flying like banners behind them.

She leaned against the chalkboard with a small groan and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

From the doorway, Ms. Cuckoo watched the chaos with a smirk. “Well. So much for language studies.”

Miss Peregrine glared half-heartedly. “They’re impossible to teach when the sea’s within earshot.”

“Then teach by the sea,” Isabelle suggested. “They’ll be half as attentive but twice as happy. It’s a trade-off.”

“I’ll consider it,” she muttered, but her gaze drifted toward the shoreline.

The beach glittered under the late morning sun, the waves curling in lazy blue ribbons. The children were already darting along the sand, shrieking and chasing each other with wild delight.

Miss Peregrine let herself watch them for a moment. Emma was leaping through the foam with Olive on her back. Bronwyn had lifted Horace up like a trophy and was spinning him in a slow circle, his laughter ringing out. Even Enoch looked—well, slightly amused as he stood at the edge of the tide, hands in his pockets, letting it splash his boots.

Ms. Cuckoo nudged her. “Go on. Go join them.”

“I’ve supervised enough for one week,” Miss Peregrine said, folding her arms—but the corner of her mouth tugged upward.

“Alma.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t want to go in.”

Miss Peregrine hesitated. “Maybe after tea.”

Isabelle chuckled and walked off down the porch steps with a whistle, already calling out warnings about jellyfish and seaweed monsters.

Miss Peregrine stayed for just a moment longer, her gaze soft as she watched her peculiar family scatter across the sand like a windblown constellation.

Normalcy, she thought, can wait.

Chapter Text

It was late afternoon, and the sun had begun its slow golden dip toward the horizon, casting long sleepy shadows across the house by the beach. The air smelled of brine and wildflowers, and the sound of waves kept a steady rhythm in the background like a heartbeat.

Inside the house, Ms. Cuckoo knelt beside a small chest of paints and thread in the art room when she said it—casually, almost as if it were an afterthought:

“You know, children… Miss Peregrine’s birthday is in just a couple of days.”

There was a pause. Bronwyn stopped threading beads. Emma’s hands froze midair. Even Enoch blinked.

“Wait,” Olive whispered. “Miss Peregrine has a birthday?”

“She’s like... one hundred and forty-something,” Horace said, his face scrunched in disbelief. “Why would she still celebrate it?”

“She doesn’t,” Ms. Cuckoo replied. “But that doesn’t mean she’s forgotten it. She just doesn’t acknowledge it anymore. You know how Alma is. Always about duty. Discipline. Dignity.”

“Sounds miserable,” Millard said from the corner, invisible but audible.

“It is,” Ms. Cuckoo replied cheerfully. “Which is why I think it’s time someone reminded her she’s loved.”

They all stared at her.

Then Claire raised a tiny hand. “We’re throwing a birthday party for Miss Peregrine?”

“A secret one,” Ms. Cuckoo grinned. “I’ll get the flowers. You all work your magic.”

Suddenly, the house came alive with a quiet thrill—like someone had lit a fuse and it was glowing under the floorboards.

The children broke into hushed groups, whispering and working. Their minds and fingers busied with a strange kind of reverence, crafting things not for survival, not for display—but simply because they loved her.

Bronwyn stitched together a seashell pouch from bits of linen and twine, lining the inside with scraps of velvet she salvaged from Ms. Cuckoo’s attic. It was meant for Miss Peregrine’s rings and old watch—she always took them off at night and placed them too carelessly on the windowsill.

Olive and Emma strung together a necklace from the smoothest white and pearlescent shells they could find along the shore. Emma used a small flame from her fingertip to gently polish each one, whispering little compliments to them like charms.

Millard, despite his invisibility, found a half-broken pipe in the dunes—one Miss Peregrine had used long ago but discarded when it cracked. He patched it carefully with resin and polish, fixing the seam like a mended scar. “She used to hold this when she read,” he murmured. “Maybe she’ll remember.”

Enoch... well, Enoch made a small clay bird with wings that twitched once when you pressed its base. “It’s nothing,” he said flatly when Claire peeked over his shoulder. “Just stupid. Don’t stare.”

Even Fiona helped, planting a tiny pot of wildflowers on the windowsill and coaxing the blooms open just in time.

And true to her word, Ms. Cuckoo returned that evening with a wrapped bouquet of flowers gathered from just outside the loop. Wild violets, creamy white daisies, clusters of coral-colored sweetpeas. A riot of color, chaotic and alive—nothing like Miss Peregrine’s usual orderly arrangements, but infinitely more joyful.

“She’ll hate the mess of it,” Ms. Cuckoo said. “But she’ll love that we gave it to her.”

They tucked all the gifts into a woven basket and wrapped it in a soft shawl Claire had outgrown. Then they hid it beneath the floorboard of the art room.

Everything was ready.

They planned to surprise her the morning of. No loud shouting or decorations—just breakfast with candles, laughter, and gifts wrapped in memory and hope.

For once, they wanted her to feel like their child, in a strange way—a person worth celebrating, not just obeying.

In her room upstairs, Miss Peregrine had no idea what the whispering was about. She assumed it was another prank, another childish scheme. She had no clue that somewhere beneath the floorboards, the love of twelve children and one impossibly eccentric friend was waiting to rise like a tide.
The stars were beginning to freckle the sky when Fiona and Bronwyn crept into the kitchen with mismatched aprons and flour smudges already on their cheeks.

“I told you it needs more butter,” Bronwyn whispered, elbow-deep in a bowl of lumpy batter.

Fiona shook her head and pointed to the recipe Millard had dictated earlier. Her hair was already full of sugar dust, her hands sticky with honey. She didn’t say anything—she never did—but the smile tugging at her lips spoke volumes.

They weren’t bakers by nature. Bronwyn was more used to mashing potatoes than mixing batter, and Fiona’s idea of decoration usually involved vines. But tonight, they were determined. For Miss Peregrine.

The cake wasn’t grand. A small round vanilla sponge with wild berries crushed into the center, a bit lopsided on one side and possibly overmixed—but it was theirs. And it was for her.

Every time the floor creaked or the hall door squeaked, they froze in place like statues.

“Shh!” Bronwyn hissed, arms flailing to hide the mixing bowl under the counter.

Footsteps. Heeled. Measured.

Miss Peregrine entered the kitchen, elegant and curious, her pale hands clasped behind her back. Her eyes moved slowly over the scene—flour on the counter, a suspicious lump beneath a tea towel, Fiona’s leafy apron now hastily reversed inside out.

“Everything alright in here?” she asked, calm but amused.

Bronwyn, hands behind her back, stood in front of the counter like a mountain guarding a secret.

“Y-Yes, Headmistress,” she said with forced innocence.

Fiona just nodded rapidly, cheeks flushed.

Miss Peregrine arched an eyebrow. Her gaze lingered for a moment longer on the sugar bowl sitting three feet away from its usual place. But instead of questioning it, she simply said, “Very well. Try not to set the kitchen on fire, please.”

Then she turned on her heel and left, her black skirts whispering behind her.

In the hallway, she paused. She could hear them giggling once she was gone—poor, poor secretive children.

She shook her head fondly. Whatever they were up to, she was too tired to investigate.

The house was unusually peaceful tonight. No invisible shoes clacking on the stairs, no arguments from the chess table, no pouting from the sofa. Just the quiet hum of lamps and the distant roll of the tide outside.

So Miss Peregrine retreated into the study.

She lit her reading lamp and sank into the wingback chair, a novel resting on her lap—one she'd meant to finish two months ago. For an hour or more, she read in silence, sipping tea that had long gone cold, the soft flickering of candlelight warming her skin.

Something tugged at her chest—an ache she didn’t recognize. Nostalgia, maybe. A sense of something gently unfolding beyond her sight. But for once, she let it be. Whatever the children were planning, she would let them have their fun.

She left the book on the armrest and made her way upstairs.

The hallway was dark and quiet. Olive’s soft breathing floated out from behind one door, and Claire’s tiny snores behind another. Miss Peregrine smiled. She pressed a kiss to the edge of the frame of each child’s door as she passed—just a habit, something she’d always done.

When she reached her own room, she didn’t even change into her nightgown. She just removed her watch and rings, left them on the windowsill, and curled up atop the quilt like a child herself.

And for the first time in weeks, Alma Peregrine fell asleep without a single worry in her head.

The rain drizzled down in lazy streaks, tapping against the windows like a sleepy metronome. The loop had rarely seen such a soft, gray morning. Normally, the children would have still been curled in their quilts at this hour, but today was different.

Today, they were on a mission.

Bronwyn tiptoed across the creaking hallway with paper streamers bundled in her arms, while Claire fluttered behind her, holding a ribbon between her teeth. Enoch grumbled as he helped hang paper cranes from the chandelier (though secretly, he was the one who folded most of them). Fiona gently positioned the cake on the table while Hugh guarded it from rogue insects. Even Olive, floating a few inches from the floor in excitement, was humming to herself.

Ms. Cuckoo oversaw everything with a wide smile from the corner of the room, sipping her coffee far too smugly for someone who claimed to be “only a little involved.”

“It’s not perfect,” Horace whispered, fluffing a tulle garland for the tenth time, “but it’s... charmingly quaint.”

Rain or not, the room bloomed with hand-picked wildflowers, strings of shells, and mismatched candles that sputtered bravely despite the damp air. The scent of fresh berries and honey hung thick in the air. It was quiet now—lights off, all breath held—waiting.

Then: click clack click clack...

Miss Peregrine’s familiar heels echoed from the staircase.

They all froze.

From the shadows, Ms. Cuckoo gave a conspiratorial wink.

Miss Peregrine yawned behind one gloved hand, adjusting her shawl around her shoulders. She was expecting perhaps Isabelle in the kitchen, or Fiona by the windows tending to her ivy—not a suspiciously silent house with all the lights out.

Her eyes narrowed.

With a flick, she turned on the switch.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!”

The shout ricocheted off the walls like thunder. Paper cranes danced in the air from the sudden gust of movement, confetti rained down from above, and Fiona proudly stepped forward with the lopsided wildberry cake.

But Miss Peregrine… stopped.

Midstep. Midair. Frozen.

Her hand hovered above the banister like she was about to finish coming down, but never quite did. Her entire frame tensed. Her face went still—too still.

Then, horror.

She looked around wildly: at the handmade decorations, at the birthday banner scrawled with messy childlike handwriting, at the pipe-shaped seashell gifts, and finally, at the children’s eager, glowing faces.

Her lips parted. Her eyes flared.

“No. No—NO!” she gasped.

Everyone flinched.

“You... you planned this? Behind my back? Celebrated me?” Her voice grew sharp and brittle like glass on the verge of shattering. “How dare you—how could you—I told you not to waste your energy on me!”

“Miss Peregrine—” Ms. Cuckoo tried gently, but was immediately silenced by the steel in Alma’s eyes.

“No. Absolutely not. Take it down. Take all of it down.” Her voice cracked at the edges now. “I am not someone who needs... cakes and streamers like some schoolgirl. I—this—stop looking at me like that!”

Then she turned. Sharp and sudden.

The children gasped as she stormed back up the stairs, heels stabbing at each step. The moment she reached her room, the door slammed shut behind her like a thunderclap.

Silence.

The living room was still dressed in celebration, but the joy had evaporated. Fiona stared down at the cake in her hands. Claire looked on the verge of tears, her mouth trembling. Horace’s hands fell limp at his sides. Even Enoch looked startled and out of place.

Ms. Cuckoo blinked, slowly lowering her cup to the table. “Well,” she said, after a long pause, “that wasn’t quite how I rehearsed it in my head.”

Bronwyn began silently scooping flour off the floor with a dishcloth.

The others followed suit, not speaking, not really looking at one another. Hugh shooed a bee out the window. Olive started pulling down the decorations one by one. The banner tore slightly as she yanked at it, and she didn’t try to fix it.

No one knew what to say.

They had wanted to make her smile. To give back, even just once. She was their protector, their guide, their impossible mother—why wouldn’t she deserve something special?

But now the house was quiet again.

Too quiet.

And upstairs, behind a closed door, Miss Peregrine stood with her back pressed to the wall, her arms clutched tight around herself, trying to remember how to breathe through the guilt choking her chest.

Miss Peregrine’s door remained shut.

No sound. No footsteps. Not even the rustle of a book or the creak of her chair. Hours passed like clouds, gray and unmoving. She hadn’t come out once since morning.

Ms. Cuckoo had gone up first—of course she had.

She stood outside the door, knocked softly, and said, “Alma, dear, you’ll catch a cold sulking in the dark.” A pause. Then, “They meant well.”

Nothing.

She stayed a few more moments, listening. No reply. No movement inside.

So Ms. Cuckoo left a small plate of fruit by the door and whispered, “I’ll be back later,” before descending the stairs with a sigh.

One by one, the children came too.

Emma knocked and pressed her cheek to the door. “Miss Peregrine? Are you thirsty? Should I bring you tea?” She tried a smile in her voice. “You can be mad, that’s okay. We just… wanted you to know you’re loved.”

