When we came to the bog and I said I had to go home, she pretended to pout. “At least let me escort you,” she said, so we waved goodbye to the others and crossed over to the cairn, me doing my best to memorize the placement of her feet as we went.
When we got there I said, “Come with me to the other side a minute.”
“I shouldn’t. I’ve got to get back or the Bird will suspect us.”
“Suspect us of what?”
She smiled coyly. “Of … something.”
“Something.”
“She’s always on the lookout for something,” she said, laughing.
I changed tactics. “Then why don’t you come see me tomorrow instead?”
“See you? Over there?”
“Why not? Miss Peregrine won’t be around to watch us. You could even meet my dad. We won’t tell him who you are, obviously. And then maybe he’ll ease up a little about where I’m going and what I’m doing all the time. Me hanging out with a hot girl? That’s like his fondest dad-dream wish.”
I thought she might smile at the hot girl thing, but instead she turned serious. “The Bird only allows us to go over for a few minutes at a time, just to keep the loop open, you know.”
“So tell her that’s what you’re doing!”
She sighed. “I want to. I do. But it’s a bad idea.”
“She’s got you on a pretty short leash.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said with a scowl. “And thanks for comparing me to a dog. That was brilliant.”
I wondered how we’d gone from flirting to fighting so quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It’s not that I wouldn’t like to,” she said. “I just can’t.”
“Okay, I’ll make you a deal. Forget coming for the whole day. Just come over for a minute, right now.”
“One minute? What can we do in one minute?”
I grinned. “You’d be surprised.”
“Tell me!” she said, pushing me.
“Take your picture.”
Her smile disappeared. “I’m not exactly at my most fetching,” she said doubtfully.
“No, you’re great. Really.”
“Just one minute? Promise?”
I let her go into the cairn first. When we came out again the world was misty and cold, though thankfully the rain had stopped. I pulled out my phone and was happy to see that my theory was right. On this side of the loop, electronic things worked fine.
“Where’s your camera?” she said, shivering. “Let’s get this over with!”
I held up the phone and took her picture. She just shook her head, as if nothing about my bizarre world could surprise her anymore. Then she dodged away, and I had to chase her around the cairn, both of us laughing, Emma ducking out of view only to pop up again and vamp for the camera. A minute later I’d taken so many pictures that my phone had nearly run out of memory.
Emma ran to the mouth of the cairn and blew me an air-kiss. “See you tomorrow, future boy!”
I lifted my hand to wave goodbye, and she ducked into the stone tunnel.
I skipped back to town freezing and wet and grinning like an idiot. I was still blocks away from the pub when I heard a strange sound rising above the hum of generators—someone calling my name. Following the voice, I found my father standing in the street in a soggy sweater, breath pluming before him like muffler exhaust on a cold morning.
“Jacob! I’ve been looking for you!”
“You said be back by dinner, so here I am!”
“Forget dinner. Come with me.”
My father never skipped dinner. Something was most definitely amiss.
“What’s going on?”
“I’ll explain on the way,” he said, marching me toward the pub. Then he got a good look at me. “You’re all wet!” he exclaimed. “For God’s sake, did you lose your other jacket, too?”
“I, uh …”
“And why is your face red? You look sunburned.”
Crap. A whole afternoon at the beach without sunblock. “I’m all hot from running,” I said, though the skin on my arms was pimpled from cold. “What’s happening? Did someone die, or what?”
“No, no, no,” he said. “Well, sort of. Some sheep.”
“What’s that got to do with us?”
“They think it was kids who did it. Like a vandalism thing.”
“They who? The sheep police?”
“The farmers,” he said. “They’ve interrogated everyone under the age of twenty. Naturally, they’re pretty interested in where you’ve been all day.”
My stomach sank. I didn’t exactly have a watertight cover story, and I raced to think of one as we approached the Priest Hole.
Outside the pub, a small crowd was gathered around a quorum of very pissed-off-looking sheep farmers. One wore muddy coveralls and leaned threateningly on a pitchfork. Another had Worm by the collar. Worm was dressed in neon track pants and a shirt that read I LOVE IT WHEN THEY CALL ME BIG POPPA. He’d been crying, snot bubbling on his upper lip.
A third farmer, rail-thin and wearing a knit cap, pointed at me as we approached. “Here he is!” he called out. “Where you been off to, son?”
Dad patted me on the back. “Tell them,” he said confidently.
I tried to sound like I had nothing to hide. “I was exploring the other side of the island. The big house.”
Knit Cap looked confused. “Which big house?”
“That wonky old heap in the forest,” said Pitchfork. “Only a certified idiot would set foot in there. Place is witched, and a deathtrap to boot.”
Knit Cap squinted at me. “In the big house with who?”
“Nobody,” I said, and saw Dad give me a funny look.
“Bollocks! I think you was with this one,” said the man holding Worm.
“I never killed any sheep!” cried Worm.
“Shaddap!” the man roared.
“Jake?” said my dad. “What about your friends?”
“Ahh, crap, Dad.”
Knit Cap turned and spat. “Why you little liar. I oughta belt you right here in fronta God and everybody.”
“You stay away from him,” my father said, doing his best Stern Dad voice. Knit Cap swore and took a step toward him, and he and my dad squared off. Before either could throw a punch, a familiar voice said, “Hang on, Dennis, we’ll get this sorted,” and Martin stepped out of the crowd to wedge himself between them. “Just start by telling us whatever your boy told you,” he said to my father.
Dad glared at me. “He said he was going to see friends on the other side.”
“What friends?” Pitchfork demanded.
I could see this was only going to get uglier unless I did something drastic. Obviously, I couldn’t tell them about the children—not that they’d believe me anyway—so instead I took a calculated risk.
“It wasn’t anybody,” I said, dropping my eyes in feigned shame. “They’re imaginary.”
“What’d he say?”
“He said his friends were imaginary,” my dad repeated, sounding worried.
The farmers exchanged baffled glances.
“See?” Worm said, a flicker of hope on his face. “Kid’s a bloody psycho! It had to be him!”
“I never touched them,” I said, though no one was really listening.
“It weren’t the American,” said the farmer who had Worm. He gave Worm’s shirt a wrench. “This one here, he’s got a history. Few years back I watched him kick a lamb down a cliffside. Wouldn’t of believed it if I hadn’t seen it wi’ me own eyes. After he done it I asked him why. To see if it could fly, he says. He’s a sickie, all right.”
People muttered in disgust. Worm looked uncomfortable but didn’t dispute the story.
“Where’s his fishmongerin’ mate?” said Pitchfork. “If this one was in on it, you can bet the other one was, too.” Someone said they’d seen Dylan by