Still, silence.

Later, Claire tiptoed up with a hand-knit pouch she’d made from lace scraps. “I made this for your pocket watches,” she said, in her little soft voice, practically cooing through the door. “You’re always fixing things. So I thought maybe this can hold the tiny screws when they fall out.”

Nothing.

She lingered a little longer, humming to herself, a child’s lullaby under her breath, before padding away with slumped shoulders.

Then came Enoch.

He didn’t knock.

“Alright, this is getting sad,” he barked at the door, arms crossed. “Sulking like a teenager? Seriously? You’re acting like we broke your favorite birdcage or something. Open the bloody door before I get a screwdriver and force it open myself.”

A thump from inside. Then something heavier, more ominous—a slam, maybe. Enoch blinked.

“…Okay. Fine. Message received.”

He walked off, muttering curses.

By noon, the living room was a ghost town of party remnants. The cake sat on the table, untouched but not unscathed. The fondant had begun to sweat in the humidity, the frosting slumping just slightly at the edges. Its once-pristine wildberry decoration looked a little tired.

They hadn’t eaten all morning.

So Fiona took a knife and cut the first slice, dead silent. She passed it to Bronwyn, who passed it to Hugh. Then another. And another. Until they all sat around the table, forks in hand, not saying a word.

Outside, the rain continued to hum against the glass.

“This beauty,” Hugh finally said, looking down at the cake like it was a crumpled painting. “Wasted. And so delicious, too.” He sounded as tragic as a poet and as hungry as a wasp.

Bronwyn’s fork clinked sharply against her plate.

“Really, Hugh?” she snapped. “Insensitive much?”

Hugh blinked. “What? I just—”

“Maybe birthdays mean something bad for her,” Bronwyn said, slamming her fork down. “Did anyone think of that? Maybe they bring up memories she doesn’t want to celebrate. But we had to go and throw confetti and candles and make her remember.”

The room stilled.

“We weren’t trying to hurt her,” Olive whispered.

“I know that.” Bronwyn’s voice cracked. “But… we’re her kids. The children she chose. The ones she reads to and protects and fixes when we break things. Why doesn’t she want us to do something for her, just once? Why can't we love her back?”

No one answered.

Not for a long while.

The cake tasted like sweetness and regret. Like something made with love that wasn’t wanted. They each stared at their plates, pretending the sugar didn’t sting a little more than usual.

And upstairs, behind the locked door, Miss Peregrine sat on the floor beside her empty bookshelf, knees hugged to her chest, surrounded by paper decorations she could barely look at.

She hadn’t forgotten her birthday.

She just stopped believing she deserved to have one.

By the time supper rolled around, the house had fallen into a quiet melancholy.

The children ate quietly, mostly toast and leftover cake, too unsure of how to feel or what to say. The rain had not stopped all day, and the air clung to everything like wet cloth. Lanterns were dimmed. Nobody dared laugh.

Then, they heard the unmistakable creak of her door opening upstairs.

Miss Peregrine emerged slowly, her hair loose — a rare and unsettling sight. She walked past the landing like a ghost in mourning, saying nothing. In her hand, a small silver key.

She said nothing to the children. Instead, she walked down the hall with slow, heavy steps, then quietly unlocked the liquor cabinet. She took out bottle after bottle without saying a word — a wine, then another, then two more. She didn’t even bother with a glass for the last one.

The children, watching from the hallway, said nothing.

She selected three bottles of wine, barely glanced at the labels, and left. As she disappeared back upstairs with arms full of dark glass, Olive whispered, “Should we… do something?”

“No,” Emma said quietly. “Not yet.”

She disappeared upstairs again.

The children heard the door click shut. A heavy silence settled in the house again.

By the time Ms. Cuckoo went up to check on her, Miss Peregrine was on her third bottle. She answered the door, barely upright, hair down in thick black waves, her usually crisp dress spotted with wine stains. Her eyes were red. Her voice slurred.

“You came back,” Miss Peregrine said softly. “That’s… good.”

Ms. Cuckoo blinked in disbelief. “Alma! What are you doing?”

Miss Peregrine swayed slightly, holding her wine glass by the stem with two fingers. “Celebrating,” she said with a crooked smile.

Before Ms. Cuckoo could respond, Miss Peregrine suddenly pulled her into the room and pushed her gently onto the bed. She climbed into her lap without hesitation, her movements loose and unbalanced.

“That’s what everyone wanted, isn’t it?”

Without waiting for permission, Ms. Cuckoo stepped inside and took the glass from her hand. “You hate drinking. You loathe being out of control.”

Miss Peregrine stumbled backward, collapsing onto the bed behind her with a sigh. “Maybe I’m learning to make exceptions.”

Ms. Cuckoo knelt beside her, pressing the back of her hand to Alma’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”

Miss Peregrine didn’t respond. She looked past her, glassy-eyed. Then, without warning, she grabbed Ms. Cuckoo’s sleeve and pulled her down beside her, burying her face into her shoulder.

“You all remembered,” she mumbled. “You shouldn’t have remembered.”

“I always wanted to try this,” she said. “From the movies.”

Ms. Cuckoo froze.

“…Why not?” she asked gently.

Then she kissed her.

Ms. Cuckoo was too stunned to move at first — her hands awkwardly caught the wine glass before it spilled. But Miss Peregrine didn’t stop. The kiss was messy, off-rhythm, desperate. She clung to Ms. Cuckoo like someone drowning.

“Alma—” Ms. Cuckoo tried to speak, but her voice cracked. “Why are you doing this?”

Miss Peregrine didn’t answer. Her lips trembled against Ms. Cuckoo’s skin, her hands gripping her waist tightly, like she might vanish if she let go. Ms. Cuckoo’s breath hitched. Her heart ached.

She stroked Alma’s hair, gently, slowly.

It had only been about ten minutes since Miss Peregrine had taken the wine bottles upstairs. The children remained frozen in the kitchen, glancing between the mostly untouched food and the closed door at the top of the stairs.

Emma finally broke the silence. “She must be starving. The only thing she’s had all day is those bottles of alcohol.”

So they made a decision — one last try. They arranged a plate with a bowl of warm soup and the piece of cake they had saved just for her, carefully balanced it all, and tiptoed upstairs.

It was meant to be a quiet apology. But as they knocked, the door creaked open by itself.

No one moved at first.

Then they saw them.

Miss Peregrine and Miss Cuckoo — kissing. Passionately. Miss Peregrine sitting in her lap, her hair down, her fingers curled into Ms. Cuckoo’s dress.

The children all gasped at once and tried to look away, but it was too late. Miss Peregrine and Miss Cuckoo saw them first.

Ms. Cuckoo immediately jumped up and began shaking her hands around, panicked. “It’s not— I mean— we were just—”

Miss Peregrine didn’t say a word. Her eyes wide in shock, she transformed frantically into a bird — dark feathers bursting where her body had been — and flew straight into the washroom, slamming the door behind her.

The children stood in the hallway, frozen again. A heavy, horrible déjà vu of that morning washed over them.

They had seen so many versions of Miss Peregrine lately. Hurt Miss Peregrine. Crying and fainting Miss Peregrine. Smiling-when-she-wasn’t-okay Miss Peregrine. And... Naked Miss Peregrine. That last one had been particularly scarring — like watching your mother caught doing something she didn’t want you to see, something deeply personal and unplanned and vulnerable.

Drunk Miss Peregrine was a brand-new version. And a terrifying one.

Through the bathroom door, they began to hear her yelling.

Screaming.

She was shouting about her brothers — brothers none of them had ever heard of — and then about her parents. The anger in her voice rattled down the hall. The kids couldn’t make out everything, but the tone said enough.

Then came the sounds of retching. Violent, painful. Like her whole body was trying to reject everything inside of her.

They backed away from the door.

“She’s... she’s still naked in there,” Bronwyn whispered, horrified.

Ms. Cuckoo sighed and stepped toward the washroom. “I’ll go,” she said gently.

They let her in.

The rest of them pressed their ears to the door.

Fifteen long minutes passed. Nothing but muffled sounds. Then — crying. Soft at first, then louder. They couldn’t tell whose it was. Miss Peregrine’s? Ms. Cuckoo’s?

Then the crying shifted — rising into shouting. A full-on argument. Something about love. Something about loss. None of the children could make out the words clearly, only the sharp edges of emotion behind them.

Then — crash.

Glass or ceramic. Something broke.

Enoch stood and clapped his hands once. “Alright. That’s enough.”

He sent the younger children to bed. Fiona went quietly. Millard grumbled something invisible. Bronwyn carried Claire. Olive hovered in the hall for a moment longer before finally leaving.

Only Jacob and Emma remained behind with Enoch, all three of them sitting with their backs against the wall, ears still pressed to the washroom door.

They waited. And waited.

It felt like hours.

Eventually, the shouting stopped. The crying too. Just silence now.

And, despite everything, despite the tension in their chests and the questions in their minds, the three of them — Emma, Jacob, and Enoch — fell asleep right there on the floor. Ears still pressed to the door.

Waiting for this version of Miss Peregrine that would come out next.

It was around 5 a.m. when the door finally creaked open.

Emma, Jacob, and Enoch jolted awake, their necks stiff and cheeks sore from a night spent slumped against the floorboards. The sudden shift in weight sent them toppling over as the door moved—right onto their faces.

Miss Peregrine stood in the doorway.

She looked like she had lost a fight. Not with someone else — but with herself.

A single bath towel was wrapped around her thin frame, clinging to her like she didn’t quite notice it was the only thing she’d put on. Her hair was still a disheveled mess from the night before, tangled and stuck to the side of her face. Dark circles painted the skin beneath her eyes, and her lips were pale, pressed into a thin, unreadable line.

She stared down at them — the three kids collapsed on the hallway floor — and blinked, almost like she wasn’t sure if they were real.

Then, in the most neutral voice imaginable, she said:

“Good morning.”

And walked past them like nothing had happened.

Barefoot, quiet, slow.

She made her way down the stairs, into the kitchen. They heard the soft clink of porcelain as she took a teacup down from the shelf, the whistle of the kettle already on. Then, without a word to anyone, she disappeared into the study.

Jacob and Emma looked at each other.

Wide-eyed.

Mouths slightly open.

Neither of them said anything right away, but the shared look between them was clear enough.

That. Was. Insane.

Chapter Text

Miss Peregrine shut the study door quietly behind her and leaned against it like she’d been struck. She didn’t move for a long while. The room was still — stiller than the house, stiller than her thoughts, stiller than the awful silence outside the bathroom where she’d left Ms. Cuckoo curled in the corner like a worn-out cat.

The study. It had always calmed her. Ever since she was young — even before she had a study to call her own. Back then, it had been a corner in the attic of her family’s crumbling estate. She used to sneak books there when no one was looking, sit cross-legged between moth-bitten trunks and sagging boxes. Pretend she was somewhere else. Somewhere safer.

Now she had the real thing. A full room. Locked doors. Tall windows. Heavy furniture. And still, she didn’t feel safe.

She was wearing a towel. Just a bath towel. Her hair was matted, still damp. Her arms were scratched, and her ribs hurt like she’d fought the floor and lost. There were two bite marks on her wrist — not from anyone else. Herself.

And she couldn’t remember why.

Her head pounded violently.

She sank into the chair behind her desk, clutching the sides like they might hold her together. She stared at her own reflection in the dark window. A stranger. Pale, hollow-eyed, the pipe in her hand already half-lit. She finished lighting it with numb fingers, more for the ritual than the smoke.

What happened last night?

She remembered going upstairs. Taking the bottles. Laughing with Cuckoo. The kids were downstairs with that sorry piece of cake they’d saved her. Then… nothing. Just black. Like a curtain had been pulled tight over her memory.

But she knew it was bad.

If her headache, her towel, and the way Emma and Jacob had stared at her this morning meant anything — it had been very bad.

She didn’t want to ask what they saw. But eventually, she would have to.

A part of her was deeply afraid. What if they’d seen everything?

Her pipe burned out. She relit it. Let the smoke curl around her like a fog. Maybe if the room filled up enough, she wouldn’t have to think anymore. Maybe she could disappear in it.

But the memories started anyway. Not from last night. From longer ago.

From her father.

He used to drink, too. Not gently. Not at the table with a smile and a toast. No, he drank in shadows. In fits. In long, screaming, hurling storms.

She had been maybe eight or nine the first time it truly scared her. Her brothers had tried to make light of it — “He’s just loud tonight, Alma.” But even they couldn’t hide how they flinched when the shouting started.

She remembered it perfectly.

He came home with stained gloves and blood on his shirt, not his own. She never asked. He threw the front door open so hard it bounced back and nearly knocked over the lamp. His boots thudded like cannonballs across the house.

Then came the smell. Rotting fruit and something sharp, like vinegar and metal. He always smelled like that when he was too far gone.

He would scream at nothing. At their mother. At the dog. At the air. He would throw up everywhere — in the kitchen sink, on the floor, sometimes in his own lap. He would hurl pots and plates, sometimes picture frames.

Then he would cry.

The hiccups came next. So loud they rattled his teeth. Then, finally, he’d pass out. Always in the hallway, or the dining room floor, never in bed.

And the next morning?

He’d whistle.

Make porridge.

Say “Good morning, sweetheart,” like he hadn’t become a monster in the night.

Alma never forgot that.

The lie of it.

The way her mother never said anything. The way the broken glass would be gone by sunrise.

She used to swear — swear — she’d never end up like him.

But here she was.

Wrapped in a towel. Head spinning. Stomach sick. Children afraid. Not remembering what she’d done. Lighting a pipe over and over again because her hands were shaking too hard to be still.

A weak, vulnerable, drunk ymbryn.

Worse than what Ms. Allister had once warned her she might become.

Unfit, Allister had said coldly, years ago. A guardian should never be so human, Alma. It clouds your duty.

She’d brushed it off then.

Now? She wasn’t so sure.

She stared down at her hands. Then at the pipe. She let it go out again and didn’t bother lighting it this time. Just sat there.

The smoke hung thick in the air. But it didn’t hide her shame.

She was still Alma Peregrine.

And she had never felt more like her father.

Chapter Text

The kitchen smelled like toast and overripe bananas. Someone had made eggs. The kettle hissed faintly on the stove. But there was no morning chatter, no teasing, no clatter of plates being passed around. Only the occasional scrape of cutlery against ceramic and the ticking of the old wall clock that sounded louder than it ever had.

Miss Peregrine sat at the head of the table, quietly chewing her breakfast. She felt like a guest in her own house.

The children were being… odd.

Nobody had said anything when she walked in. Not even Olive, who usually ran to hug her. No cheerful "Good morning, Miss P!" No smiles, not really. They nodded at her when she entered — but it was more out of instinct than anything else.

They ate without looking at her.

Well, not really without looking. Every few seconds, she caught one of them glancing up from their bowl or plate, only to immediately snap their eyes back down when they saw her gaze had caught them. Like she’d burned them by accident. Like she was radioactive.

She tried to speak — to break the strange spell that hung in the air like fog.

“So…” she said, cutting into the silence with a polite voice. “Lovely weather we’re having. Perhaps a walk down the cliffs later? A bit of air might do us all good.”

No one answered.

Bronwyn shifted in her seat and gave a slight shrug. Hugh nodded vaguely, his spoon still in his mouth. Claire reached for the jam without saying a word. Even Millard — invisible or not — didn’t chime in with one of his usual comments.

Miss Peregrine tried again.

“Your eggs are very good, Bronwyn,” she said. “Fluffy. Well-seasoned.”

“Thank you, miss,” Bronwyn murmured. Her voice was small. She didn’t meet Miss Peregrine’s eye.

“Lovely cake as well,” Miss Peregrine added, picking at the remains of the wildberry dessert from the day before. It had melted somewhat, the cream too soft and the sponge a bit too firm — but the flavour still lingered sweetly on her tongue. “Really — the berries have held up well overnight.”

Fiona smiled at that. Bronwyn, too. But it was a strange sort of smile — more like a reflex than anything genuine. It didn’t reach their eyes.

Miss Peregrine noticed. She noticed everything. Especially Ms. Cuckoo’s absence.

She hadn’t come out of the washroom all morning. In fact, she had barely looked at Miss Peregrine once since dawn. Not even during tea. That was very unlike her.

They’d known each other since they were teenagers — since the war. There was hardly a secret between them, hardly a mood that went unnoticed. And yet now, Cuckoo wouldn’t meet her gaze. Wouldn’t sit near her. Wouldn’t leave the washroom, where she’d been for the past hour at least, mumbling and scrubbing and clattering things around like she was searching for treasure.

It wasn’t hard to guess why.

The silence was driving Miss Peregrine mad.

She ate a little more, though she’d lost her appetite. Sipped tea. Studied her hands. Finally, she looked up, directly at Emma, who had been seated not far from the washroom door — and whose eyes flicked nervously the moment Miss Peregrine turned to her.

“Emma,” she said quietly.

Emma froze.

Miss Peregrine didn’t raise her voice. In fact, she didn’t even raise her head. She simply spoke, eyes half on her plate.

“What happened yesterday?”

The question landed like thunder.

Everyone stopped eating.

Emma sat straighter, her spoon hovering midair. “Miss…”

Her voice faltered.

Miss Peregrine continued, still without looking at anyone. “You don’t have to embellish anything. Just tell me the truth.”

Emma hesitated, then cleared her throat. “Well, Miss… you fell asleep. In the washroom.”

The whole table held its breath.

Emma glanced at the others before continuing. “Me, Jacob, and Enoch — we were waiting to use it, but you were in there a long time. We didn’t want to knock or disturb you, so we just… waited outside the door. Sitting.”

She scratched her arm. “Eventually we fell asleep too. It was late.”

Miss Peregrine’s expression didn’t change. Her teacup hovered just above the saucer. “And you didn’t come in?”

Emma looked slightly panicked. “No! Of course not, Miss. You always tell us not to get involved in your personal affairs. We didn’t mean to snoop or anything— Right, Jake?”

She turned to Jacob, who looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

“Y-yes, ma’am,” he stammered. “Certainly. No, we didn’t, uh… we didn’t interrupt your… um… private business. Not at all.”

Then, realizing how that sounded, he flushed scarlet.

“I mean—we didn’t hear anything! Or see anything, ma’am. Or—actually, can I rephrase that—?”

He trailed off, his mouth still half open. Then closed it.

Miss Peregrine finally looked up. Her face was unreadable.

Even Enoch, who was usually full of snide remarks by this point, had nothing to say. He stirred his tea absently and stared at the table.

No sarcasm. No comments. No eye rolls.

Just quiet.

So, so quiet.

Miss Peregrine set her cup down with a small clink and folded her hands.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

That was all.

And still, no one smiled.

Miss Peregrine stood, the scrape of her chair against the floor sounding far too loud in the hushed kitchen. She gathered her half-eaten breakfast plate, fork, and remaining cup of tea and brought them to the sink. The children pretended not to watch her, but she could feel their eyes following her every movement.

She didn’t say another word.

The tap ran cold over her hands as she rinsed the plate. She placed it gently in the basin, wiped her fingers dry on the towel, and straightened her collar as though preparing for battle.

Then she walked down the hall, footsteps soft on the tile.

The door to the washroom was closed. From behind it came the sound of more clinking porcelain—maybe a soap dish? Then the quick hiss of a brush, a rag, scrubbing against tile.

Miss Peregrine knocked lightly, but firmly.

A pause.

Then, from the other side:
“Just a second, children. I’ll be out shortly.”

She didn’t sound particularly convincing.

“It’s me,” Miss Peregrine said gently. “Alma.”

Another pause. The clattering stopped.

Miss Peregrine rested her palm against the wood, as though that would help her feel whatever mood Isabelle was in. “Are you okay?” she asked. “You missed breakfast, Isabelle. You never do that.”

No answer.

Miss Peregrine kept her voice calm. Warm. “Do you need help with whatever’s going on in there? I keep hearing things… clattering like you’re trying to wash something. I could help.”

Still silence.

Then—too quickly, too brightly—came the reply:

“Oh, no need, darling! Just a little… spill from yesterday. Thought I’d clean it up before the smell set in. You know how the summer heat clings to everything.”

Miss Peregrine didn’t smile. “You’ve been in there for nearly an hour.”

Another clink. The faucet turned on and off again. Then Isabelle replied, a little too breezily:
“Well, it was quite a spill.”

Miss Peregrine stared at the door. Something about the way Isabelle said it made her chest feel tight.

“I’d like to come in.”

“Oh, Alma, really—there’s no need—”

“Isabelle.” Her voice cut through the door now, not sharp but final. “Please open the door.”

There was silence on the other side again. Long enough that Miss Peregrine could hear a faint drip from the faucet. A floorboard creaked under her foot.

Then, slowly, the handle turned.

The door opened just an inch. Miss Peregrine caught a flash of Isabelle’s face—smudged cheek, hair pinned back in haste, and eyes that wouldn’t meet hers.

She opened it a little more.

Inside, the washroom gleamed too brightly. The sink had been scrubbed raw. A towel sat soaked on the edge of the tub. A faint, unpleasant smell of bleach lingered in the air, mixed with lavender soap.

Miss Peregrine looked at her old friend. Her voice softened again.

“What happened last night?”

The moment the door opened fully, Miss Peregrine froze in the threshold.

The bleach stung her nose before she even stepped inside, but it wasn’t just the smell. It was the stillness of it. The deliberate, uneasy cleanliness. The kind that tried too hard to cover something up.

The bathroom had been scrubbed, yes—but not well enough. Or maybe, too well in the wrong places. The scent of lavender tried to smooth over the acidic burn of bleach, but failed. Her eyes landed on what had been missed—or perhaps what couldn’t be removed.

Bird feathers, clumped and damp, were caught in the drain, sticking to the side of the tub. Some looked black. Some white. Some—she couldn’t quite tell. They were matted together, and the sight sent a chill up her arms.

There were faint streaks of blood along the tiled baseboards, and a small rust-colored patch near the mirror. A few splotches still clung to the grout in the corners.

And on the wall, near the towel hooks—vomit. Dried. Splattered. Scrubbed over, but not gone.

Her breath caught.

There was a pile of clothing in the corner. Familiar. Her own. A pale blue blouse, soaked through with bleach and something else. The shape was so sad, so discarded. It looked like it had been balled up and stepped on more than once. A pair of stockings twisted inside out beside it.

The soap dish was shattered beside the tub, tiny porcelain shards glittering like teeth on the tile. All the towels—every single one—were on the floor in soggy heaps. It was the kind of mess that didn’t come from illness.

This was chaos.

This was panic.

Miss Peregrine stepped inside, slowly, like someone approaching a cliff’s edge.

She turned back toward Isabelle, who stood with her hands behind her back like a guilty child caught drawing on the walls.

“What in the world happened to your washroom, Isabelle?”

Ms. Cuckoo let out a too-bright, too-false chuckle. “Oh, you know. Rough night. Rough morning.” She shrugged with practiced ease. “I think I might’ve had a stomach issue. Haha.”

“That’s not funny,” Miss Peregrine said sharply. Her voice cracked slightly, like porcelain under pressure. “There are twelve children in this house. If this were a stomach bug, the washroom would look like our chemistry experiment from ’78, not like—” she gestured helplessly “—this.”

She took another step in. Her eyes scanned the feathers again. “And the strange thing is… I don’t remember a single thing from last night. Not one.” Her voice was quiet now, almost more dangerous than when it was sharp. “It’s like someone erased my memory. Like someone wanted me to forget. And made sure the children stayed quiet.”

She turned to Isabelle. “Did you promise them silence?”

Ms. Cuckoo was no longer looking at her. She had turned her head and was scratching at the inside of her wrist. Her fingers moved in tight circles, red already forming under her nails.

Then she forced a grin. “Would you look at that,” she said lightly. “So much garbage! I should get rid of that, don’t you think, Alma?”

She didn’t wait for an answer.

She all but bolted out of the washroom, footsteps too fast to be casual, too loud to be graceful. Miss Peregrine didn’t move. She heard Isabelle clatter through the hall, muttering something to herself—maybe about the rubbish bins, maybe about tea—but it all blurred together.

Miss Peregrine was alone.

Alone again.

Still no answers.

Only feathers, bleach, and the sick feeling in her stomach that whatever had happened last night wasn’t over yet.

Ms. Peregrine decided, in that moment, to do what her children did best: listen in on other people’s private conversations. The issue, of course, was that whenever they saw her coming, they stopped talking and scattered like startled birds.

She had a theory.

Her old and dear friend, Isabella Cuckoo, had erased her memory using her feathers. Then, either the children made a pact to keep it from her—and included Ms. Cuckoo in their secret—or they were hiding something even stranger. This was honestly hilarious. Espionage? Secrets? Spying on your guardian? She was definitely not being sarcastic at all.

Annoyed but determined, Ms. Peregrine approached Claire.

Claire was the most talkative child she had. A blabbermouth. A terrible liar. And so deeply loved that Ms. Peregrine would—and could—die for her. But still. A blabbermouth.

As she neared, the other children bolted like clockwork, leaving poor Claire blinking alone on the carpet.

"Claire, my sweet child," Ms. Peregrine said with sugary calm. "Come over here for a moment, please."

Claire obeyed slowly.

"Good girl, come here. Sit on my lap, love."

Claire climbed up with the stiff nervousness of someone who knew this wasn’t just a cuddle session. Her tiny hands fidgeted in her lap.

"Claire," Ms. Peregrine began gently, "now tell me honestly."

Claire swallowed hard.

"What do you think of my hair? Do you believe I should cut it short? Or grow it longer?"

Claire blinked. "It looks great, Miss. It'll look good short and long."

Perfect. Confused children were always easier than suspicious children, in her opinion.

Ms. Peregrine smiled. "Thank you, sweetheart. Now, may I ask you one more thing?"

"Yes, Miss."

Claire looked more relaxed now. Good.

"What did you see last night? And don’t lie to me. I always know when you’re lying, Claire."

Claire’s posture tensed again. Her eyes darted to the hallway, then back.

"I’m not supposed to tell you what I saw," she said, glancing down. "That’s what Emma and Jake said. But... I don’t understand why."

"Emma and Jake told you not to tell me?" Ms. Peregrine’s voice was soft. "It’s alright, Claire. You can tell me what happened."

Claire hesitated longer this time. Then she nodded.

"Okay... Well... we went upstairs to bring you dinner because you didn’t eat all day and that’s not healthy. Emma opened the door and we saw you with your hair down and doing that thing—you know—the thing where you put your mouth on another person? With Ms. Cuckoo!"

Ms. Peregrine’s face flushed bright red. This was... not what she had expected to hear.

"Alright..." she said stiffly. "Anything else?"

Claire smiled, glad to be helpful now.

"Then you turned into a bird and flew to the washroom. We all followed you, of course. Jake and Emma were super worried. You went inside and we heard lots of weird noises. Like clattering, and something breaking, and... throwing up sounds?" She helpfully mimicked gagging. “Like—hckh!—like that! Then we heard hiccups. I started giggling but Fiona told me to shush. So rude, right?"

"Yes. Quite rude," Ms. Peregrine said faintly.

"Then Ms. Cuckoo went in with you. There was shouting, like, a lot. And Enoch made me and Hugh and Fiona and the Twins go upstairs to Bronwyn’s room. Horace was already there. I think he was reading. He reads a lot."

Ms. Peregrine’s expression changed three times in thirty seconds—shock, confusion, embarrassment.

"Anything else, dear?"

Claire perked up. "Oh! Ms. Peregrine, Fiona was pinching me with her vines while we were sleeping last night! Can you tell her to stop? It really hurt!"

Ms. Peregrine pressed a hand to her temple.

"Yes, darling. I’ll talk to her. Now, run along and play with the others."

Claire hopped down, happy as ever.

"And Claire?" Ms. Peregrine added as the girl skipped toward the door. "This conversation is our little secret, alright?"

Claire beamed and pressed a finger to her lips. "Yay! Secret!"

Then she dashed off like nothing had happened, as though she hadn’t just casually revealed every single one of Ms. Peregrine’s nightmares in one innocent breath.

Ms. Peregrine sank into her chair, whispering, "I am going to die."

Ms. Peregrine watched Claire skip down the corridor, hair ribbons bobbing like traitorous little flags of doom.

She didn’t know whether to scream, faint, or crawl under the dining table and never come out again. Her hands flew to her face, which was now positively boiling. “My mouth… on Isabelle,” she whispered, horrified.

Then she gasped again. “My feathers—my vomiting—the clattering noises—oh God, the children saw everything.”

She staggered into the sitting room and collapsed into the armchair like a collapsing souffle. "They saw it all," she muttered, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. "Claire—oh, bless her sugar-sweet little mouth—Claire told me everything."

And indeed, she had.

Her face was so hot she was surprised she hadn’t caught fire. “I am a grown woman,” she said aloud. “A headmistress. I command time loops. I lecture on ethics and Victorian literature. And I kissed Isabelle Cuckoo in full view of my children like a lovesick, drunk lunatic bird!”

She leapt to her feet and began pacing.

“I lost control,” she muttered.

She spun on her heel. “And now they’ve made a pact. An actual pact. I knew it. The moment I walk in, they scatter like guilty goblins. And Isabelle won’t even look at me.”

She poured herself a cup of tea with shaking hands and downed it in one sip. It did nothing.

From the hallway came Claire’s voice: “WHO WANTS SANDWICHES?”

Followed by Fiona’s: “Quiet time, Claire.”

Ms. Peregrine managed a tiny, strangled laugh. Her dear little oddballs. Even when the sky fell, they still had their rituals.

She sat back down, trying to wear serenity like a mask over a hurricane. She couldn’t be angry. They weren’t malicious. If anything, they were protecting her.

That was… touching.

Infuriating.

Mostly humiliating.

And Isabelle—what had she done? Used her feathers to erase the memory? Her memory? And not the children’s?

Did she regret what happened?

Ms. Peregrine’s stomach twisted in betrayal.

But she was interrupted before she could drown in mortification, because Emma stood in the doorway.

“Miss… do you want to join us for a walk?” she asked stiffly. “Hugh said the lavender fields are in bloom.”

Ms. Peregrine straightened, forcing a calm smile. “I would be delighted, my dear. Let me just grab my hat.”

Emma nodded and turned away, her spine so straight it looked like it might snap.

Ms. Peregrine lingered by the mirror on her way out. Her hair was still a mess. Her face looked tired. But in her reflection, she saw something new: a sharp glint in her eye.

She was going to get to the bottom of this.

She was going to corner Isabelle Cuckoo.

And this time, no one was flying away.

Not even her.

Chapter Text

The lavender fields rippled softly in the breeze, but for Jacob, Emma, and Enoch, the morning air felt heavy—thick with dread. They lagged behind the others, every step hesitant, every breath too loud in their ears.

Ms. Peregrine walked beside them, calm and unhurried, but with an icy edge slicing through the quiet. Her voice came low and smooth, each word weighted with unspoken threat.

“Jacob, Emma, Enoch,” she began, eyes glinting like sharpened glass, “I must say, your dedication to silence is almost admirable.”

Jacob’s throat tightened. He dared a glance at her, but found only the stillness of a storm—silent, remorseless, inevitable.

“Really impressive. How you all managed to keep your mouths shut about last night…” Her voice dipped, honeyed venom pooling in every syllable.

Emma swallowed, words caught like stones in her throat. Enoch’s hands balled into fists at his sides.

Her gaze sharpened, locking onto each of them in turn. "Claire’s little performance earlier. Such talent. I presume she learned from the best?”

Jacob’s chest tightened, the air squeezing out of his lungs. He tried to find words, but only silence spilled from his cracked lips.

In front of them, the others stole anxious glances, breaths held and quickly released—watching, waiting.

Ms. Peregrine’s slow footsteps echoed softly as she paced beside them, predator and prey entwined in this quiet hunt.

“Let me be perfectly clear,” she said, voice soft yet able to easily cut through razors. “You saw me, uncharacteristically undressed—a shocking breach of decorum. You witnessed my… less than graceful coping mechanisms for drinking. And yet, you all agreed, quite unanimously, to keep silent.”

Her smile was a blade, thin and merciless.

“How very… noble.”

Jacob’s throat rasped dry as panic clawed upward.

She stopped in front of him, voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “And you, Jacob—my utmost star—your diplomatic finesse should be studied. Such careful wording this morning. Almost convincing.”

He nodded mutely, heart pounding.

Ms. Peregrine chuckled, low and chilling. “I’m so impressed by your discretion, I almost pity the emotional weight you carry. Almost.”

Emma looked down at the crushed lavender beneath her boots; Enoch’s fists clenched tighter.

Then her voice softened slightly, the threat barely veiled in sweetness.

“Let this be embedded into your skulls: if anyone attempts to shield me from the truth again…” She paused, eyes burning. “You won’t like what follows.”

The silence that fell was suffocating, a noose tightening.

Jacob’s voice finally broke, shaky and thin. “Miss Peregrine, we… we didn’t mean to—”

Her eyes narrowed, the calm venom sharpening. “Didn’t mean to what, Jacob? Betray my trust? 'Protect me' by lying? The irony is delicious.”

Emma stammered, “We just… we didn’t want to hurt you. We thought it was best.”

Ms. Peregrine’s lips twitched in a dark smile. “Best for whom, Emma? Yourself? For me?”

Enoch swallowed hard, stepping back. “We thought it was… safer.”

“Safer.” She echoed softly, savoring the word. “For you. Not for me.”

The three children exchanged panicked glances.

Ms. Peregrine’s gaze hardened. “Tell me, what would you do if you thought I was spiraling? If you believed I needed protecting? Would you lie to me again?”

Jacob’s voice cracked. “No, Miss Peregrine.”

“Good.” Her tone was final. “Because next time, I may not be so… forgiving.”

Emma blinked back tears, her voice barely a whisper. “We understand.”

Ms. Peregrine stepped back, eyes piercing. “See that you do.”

Without another word, she turned and strode away, the faintest hint of a smirk curling her lips.

Jacob, Emma, and Enoch looked at one another, then took off after the others, their feet pounding the soft earth, hearts pounding louder still.

Jacob gasped, “Let’s just… say we were practicing a play. Yes, a play.”

Emma nodded quickly. “Right, rehearsal. For a play.”

Enoch muttered, “Yeah, that’s it. Definitely a play.”

They glanced back once, half expecting Ms. Peregrine to appear with that calm, venomous smile, but she was gone.

Their breaths ragged, their chests tight, the three of them ran to catch the group, knowing one thing with terrifying certainty: Ms. Peregrine’s storm had only just begun.

Jacob, Emma, and Enoch ducked behind a cluster of wildflowers just beyond the lavender fields, gasping for air as their feet pounded the soft earth. Their breaths came in ragged bursts, but the heaviness in their chests was not from exertion alone.

“Did she really just say that?” Emma whispered, voice trembling. “That she might not be so forgiving next time?”

Jacob swallowed hard, wiping sweat from his forehead. “I feel like I’m drowning. Like she’s already punishing us without moving a muscle.”

Enoch ran a hand through his hair, eyes darting back toward the group ahead. “What are we even supposed to do now? She’s onto us. We didn’t mean for this to get this bad.”

Emma’s gaze dropped to the ground. “We need to know if Claire actually spilled the beans. She’s the only one who talks this much.”

Jacob’s jaw clenched. “But if she did, how do we even bring it up? She’s so honest, but… well, she’s Claire.”

A few moments of silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant laughter of the other kids playing by the beach.

“Alright,” Jacob said finally, “we talk to her. Calmly. Like she’s not the enemy.”

Emma nodded, taking a deep breath. “She’s one of us. We just need the truth, nothing more.”

They approached Claire, who was sitting on a low stone wall, twirling a strand of her ribbon between her fingers, looking almost too innocent.

“Claire,” Emma called softly.

Claire looked up, her eyes bright but wary.

Jacob stepped forward. “Hey, Claire. We… um, we need to talk.”

Claire tilted her head. “About what?”

Jacob exchanged a glance with Emma, then said, “You told Ms. Peregrine about last night, didn’t you?”

Claire blinked, then grinned sheepishly. “Well, I might have.”

Emma sighed. “Why? We all agreed not to say anything.”

Claire shrugged, innocence radiating from her like a shield. “She asked me about it. She also offered me candy. And anyway, she’s not mad, is she?”

Jacob grimaced. “Mad? You haven’t seen mad yet. She’s scary when she’s calm. Like she could unravel you with a look.”

Claire giggled nervously. “Well, I guess I did cause a little storm.”

Enoch smiled faintly. “You did. But you’re also the only one who told the truth, even if it was by accident.”

Claire’s smile softened, and she looked at them with earnest eyes. “She loves us, you know. Even when she scares us.”

Emma nodded. “Yeah, we know. That’s what makes this all so hard.”

Jacob sighed, running a hand over his face. “We just need to be honest from now on. No more secrets.”

Claire reached out, taking their hands one by one. “Deal.”

They stood together for a moment, the weight of their unspoken fears hanging between them, but also a fragile hope — that love, even tangled with fear and mistakes, could be enough to pull them through.

Ms. Peregrine lingered just out of sight near the edge of the garden where the children had gathered, their voices low and jittery. Claire stood in the center, looking more nervous than usual, while Jacob, Emma, and Enoch fidgeted beside her.

“…So, uh, yeah,” Jacob stammered, glancing nervously around. “We, um… we were just rehearsing for the play. Like, you know, practicing lines.”

Emma nodded vigorously, trying to appear convincing. “Yeah! Like Ms. Peregrine said — we should practice more every day!”

Enoch gave a tight smile but said nothing.

Ms. Peregrine’s eyes narrowed, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. Calm and venomous, she stepped forward slowly, making her presence known before any of them could escape.

“Well, how utterly theatrical of you,” she said softly, voice dripping with amused sarcasm. “A perfectly staged production of The Great Silence. Bravo.”

Jacob’s face paled, and he swallowed hard. Emma bit her lip, while Enoch’s jaw clenched tighter.

“I do so admire your commitment to a performance,” Ms. Peregrine continued, voice smooth but icy, “but I’m curious — how convincing do you suppose your act will be if you avoid looking me in the eye?”

She let the words hang, her gaze piercing each of them in turn, calm and relentless.

Emma finally found her voice, trembling but honest. “We… we just didn’t want to hurt you, Miss. We thought if we told you, you’d be upset.”

Ms. Peregrine’s expression softened briefly, but the edge remained. “You think protecting me means building walls of silence? Perhaps you misunderstand what real love looks like.”

Jacob looked down, ashamed.

Enoch broke the silence with a low voice, “We didn’t mean to lie. We just didn’t know just how to say it.”

Ms. Peregrine stepped closer, lowering her voice to a near whisper. “Truth is never the enemy, children. Fear of it is.”

She paused, then smiled—gentle, but with that same sharpness underneath. “Now, I want honesty. No more 'rehearsals'. No more performances. Just us.”

The group exhaled collectively, the tension easing as Ms. Peregrine extended a hand toward them.

“Shall we begin?”

The children exchanged nervous glances before Jacob finally took a deep breath and spoke, his voice low but steady.

“Miss Peregrine… we think you remember some of it, but maybe not all. That morning, when you locked yourself in your room—you were really upset. You screamed at us and ran upstairs. We tried to give you space. We all went up to check up on you couple times throughout the day.”

Ms. Peregrine nodded slowly, a faint crease forming between her brows. The memory was foggy but felt familiar.

Emma swallowed and continued, “Then last night… well, you were drinking. More than usual. You had several bottles of wine. We were worried. So we went up to give you dinner. We knocked, of of course, but the door opened by ITSELF.'”

She winced slightly at the memory, watching Ms. Peregrine’s face tighten.

“We saw well… you kissed Ms. Cuckoo,” Jacob added quietly. “It wasn’t just a kiss, but then you turned into a bird and flew away.”

Enoch swallowed hard but pressed on. “You broke things in the bathroom—ceramics and stuff. We heard shouting and retching, like you were really upset. Then there was silence for a long time.”

Emma glanced down, voice softening. “We… we stayed outside your door. Me, Jacob, and Enoch. We fell asleep waiting.”

Ms. Peregrine’s eyes closed briefly, pain flickering behind them. The pieces were coming back, blurry but undeniable.

Claire’s innocent words echoed in her mind, and she sighed—a long, tired breath.

“You saw everything,” she said quietly.

“That's fine. We’ll face everything together with you,” Emma said firmly.

“And no more secrets,” Ms. Peregrine added, smiling for real this time.

Chapter Text

The sun was dipping lower, casting long shadows across the garden in front of the house as the children’s laughter and footsteps faded inside. Ms. Peregrine walked slowly toward the flowerbeds where Isabelle Cuckoo was kneeling, hands busy watering the plants.

Alma paused a few feet behind her, then stepped closer—quietly, carefully. Without warning, she reached out and grasped Isabelle’s wrist.

Isabelle froze, startled, and tried to pull away. “What are you doing, Alma? I need to water these flowers today.”

Ms. Peregrine sighed softly, the weight of a thousand unspoken worries in her eyes. “I know what happened last night.”

Isabelle’s breath hitched, her gaze darting down to the earth.

Alma’s voice cracked just slightly, a fragile thread of vulnerability woven beneath her cautious calm. “I do not know how I feel about yesterday. You helped create that celebration for my birthday—the first one in years where I had acknowledged its existence. The first time I allowed myself to even think about it, without running away. And then today... You said nothing all day. Like I never ruined your washroom last night.” She swallowed hard, her throat tight. “And the kiss... Isabelle. You’ve been avoiding me all day, like I’m some kind of plague.”

She hesitated, searching Isabelle’s eyes, desperate to find something—reassurance, forgiveness, anything. “You know my birthdays are never easy. I’ve spent more of them crying in silence than laughing. Some years, I don’t even remember it’s my birthday until the day is nearly over. I don’t want to celebrate it. I don’t want to feel that ache again.” Her hands clenched briefly at her sides.

Ms. Cuckoo looked away for a moment, pain flickering across her face—an unspoken understanding passing between them. She knew better than anyone the weight Alma carried on those days; the ghosts that refused to rest. “I know, Alma,” she said softly, voice trembling just a touch. “I know how hard it is for you. And I know why you don’t want to celebrate. Why you try to forget. Because birthdays like that—when the world feels heavy and cold—they don’t bring joy. They bring memories you’d rather leave buried.”

She reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from Alma’s face, her eyes warm but sad. “I only wanted to make it easier for you. But maybe... maybe I made it harder.”

Alma’s breath hitched, her eyes glistening. “Maybe we both did.”

" And about the kiss," Isabelle’s eyes flickered up to meet hers, a sad, fragile smile touching her lips. “It would be better for both of us to just.... forget it happened. The world we live in… it’s not a place for people like us. You know that, Alma.”

Ms. Peregrine’s voice softened, a fragile hope threading through the pain. “I know. I just thought... this time it would be different. Maybe things could be different.”

She paused, searching Isabelle’s face. “Okay. Let’s forget this happened. Nothing changed. Pretend we’re still friends. Are we okay? As friends?”

Isabelle’s smile barely reached her eyes, gentle and real this time. “Of course. Always. That will never change.”

They stood there in silence, then Miss Peregrine walked slowly into the house, hoping Ms Cuckoo would change her mind and chase after her.

Chapter Text

Somewhere far from the warmth of Miss Cuckoo’s loop, in a place that stank of rust and rot, Mr. Barron dragged his battered body across the tiled floor of the abandoned bathhouse in Blackpool. His limp was worse now, more of a desperate stagger than a step, and his coat clung to him in wet tatters. The scar above his temple throbbed. The last thing he remembered before waking in a twisted heap of limbs was Peregrine’s cold hand raised in the air — a stop so complete it had shattered the rhythm of time itself. He should have died in that moment. Instead, she had left him.

Left him alive, just barely, and somehow that was worse.

The silence broke with a low, mechanical hiss. A door he hadn’t seen opened, and with it came the feeling that the temperature had dropped several degrees. The hair at the back of his neck rose. His breath caught.

A figure stood at the threshold, face obscured by a glinting visor. A strange contraption of brass and darkened glass shielded their features, but the voice that crackled from within was unmistakably human — and unmistakably laughing.

“You lost everything,” the stranger said, each word like a hammer striking iron. “Again.”

Barron flinched.

“I was trapped,” he rasped. “You don’t know what it was like. Alma Peregrine froze us in time, we couldn’t even breathe. It wasn’t a loop. It was a coffin.”

The stranger didn’t respond at first. Then came the slow clack of boots crossing the room, deliberate and full of fury. Mr. Barron didn’t dare lift his eyes.

“You disappointed me,” the voice said. “Even Allister had the decency to serve the greater good once.”

Barron’s face twitched. He had been forced to kill Allister himself, her resistance more irritating than effective. A dusty old mop might’ve been more threatening. And still, he hadn’t expected to lose everything.

“I can still be useful—” he tried.

“Useful?” The voice rose into a shout that echoed off the walls, and with it came movement — a flicker in the shadows behind Barron. Something huge. Something wet. Something hungry.

The Hollow approached soundlessly at first. Then it hissed.

The Hollow crept closer. He could hear its breath now — ragged and inhuman. Close enough to touch. Close enough to taste his fear.

He tried to crawl forward. Just one more inch. Just one more second of life. He’d do anything. Say anything.

“Please,” he finally whispered, not to the Hollow, but to the stranger. “Please, I was loyal. I—I believed in your vision. You said we’d build a better world.”

The stranger tilted their head slightly.

“And you failed it.”

Barron scrambled backward, but the stranger didn’t stop it. Didn’t speak. A deliberate flick of the wrist.

The Hollow struck.

Its tongue — barbed and slick — lashed forward and plunged into his eyes. Not fast. Not merciful. It was slow. Deliberate. The way a surgeon might pierce flesh, or a child might pull the wings off a fly.

Barron screamed. It didn’t matter. There was no one to hear.

He twitched violently as his vision bled out of him in black and red streaks. His hands clawed at the air. He didn’t even realize he was screaming until his voice broke. He was falling into darkness — the last thing he would ever see was that grinning, faceless mask.

When the Hollow withdrew, Barron’s body slumped forward like a marionette with its strings cut.

The stranger stood silently, watching. Then, with a cold sort of satisfaction, turned their back.

"Move to the next phase," they said, almost casually. “Alma will be in my hands sooner or later.”

Their smile widened beneath the mask — a sharp, wide grin similar to a child’s portrayal of a monster. Somewhere in the building, more Hollows began to stir, moving out as commanded.

The light overhead flickered, then died.

—

Horace woke with a desperate cry. He shot upright in bed, drenched in sweat, clutching his chest like he was still falling.

He had seen it all.

The Hollow. Mr.Barron's corpse. The wicked smile.

"Miss Peregrine," he whispered.

But outside, birds chirped. The sky was blue.

The peace in Miss Cuckoo’s loop remained unbroken — for now.

Chapter Text

The knock came just as the house was quieting into afternoon rhythm — Claire was braiding her curls in the parlor mirror, Hugh and Fiona had gone off to the garden, and Isabelle was downstairs helping Enoch unjam a rusted crank in one of his more grotesque contraptions.

No one knocked at the door.

Not in Miss Cuckoo’s loop.

Claire hesitated, one hand hovering above the handle. She glanced back into the house, then slowly unlatched the door.

A woman stood on the front step. Somewhere in her forties, tall and sun-dusted, with a halo of soft brown curls and a lemon-yellow coat that made her look almost offensively cheerful. She held a foil-covered tray and wore a smile that reached her eyes — too quickly, too brightly.

“Hello there,” the woman said. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

Claire stared.

The woman went on, unbothered. “I’m Casey. Just moved into the cottage a bit down the road — lovely little thing. Thought I’d stop in and introduce myself the old-fashioned way.”

She lifted the tray. “Lemon squares. My own recipe.”

Claire didn’t reply. She turned her head and called, a bit louder than needed, “Miss Peregrine? There’s someone here with… lemon… squares.”

A moment later, Alma appeared at the top of the staircase. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes flicked to the visitor and narrowed just slightly.

She descended slowly, each step precise. “Thank you, Claire. You may go.”

Claire vanished toward the kitchen, not without a glance over her shoulder.

Miss Peregrine stopped just a few feet from the open door, the low summer breeze stirring the hem of her sleeve.

“Good afternoon,” she said. “You said you’ve moved nearby?”

“Just yesterday,” Casey replied with a grin. “Escaping London. The noise, the people, the endless gray. You know how it is.” Her eyes sparkled. “And I do think I’ve chosen well, haven’t I?”

She looked Miss Peregrine up and down — not subtly.

Alma stiffened. “This is private property.”

“Of course,” Casey said smoothly. “But you don’t seem the type to mind a little company.”

A long silence passed.

Then, she stepped forward, just a fraction too close, and offered the tray again with a teasing smile. “Lemon square? Or would you rather something sweeter?”

Alma didn’t flinch, but her voice cooled several degrees. “Thank you. But I don’t indulge in sweets I haven’t prepared myself.”

Casey laughed — an airy, too-practiced sound. “Fair enough. But it’s not poison, I promise.”

“I’m sure you don’t intend it to be,” Alma said, taking the tray carefully, her fingers brushing the foil as if testing it for traces of something unseen. Her eyes never left Casey’s face.

Before she could say more, a door creaked open on the stairwell behind her, and Isabelle appeared, wiping her hands on a towel, hair pulled back messily. “Is someone—?”

She stopped mid-step.

Her eyes locked on Casey.

“Do you… know her?” Alma asked quietly, not turning.

Isabelle frowned. “No. I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

Something shifted.

Casey blinked. “Oh. I thought… this was her house.”

Isabelle stepped forward slowly, confusion creasing her brow. “You’re in my loop. You should not be here.”

Alma’s head tilted. “You’re saying she came through?”

“I didn’t open it for her. I haven’t even touched the threshold today.” Isabelle glanced to Casey again, more sharply this time. “You shouldn’t have been able to enter unless—”

“Unless what?” Casey asked, sounding more amused than alarmed. “I just walked. It was a beautiful trail. Looked like a house out of a painting, and I thought—‘what’s the harm?’”

Alma’s stare hardened. “You’re peculiar.”

Casey tilted her head. “Excuse me?”

“You walked through a time loop. That is not something a normal human can do.”

Casey’s smile faltered — just for a moment. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

Miss Peregrine handed the tray to Isabelle, her expression flat. “We’ll keep these. For study.”

Casey lifted her brows. “You’re joking.”

Alma’s tone was almost polite again, but with a finality that cut. “I think it’s time you left.”

Casey’s gaze lingered — not on the house, not on Isabelle, but on Miss Peregrine herself. “You don’t trust easily, do you?”

Alma didn’t blink. “No.”

“That’s a shame,” Casey murmured. “You seem like someone who deserves to be flirted with properly.”

Alma’s voice was steel. “I am not interested.”

Casey gave a mock salute. “Understood. No harm done. Just keep the tray.”

She turned and left without another word.

The door closed behind her with a softness that was somehow louder than a slam.

Isabelle stood motionless, staring at the door. “Alma… if she came through…”

“She’s peculiar,” Alma confirmed.

“But she didn’t seem to know—”

“Perhaps she doesn’t. Or perhaps she knows far too well.” Alma turned to Isabelle. “Either way, she found this place. And you said yourself, the loop was secluded.”

Isabelle nodded, her mouth dry.

“We’ll watch her,” Alma said softly. “And we’ll be ready.”

Outside, the wind picked up. Somewhere beyond the trees, a woman in a yellow coat vanished into the green — smiling to herself.
________________________________________________________________
The room buzzed in the darkness that night.

“She winked at Miss P like she was in a romance novel,” Claire declared, voice low but thrilled.

“She what?” Olive gasped.

“Winked. With her actual eye. Like this.” Claire demonstrated in the dark. “And she brought lemon squares and wore lipstick.”

Millard rustled his blanket. “Sounds suspicious.”

“She flirted so hard I thought Miss P was going to turn into a peregrine just to fly away,” Claire whispered.

Bronwyn groaned. “Maybe she was just being nice.”

“No one is that nice,” Claire replied. “Also, Miss Cuckoo looked just as confused. She didn’t know her either.”

“Wait,” Olive said, “does that mean she’s peculiar?”

“Has to be,” Claire said. “Normal people can’t walk into loops. Unless the loop’s cracked. Or… someone let her in.”

Silence followed.

Then Hugh muttered, “I don’t like it.”

Fiona sat up in bed. “Me neither.”

“Who do you think Miss Peregrine liked more?” Olive asked suddenly. “Ms.Cuckoo or Casey?”

There was a collective groan.

“Shut up, Olive.”

“What? I’m just saying.”

Claire smirked in the dark. “Miss P had that look. You know. That not-this-again look. But she still stood close to Miss Cuckoo. Like… they used to stand closer.”

They all fell quiet again, letting that image hang in the air. The mystery of Casey — her wink, her lemon squares, and her place in the loop — settled into their dreams like dust in old corners.

Something about her didn’t add up.

And if there was one thing they’d all learned by now…
Sweet always came with a price.
_________________________________________

The house had long since gone quiet, save for the faint creaks of old wood and the wind tapping against the eaves. The children were tucked away—some feigning sleep, others whispering into pillows.

In the study, a single lamp cast a golden halo over the worn rug and two steaming cups of tea. Miss Cuckoo sat curled in the armchair, her legs tucked up and slippers dangling from her toes. Alma stood near the window, arms folded as she watched the trees sway beneath the moonlight.

“Are you going to keep brooding all night,” Isabelle said, “or shall I start belting operas to you until you beg me to stop?”

“I’m not brooding,” Alma said flatly.

“Oh no?” Isabelle took a slow sip of tea, smirking over the rim. “Because you looked like you wanted to slam the door in that woman’s face the moment she smiled at you.”

Alma raised a brow. “She was being inappropriate.”

“She was being flirtatious. There’s a difference.”

“Hardly.”

Isabelle chuckled. “You should’ve seen your face. I thought you were going to transform and fly yourself deep into the Carpathians to escape her. Or fake a fainting spell just to make me deal with her.”

Alma gave her a side glance, though her lips twitched.

Isabelle grinned. “Don’t worry. I was flattered on your behalf.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“She liked your hair.”

“She liked being disruptive.”

There was a long pause. Alma turned from the window and finally settled into the chair across from Isabelle. The steam from her untouched tea rose between them like a veil.

“You didn’t recognize her,” Alma said quietly.

“No,” Isabelle answered, the humor softening from her voice. “Not at all.”

“And yet she entered the loop. Your loop. Without hesitation.”

“She had no ymbryne aura. At least none I could feel,” Isabelle said. “If she’s peculiar… she’s untrained. Unaware. Or someone else is playing games.”

Alma exhaled, long and slow. “I don’t like games.”

“You used to.”

“Only when you played fair.”

Their eyes met across the table—years of shared burdens and unspoken feelings pressed into a single look. Not quite longing. Not quite regret.

“Do you think she’ll come back?” Isabelle asked.

“I think she will,” Alma said. “People like her don’t deliver lemon squares without planning a return.”

“Well,” Isabelle said, reaching for the biscuits between them, “next time, I’ll answer the door.”

“I won’t stop you.”

“Liar.”

Alma actually smiled.

Isabelle smiled too.

And for a moment, with the house still and the loop holding firm around them, it was almost easy to forget that anything unusual had happened at all.

Chapter Text

It was a golden sort of afternoon. The kind where the sun made everything look far more peaceful than it really was, casting warm halos across the tablecloth and catching in the steam of fresh chamomile.

Fiona had braided daisies into her hair, and Claire was helping herself to the third scone when the knock came.

Sharp. Knuckles on wood. Almost rehearsed.

The two girls froze mid-chew, exchanged a wide-eyed glance, and bolted from their chairs.

“I got it!” Claire called.

“You got it last time,” Fiona huffed, already halfway to the door.

Across the room, the two ymbrynes had stilled—Alma’s teacup paused midway to her lips, Isabelle watching her with one arched brow. Without saying a word, they both knew.

She was back.

Alma muttered something under her breath. Isabelle smirked and rose from her seat, dusting crumbs off her skirt. “I did say I’d answer the door next time.”

But it was too late. Claire flung it open, all grins and syrupy politeness. “Casey! Hi again!”

“Hello, darling,” Casey sang, stepping over the threshold with a smile brighter than it had any right to be. “I brought fig tarts this time. Thought you all might still be sweet on lemon after yesterday.”

“You’re just in time for tea,” Fiona said cheerily.

From the table, Horace whispered, “Why is she here again?”

“She likes Miss P,” Bronwyn said, pouring more milk into his tea. “Like, likes her.”

“I think she’s nice,” said Hugh.

“You think everyone’s nice,” Enoch muttered.

Horace adjusted his collar. “Mark my words. This is no coincidence.”

The ymbrynes stood to greet her. Casey’s eyes flicked immediately to Alma—who did not smile back—and then to Isabelle, who returned her grin with something bordering on sharp.

“How lovely to see you again, by the way I forgot to introduce us yesterday. I'm Ms. Peregrine and this is Ms.Cuckoo. We take care of these children.” Alma said politely, hands folded in front of her.

“Just thought I’d stop by. The countryside’s lovely but a bit… slow. Figured it couldn’t hurt to meet the neighbors again.” Her gaze lingered a little too long.

Enoch gagged so loudly he had to pretend it was a cough.

Claire elbowed him beneath the table. The others, wide-eyed, leaned in as subtly as a group of snooping children could manage.

“Do come sit,” Isabelle offered, gesturing to a spare chair. “We’ve more biscuits than dignity at the moment, and you’re welcome to both.”

Casey sat beside her, dropping the basket of tarts in the center of the table.

“So,” Alma said, trying to steady herself with the teacup in her hand, “how are you settling in?”

“Oh, it’s been a challenge,” Casey said with a dramatic sigh. “I’ve been here three days, and already I miss the corner cafés and noise of the city. But my friend—he’s more like a brother to me—he loves it out here. I’m staying with him for a while.”

Alma tensed.

Isabelle raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, you must come visit sometime, Alma. He’s a little... odd, but very sweet.” Casey leaned forward slightly, that same sparkle in her eye. “He’d love to meet you.”

“I’m sure,” Alma said, carefully setting her teacup down. “If you’ll excuse me—too much sun.”

She stood and turned toward the back door before anyone could stop her, her heels silent against the floor. The door clicked softly behind her.

Casey blinked, then chuckled. “Is she always like that?”

“Only when she’s breathing,” Isabelle said sweetly.

Outside, Alma paced behind the garden wall, heart pounding, her gloved fingers shaking ever so slightly.

She hadn’t said anything wrong. She hadn’t done anything wrong. And yet the woman’s presence was too smooth, too confident, too… knowing.

Inside, the tension thinned like mist.

“Well,” Isabelle said, folding her hands on the table, “what is it you do, Casey?”

“Oh, I bounce around. Try things. Fail at others. I had a flower shop once. Terrible business. But fun. I’ve always liked people, I suppose.”

Isabelle tilted her head. “So no career?”

Casey shrugged. “Not yet. Never really felt pulled to anything. At least, nothing normal.”

“Have you ever noticed anything strange about yourself?” Isabelle asked lightly. “Things others might find unusual?”

“Unusual?” Casey echoed, a little laugh catching in her throat. “You mean besides having the uncanny gift of choosing the best pastries for every occasion?”

Isabelle smiled tightly. “Yes. Aside from that.”

Casey tilted her head. “I don’t know. I used to dream about people before I met them. Sometimes I feel a place call me. I just… end up somewhere I’m supposed to be.”

Isabelle’s fingers drummed once against her teacup. “And that’s how you found this place?”

“I suppose.” Casey turned her head, glancing out the window where Alma had disappeared. “And I think I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

Upstairs, in the shadows behind the stairwell, the children sat with bated breath.

“She’s totally a witch,” Claire whispered.

“No,” Horace muttered. “She’s something else.”

“I bet she’s a secret ymbryne,” said Olive. “Or like, a lost peculiar.”

“I bet she’s an assassin sent by Wights,” said Enoch darkly.

Fiona frowned. “That doesn’t feel right. But… I don’t trust her either.”

“Miss Cuckoo better watch out,” Claire said. “Miss Peregrine’s gonna get stolen.”

“I told you this would happen,” Bronwyn said. “I told you someone was going to flirt with her and mess everything up.”

“She’s not even that pretty, Miss P could do better,” Olive said sulkily.

“She’s terrifying,” Claire whispered. “But like… good looking and terrifying.”

Below, Isabelle Cuckoo kept her eyes fixed on Casey, her smile charming and unreadable. The tea was still hot. The air was still sweet.

But something was brewing underneath all of it.

Chapter Text

The wind howled low over the cliffs as Alma made her way up the overgrown path, her coat tugged sideways by each coastal gust. The little red brick cottage came into view between swaying branches and the silhouette of the lighthouse behind it. It wasn’t near the beach exactly—more like cradled on the hill above it, tucked against the edge of the woods. Wildflowers had overtaken the garden, swarming over the gate, blooming without pattern or permission. It was the kind of place that should have felt quaint, even beautiful. But Alma didn’t find herself at ease. Not in the least.

She knocked three times on the door, each one ringing hollow against the sea wind. Too late to leave now.

The door swung open almost instantly, as if Casey had been waiting on the other side the entire time. “Miss Peregrine!” she said brightly, cheeks flushed, eyes alight like she’d been hoping this would happen. “Come in, it’s far too cold to be out today.”

Alma gave a nod, polite but uncertain, and stepped inside.

The warmth hit her first, followed by a vague, chalky scent—sweet, but metallic somehow. The kitchen smelled of vanilla and black tea, but something beneath it didn’t sit right. Not enough to say anything. Just enough to make her skin prickle.

Casey led her through a narrow hallway into the sitting room and then the kitchen beyond. The windows were fogged at the corners. The counters spotless. The kettle whistled softly in the background, as if it too had been waiting.

“I figured you'd like tea,” Casey said, smiling over her shoulder as she pulled down two mismatched cups. “From our last... encounters, I could just tell you were the type.”

Alma offered a quiet, “Thank you,” and sat down at the small round table, hands folded neatly in front of her. This felt wrong. It wasn’t the tea. It wasn’t even Casey’s peculiar smile, though that had its own edge to it. It was Alma herself. She was in someone else’s house, not as an ymbryne, not as a caretaker, but a guest. A woman. And it made her feel disoriented. Powerless.

Casey sat across from her and poured the tea. “Milk and sugar?” she asked. "Just tea, thank you." Her fingers trembled slightly as she took the cup.

The two of them sipped for a moment, the silence oddly thick despite the cozy surroundings.

“You know,” Casey began, “I used to be a nanny. Back in London. Children everywhere. Not as many as you, of course—but then again, I doubt any of them were quite as... curious.”

Alma offered the shadow of a smile. “Children are never quite what they appear.”

“Mm, especially yours.”

That hung in the air longer than it should have. Alma tried to shift the topic. “You live here with... your friend?”

Casey chuckled lightly. “Like a brother. He’s downstairs. Likes to tinker with things. You know men and their obsessions.”

Alma nodded, though something tugged at her again. That prickling sensation at the base of her spine. The tea tasted strange. Not bad. But off. She stared down at it, then lifted her gaze to the shelves around the room.

Books. Dozens of them, stacked haphazardly. She caught the titles: Child Anatomy, Dreamscapes and Memory, Cognitive Collapse in Youths. Her stomach turned. Then—Anne of Green Gables. Several copies, in fact, worn at the spines.

“You like Anne?” she asked, cautious.

“I adore her,” Casey said, voice growing suddenly dreamy. “Always thought she was peculiar. People now would call her a feminist, or a dreamer. But when I read that book the first time, I knew it. She had power in her mind. Dangerous kind of power.”

Alma set her cup down slowly. “You’ve read it recently?”

“Oh, no,” Casey smiled. “I met her. When she first wrote the book. Marvelous girl. Too much fire in her. It's a shame how the story ended, really. Housewife. Domestic bliss. All that imagination—flattened.”

Alma froze. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You met her? Lucy Maud Montgomery?”

“Yes.” Casey's smile widened, and for the first time, Alma saw something feral in it. “And I learned something important. If your imagination is powerful enough—focused enough—you can bring it into reality. I started young. Imagining things into being. People. Places. Possibilities. Not many could do it. But I could. Quite powerful, wouldn’t you say?”

Alma didn’t respond. Her throat felt dry. Her hand itched toward her bag, where she kept the emergency loop marker—but it was far too soon for panic. Wasn’t it?

Casey’s voice was warm, melodic even, but Alma felt it coil like smoke around her throat.

“I always admired the way you spoke,” Casey said softly, tracing the rim of her teacup with one finger. “ Gentle, but commanding. People listened. Children adored you. You walked into a room and things just… aligned. I used to mimic you, you know. In the mirror. Your posture. Your diction. I practiced until my throat hurt.”

Alma said nothing. She could feel her pulse in her neck. Slow. Heavy.

Casey laughed faintly. “But it was never enough. You barely even looked at me. Not when we were students. Not when I tried to help in the training sessions. I wasn’t important enough. Not the way Isabelle was.”

Alma shifted, suddenly aware of the tightness in her limbs. Her fingertips tingled. There was something in the tea. She knew it now. Not enough to paralyze her—but enough to slow her, to fog her thoughts, to stop her from acting too quickly. Casey had planned this. Every detail.

“Do you know what it feels like,” Casey continued, tone still conversational, almost sad, “to be born with a gift and have no one see it? To scream into the dark with all the power you’re holding and have not a single soul hear you?”

She looked up. Her eyes were sharp now, no longer dreamy. “When I was nine, I imagined a little girl. I drew her over and over in the margins of my books. She had silver hair and a voice like chimes. One night, after a fever, I woke up and she was real. She spoke to me. Sang to me. Followed me everywhere.”

Alma’s breath hitched. This wasn’t a peculiarity she’d heard of. Not in full. Not like this.

“I thought I was mad,” Casey whispered. “And for a while, I think I was. But then she touched me. Others could see her too. They started calling me names—said I was haunted. I realized then: she wasn’t a ghost. She was something I made. I willed her into being.”

Her voice trembled with something like awe, or terror. “I started making more. Little ones at first. Creatures. Shadows. People with no mouths. People with too many. I called it imagination, but it was more than that. It was creation. Raw and ugly and brilliant.”

She stood, pacing now, her fingers flexing as if still conjuring things in her mind.

“They told me to stop. The nuns, the doctors, my parents. They locked me away for two years. Said I was delusional. But I wasn't. I could make them all see. I just had to be more careful. More focused. So I practiced. I learned how to bind the thoughts. Sharpen them like knives. And then I learned how to control them.”

Alma pressed a hand to her temple. Her skin was clammy. Her heartbeat was wrong—too slow. She tried to speak but her tongue felt heavy, clumsy in her mouth.

Casey turned, eyes bright with something fevered. “You don’t understand, Alma. You were born with your gift. Your time loop, your wings, your children. You didn’t fight for them. You never had to lose your mind to make magic. But I did. I lost everything—until I met him.”

Alma forced the words out. “Met who?”

Casey leaned in, whispering like she was confessing something holy. “He found me in the dark. He said I wasn’t broken. That I was chosen. That if I came with him, I could shape the future. Not protect it. Not nurture it. Shape it.”

She smiled. “He taught me how to anchor my creations. How to split them into pieces. I’m not just Casey, Alma. I’m many people. I live in minds. In dreams. That’s how I found you again. In someone else’s memory.”

Alma’s chest burned. Her vision blurred again. The room was spinning in soft, sickening waves.

“Do you know what your children dream about?” Casey asked gently. “I do. I’ve seen it. I’ve been in it. Every one of them, all whispering in their sleep. And you know what’s funny?” She tilted her head, lips parting into a grin too wide to be sincere. “They dream about the same thing. A tall woman in the fog. A red cottage. A song.”

Alma tried to stand but her knees gave out, and she gripped the edge of the table.

Casey walked behind her now, like a phantom circling prey.

“I don’t need a loop. I don’t need time. I’m not bound by clocks or birds or rules. You still live in a cage, Alma. You built it with your own hands and told yourself it was a sanctuary.”

She leaned down close, her voice brushing Alma’s ear.

“I live in nightmares. And I am very good at making them come true.”

Alma turned her head with the last of her strength. Her voice, small and broken: “What do you want from me?”

Alma stood up, chair scraping.

Casey’s eyes glittered. “You might be wondering why you’re having trouble standing.”

Alma’s legs buckled slightly. Her vision blurred.

“Oh, dear,” Casey said with mock sympathy. “Did I forget to mention? There’s something in your tea. Just a little something to keep you... calm.”

“Why?” Alma hissed, barely above a whisper.

She reached into her eye sockets and peeled away thin contacts. Beneath them: pure white eyes.

Alma stumbled back, legs shaking.

Shadows dragged along the floor like spilled ink, warping the edges of the room. Alma couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. The air had gone thick and sour, the scent of damp earth and something coppery threading its way through her breath.

And then—

From beyond the doorframe came a voice, soft as dust and wrong in every possible way.

“Hello, sister.”

It didn’t echo. It didn’t need to. The words landed like a stone dropped down a well—bottomless and final. There was no warmth in it. No familiarity. Just that hollow, scraping hush of something that shouldn’t speak at all trying to mimic the human mouth.

A figure stepped forward. His face was almost familiar. Wrong in the corners, like a portrait that had been left in the rain, and reassembled from memory by someone who had only ever seen Alma in nightmares.

“Long time no see.”

His smile split far too wide.

And Alma finally screamed—soundless, drugged, the world spinning as the room swallowed her whole.

Chapter Text

She was small again.

The wide marble floors of Miss Avocet’s conservatory gleamed under her bare feet as she struggled to keep pace. Her brothers—older, stronger, crueler—moved like wolves in formalwear, surrounding her as she fumbled through transformation drills. Feathers never formed right. Wings ached in her arms before she could spread them. They mocked her in whispers and jabs. “Ymbryne? You're just a pet bird with clipped wings.”

They hated how Miss Avocet doted on her, hated how the loop treated her like she was special. But she had survived. She had grown stronger, faster, smarter. She had escaped them.

And now, she had her children. She had Isabelle.

Alma blinked.

The warmth of memory collapsed beneath her like wet paper. The dream shattered, and in its place came pain.

A migraine cracked across her skull like lightning. Her eyes stung. Her throat felt scalded and dry. Something bitter clung to her tongue—residue from the tea. Her wrists were raw and cold, shackled high to an iron chain nailed deep into the stone wall. Her feet barely brushed the ground.

The basement smelled like mildew and copper.

A single lightbulb buzzed above her, its flicker almost mocking. Around her were metal trays, rusted blades, surgical hooks, needles, and jars of things that had once been alive. Bird cages dangled empty from the ceiling like discarded bones. Pages of anatomy books were nailed to the walls, bloodstained and torn. Someone had scrawled words in Latin beneath the diagrams.

There was one window—no bigger than a rat’s crawlspace. Too high. Too narrow.

Deja vu twisted her gut like a knife. This was Blackpool all over again. The dark. The walls. The sound of someone’s breath just out of sight.

She had just started to heal.

And now—this.

Above her, floorboards groaned. Then: the slow, deliberate sound of someone descending the stairs.

She didn’t need to look up.

Her whole body went cold.

The door creaked open. That same slow, awful creaaaaak, like it had been waiting for years to do this. A silhouette filled the doorway—tall, robed in black, but with that familiar gait like a spoiled child playing god.

“Hello, brother,” Alma rasped, her voice like cracked porcelain. “I would say it’s a pleasure to see you again after such a long time, but I would be lying.”

Caul’s laugh was like the scrape of a blade along glass.

“Oh, dear sister,” he said, stepping into the light, revealing a face that had barely aged, though something in it had rotted beneath the skin. “How I’ve missed you. Truly. These tiny little hands of yours, shivering in fear... it’s quite the amusing sight to behold.”

Alma bared her teeth, blood crusting at the corner of her mouth. “What is it you want, Jack?”

His grin snapped into a scowl.

“I go by Caul. And you know that.”

He slapped her hard, her head whipping sideways, cheek burning.

The chain groaned under the force of her sway.

He leaned closer. His breath smelled like decay and bitterness.

“You want to know why you’re here?” he said, grinning again now. “Because I’ve finally found it. We have. The Library of Souls. And this time, dear Alma, you’ll help us open the door. Or you’ll scream yourself hoarse trying not to.”

Her stomach dropped.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s a myth, Jack. You’ll die chasing shadows. The Library doesn’t exist—”

Another slap. This one harder.

“DON’T lie to me, sister. You always lied. You knew. Bentham and I—we figured it out. The Pantloopticon wasn’t too much. It was almost enough. And now… now we’re ready.”

His eyes glittered with something rabid, unholy.

“Your precious wards are just down the street sipping tea with your charming boo,” Caul mocked, “smiling, unaware their protector is here, where I can slit your throat or carve you from the inside out.”

Then, he bellowed: “Casey!”

The door creaked again.

And there she was.

Casey sauntered down the stairs, her boots clicking lightly on the wood. Her hair was loose now, her wig discarded, her white eyes like lamps in the dark. She leaned against the nearest bird cage and smiled.

“Good to see you again, Alma,” she said softly. “How are you feeling? Queasy? Dreadful? I hope so. Because when we’re done with you… you’ll wish you were dead already.”

Her voice was soft and saccharine, but her eyes were wild. Empty.

Caul chuckled and adjusted his gloves. “She’s quite the gem, isn’t she? Found her during my little post-Blackpool crawl. Took a shine to her imagination. And when she showed me what she could create... oh, sister. You have no idea what she’s been conjuring in that dainty little head.”

“I’ve dreamed of this,” Casey whispered, eyes gleaming. “Of you like this. Chained. Broken. Afraid.”

She stepped closer and traced a finger along Alma’s jaw. Alma jerked her head away.

“You’ve always been so strong,” Casey purred. “But strong things can be broken, too. Especially when they’re tired. And I know you’re tired, Alma. So very, very tired.”

Alma didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Something in her soul had gone quiet.

And then Caul leaned in again, voice suddenly cold.

“You’re going to help us, Alma. And if you don’t? Every one of those precious little birds of yours will bleed, one by one. Isabelle first. Then Emma. Then Claire. One for each day you resist.”

Casey smiled wider. “And I’ll make sure they are watching.”

The lightbulb buzzed overhead.

In the darkness, Alma swallowed her scream.

The worst was coming.

And she was alone.

Chapter Text

Alma’s fingers trembled as she tugged at the iron chain biting into her wrists. Every muscle in her body screamed with exhaustion, but she had no choice. She had to move—now. Her gaze flicked toward the tiny window just above her eye level. Barely wider than her shoulders. Barely big enough to wriggle through if she could just—

She yanked. Once. Twice. The chain groaned and rattled, ancient bolts scraping against the stone.

A bead of sweat rolled down her temple.

Then, with a final surge of desperation, she twisted her arm at an unnatural angle and pulled. A sickening pop cracked through the room—her shoulder dislocated—but the chain gave just enough slack to let her slump to the floor. Her vision spotted black. She bit down hard to keep from crying out.

She crawled.

Slow. Inch by inch. Toward the window. Her heart slammed in her chest like it wanted out.

She could see light—real light—through the grime of the glass. Her fingers touched the sill. She reached up, straining her entire body upward, barely able to angle her weight to hoist herself—

Then the basement door creaked.

Her blood ran cold.

Her breath was ragged, shallow. Each exhale a small, shivering cloud in the cold.

Then—

Footsteps.

Slow. Heavy. Coming down the stairs.

She froze, every inch of her stillness an act of instinct. As if not moving could make her disappear.

Three steps.

Four.

A familiar rhythm. A cruel rhythm. She knew it. Her bones knew it. Alma's stomach twisted into a knot so tight she thought she might retch.

And then the door groaned open.

Caul.

He stepped through the doorway like a shadow given form. His coat hung stiffly off his tall frame, splattered with flecks of dirt—or blood. His eyes burned with some unnameable hunger. Not just for power or vengeance. This was worse. Colder.

"Hello, sister," he said.

Her heart stopped.

It was the way he said it—like a mockery of affection. Like he still believed there was something sacred about the bond between them, even now, even after everything he’d done. Even as he descended into monstrosity.

She took a breath. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Oh, Alma,” he said softly, as if that were the funniest thing in the world. “This is exactly where I should be.”

She tried to stand but her legs were shaking too hard. She managed to prop herself on one knee, fingers curling around the edge of the wall for support.

“You’ve lost,” she said, her voice thin and breaking. “You’ll never find it. The Library. It’s gone. Buried. Forgotten.”

Caul didn’t respond at first. Just kept walking. Measured, slow steps that echoed in the stone chamber like the ticking of a bomb. The sound of his boots on the floor was almost worse than his voice.

He stopped just feet from her.

“I’m getting tired of your lies,” he said, smiling.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something small, round, and shining. A child's button. Pale blue. He held it up between two fingers and waggled it slightly. “One of Claire’s, I think? You know she loses things everywhere.”

Alma’s breath hitched. “What did you—”

“She’s alive, for now. But you wouldn’t believe how fast these little ones shatter if you know just where to tap.”

“If you touch her—”

He struck.

Not with his hand—with his power.

The air distorted. A wave of invisible pressure slammed into her chest, sending her crashing back against the stone wall. Her head hit with a sickening thud. She tasted copper. Her vision blurred, stars dancing across her eyes like broken glass.

Caul crouched beside her, almost gentle. Almost.

“Don’t make this worse than it has to be,” he murmured. “You know what I need. That sweet little ymbryne heart. That precious blood of yours. With it, we’ll peel open the world. Find the Library. Unravel everything.”

“You’re mad,” she whispered. “You don’t even know what’s inside.”

“Oh, but I do,” he said, voice dark with longing. “It’s truth, Alma. It’s immortality. And I’ll get it. Through you.”

She tried to crawl again, dragging herself toward the narrow window. Her only chance.

Caul let her.

For a second.

Then—

In the dimly lit basement, the air was thick with tension as Ms. Peregrine's heart raced in her chest. The cold stone wall pressed against her back as her wrists ached from the chain binding her. Caul moved closer and closer, his smirk widening as he watched her fear unfold.

"What are you doing, you horrifying freak?!" she shrieked, her voice echoing in the enclosed space.

Caul leaned in, his breath warm against her skin, sending shivers down her spine. "We have some time before the surgery and the extraction of your heart, you know. And I’m certain Casey would like to take a piece of this too," he whispered, his lips brushing against hers.

She recoiled instinctively, but the wall trapped her, and he pressed forward, capturing her lips in a kiss. His hands slid around her waist, fingers digging into her skin.

Caul’s kiss deepened, his tongue exploring her mouth, claiming her in a way that made her head spin.

"You’re mine, sister," he murmured against her lips.

"Stop!" she gasped, her voice shaky, the way he held her made her pulse quicken with fear and fury. She pushed him as hard as she possibly could.

He seized her hair and yanked her backward. Her scream was hoarse, choked off halfway. She twisted to fight, but he slammed her again, hard, into the stone wall. Her skull bounced against it with a sound like a dropped melon.

Blackness edged her vision.

“You think they’ll save you?” Caul hissed. “That Isabelle will come galloping down like some storybook knight? No one’s coming. You’re mine now.”

He leaned closer, breath hot and foul against her cheek. “You always looked down on me. Always so righteous. So superior. Let’s see what you are now—chained and bleeding like a lamb.”

She spat blood. “You’re disgusting.”

He grinned.

Then, in one smooth motion, he slammed her head against the wall again.

Crack.

The world wobbled. Her knees buckled. Her mouth hung open, but no sound came out. There was only the ringing in her ears and the metallic taste of blood dripping to the floor.

“You want to protect them?” Caul said, almost lazily, as she crumpled to the floor. “Then give me what I need. Before I start collecting.”

Her body refused to move. Her limbs were stone.

But her eyes—her eyes still burned with defiance.

______________________________

It started with a quiet dinner table.

Too quiet.

Miss Cuckoo noticed it first—not the absence of sound exactly, but the shape of the silence. A space where Alma Peregrine should have been. Her chair remained empty, her teacup untouched, and her absence hung over the children like a gathering storm cloud.

The children were trying not to look worried. Claire pushed her potatoes around her plate with unusual care. Olive stared at the clock more than at her food. Enoch’s fork clinked against the edge of his dish in an impatient rhythm. Even Horace, normally eager to launch into some dream from the night before, was biting his nails under the table.

“She’s not back yet,” Fiona finally said. Her voice was soft. Hesitant. Almost afraid to be the first one to say it aloud.

“She probably lost track of time,” Bronwyn offered. “Or went for a walk after tea.”

“With Casey?” Claire scoffed, unable to stop herself.

Miss Cuckoo looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

Claire shifted in her seat. “This morning, just before tea, I saw Miss Peregrine. She said she was going to take a short stroll… to Casey’s. Casey invited her for tea.”

There was a collective pause.

Olive’s spoon slipped from her fingers with a clatter.

“Miss Peregrine went to Casey’s?” Enoch said slowly, eyes narrowing. “And she didn’t tell you?”

“No note,” Miss Cuckoo murmured, more to herself. Her stomach clenched. “She didn’t say a word to me.”

“She’s never late for dinner,” Hugh added nervously. “She says ‘punctuality is a pillar of civilization.’”

The children were fully silent now. Outside, the wind had picked up. Branches scraped against the windows like fingers tapping to be let in.

“She hates Casey,” Olive whispered. “She wouldn’t stay that long. Not unless—”

Miss Cuckoo stood abruptly. The legs of her chair scraped against the wooden floor. Her napkin fell to the ground, forgotten.

“I’ll go look for her,” she said, already heading for the door. “Stay here. Lock the back windows. No one goes outside until I return. Understood?”

They all nodded.

And as the door closed behind Miss Cuckoo, the children stared at each other, the unease thick in the air.

No one said it aloud. But they all felt it, deep in their peculiar bones:

Miss Peregrine was never late.
And she would never—never—have tea with Casey if she had a choice.

Something was very, very wrong.

Chapter Text

The night pressed heavy on their shoulders as the three of them made their way up the narrow path. The loop’s air was crisp but somehow stifling, as if even the wind held its breath. Emma’s flame flickered in her hand, painting Jacob and Bronwyn’s faces in trembling orange light.

“Miss Peregrine would never just vanish,” Emma muttered, her voice tight. “What if she’s—” She swallowed hard, her eyes dimming as the flame in her palm sputtered. “What if she’s… gone? Kidnapped? Or like…” Her voice broke into silence, the weight of unspoken horrors hanging between them.

Jacob glanced at her, his chest tightening at how pale she looked. “Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

Bronwyn walked ahead, her arms stiff at her sides. She forced a small, firm smile, though her throat ached from holding back her own dread. “Emma, listen—if anyone could handle herself, it’s Miss Peregrine. She’s stronger than any of us. She’ll be fine.” Her words sounded steady, but Jacob could hear the crack in them, the tremor she tried to bury.

The three of them reached Casey’s house at last. The small cottage looked unassuming, windows dark and quiet, as though it had been abandoned hours ago. But the garden surrounding it was overgrown, wild, as if no one had cared for it in years. The flowers sagged heavy with dew, the hedges leaning into the narrow path like eavesdropping strangers.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Jacob whispered.

“Too quiet,” Emma said, her flame flaring a little brighter. “She wouldn’t still be here, would she?”

Bronwyn shook her head, scanning the windows. “Let’s check the garden first. No sense knocking if—if she’s not inside.”

They crept along the uneven fence, the boards warped and splintered. Emma raised her hand higher, firelight glinting against the glass panes of the house. The shadows seemed too deep, the silence too absolute.

A sudden creak echoed from somewhere near the back of the house. Jacob stiffened, his heart pounding in his ears. Emma’s flame guttered again, then roared back as she clenched her fist.

“Did you hear that?” she whispered.

Bronwyn’s jaw set. “Stay close.”

They followed the sound into the wild garden, where weeds climbed like skeletal fingers and branches clawed across the ground. The boundary of the house loomed before them, a dark shape against the night sky. Every corner, every shadow, seemed like it could be hiding something—or someone.

The feather was the first sign.

Jacob crouched low by the windowsill, his hand trembling as he reached out for it. A single peregrine feather, small and dark, caught in the splinter of wood by the basement window. He held it up to the faint glow of Emma’s fire.

“Is that…?” Emma whispered, her voice shaking.

Jacob nodded. “It’s hers. It has to be.”

Bronwyn frowned, arms crossed tight over her chest. “Could be any bird.”

“No,” Emma snapped, though her voice cracked as she said it. “It’s her. I know it is.” She swallowed hard, her flame flickering as her panic seeped into it. “Why would her feather be here?”

The three of them exchanged looks, none daring to speak the fear that was taking root.

They pressed closer to the small basement window, squinting through the grimy glass. Emma held her fire closer, her palm trembling. The glow revealed the outlines of metal tables, jagged shapes. And then—shiny surgical tools glinting faintly in the dark.

Jacob’s breath caught. “What the hell is this place…?”

Emma’s eyes went wide, her mouth parting soundlessly. There were books stacked carelessly on the tables, feathers strewn about as though torn from wings. And then—blood. Dried in streaks across the floor. Smears on the wall. Too much blood.

Emma clutched her chest, her face turning pale. “No… no, no…”

Bronwyn pulled them both back, her own voice tight. “We should go back to Miss Cuckoo. Tell her what we saw. She’ll know what to do.”

“But what if…” Emma’s voice shook, her eyes darting back toward the window. She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to. The image of Miss Peregrine chained somewhere inside hung unspoken between them.

Jacob clenched his fists. “If we leave now, she could be gone by the time we’re back. Or worse.”

The house loomed above them, dark, silent, every shadow stretching too long. Emma shivered, her flame dimming low.

“I don’t like this,” Bronwyn muttered. “This is wrong. All wrong.”

Emma’s jaw set. “I’m going in.”

Jacob turned to her instantly. “No. Absolutely not. We don’t even know what’s in there—”

“She’s in there. I know it,” Emma hissed. Her voice cracked, but her determination didn’t. “I can fit. You can’t. Bronwyn can’t. It has to be me.”

Bronwyn’s lips pressed thin. She didn’t argue. Instead, she reached for the window, her strong fingers gripping the frame. With a sharp wrench, the wood gave way, cracking just enough for a narrow passage.

The silence of the house pressed down heavier now. Even the night birds seemed to avoid the place.

Emma crouched low, fire in her palm glowing faint and nervous. She took a breath, whispered, “If I scream… don’t wait. Just run.”

“Emma—” Jacob started, but Bronwyn’s firm hand landed on his shoulder.

Emma slipped inside.

The smell hit her first—rot, iron, something putrid that clawed at the back of her throat. She gagged, clapping a hand to her mouth, nearly dropping her flame. The room was worse inside than it looked from the window. Tools laid out like instruments of torture, feathers scattered as if torn in violence, and the blood—so much blood—that it painted the stone floor in rusty stains.

Her eyes darted across the shadows, her fire trembling. Then she saw it.

A dark trail of blood, smeared across the floor, leading to the far wall.

Her gaze followed it.

And there, chained against the wall, barely breathing, was Miss Peregrine.

Emma’s scream tore out before she could stop it—but she slapped her hand over her mouth, muffling it to a choked sob. Her flame flared bright with her panic.

“No… oh god, no…”

She ran to her ymbryne, heart pounding so hard it hurt. Miss Peregrine’s eyes fluttered half-shut, her body weak and trembling against the chains.

Emma dropped to her knees, her breath ragged.

“Miss Peregrine!” she whispered, choking back another scream.

Emma’s hands trembled as she reached for Miss Peregrine, her heart soaring with hope—only for that hope to shatter in an instant. Her fingers passed straight through Miss Peregrine’s bloodied arm as if touching smoke.

Her breath caught. No—no, no, no!

“Miss Peregrine!” she whispered hoarsely, tears already burning her eyes.

The ymbryne stirred weakly, her chest rising in shallow, painful gasps. Her lips were split and swollen, caked in blood. Purple bruises marred her sharp cheekbones, her dark hair a wild, tangled halo around her battered face. Chains rattled faintly as she lifted her head—barely—and her eyes fluttered open.

“…Emma,” she rasped, the sound no louder than the crackle of a dying flame.

Emma clutched her chest. “It’s me! I’m here, I’ll get you out, I swear I will—”

But Miss Peregrine shook her head ever so slightly, tears streaking through the blood on her face. “Stay… away.” Her voice was hoarse, ragged, every word sounding like it tore her throat raw.

Emma’s sobs came uncontrollably now, her firelight flickering wildly against the damp stone walls. “I can’t just leave you like this! You’re— you’re dying!”

Miss Peregrine’s cracked lips tried to form a smile, but it twisted into a grimace of pain. She summoned the last of her strength, her tone suddenly fierce despite the fragility of her body. “I am fine. Just… in a situation.”

Emma shook her head violently, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Don’t—don’t lie to me, not now.”

Miss Peregrine’s gaze fixed on her with heartbreaking intensity. She struggled, lips quivering as she forced out three fractured words—words that sent ice through Emma’s veins.

“Caul… Acre… Leave!”

Before Emma could process it, a blur of movement cut across her vision.

A fist slammed into Miss Peregrine’s face, snapping her head against the damp wall. The sound was sickening—bone against stone, muffled by blood.

Emma gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming.

Miss Peregrine wheezed, a gush of blood spilling from her lips as her body convulsed. Her breath grew shallower, weaker, fading before Emma’s very eyes.

And then he appeared.

Caul’s image sharpened out of the shadows, stepping into the light of Emma’s trembling flame. His smile was stretched wide, cruel and triumphant, his eyes glinting with cold malice.

The last thing Emma saw before the vision blinked out was that smile—that wicked, knowing smile—burning itself into her nightmares.

And then the basement was empty.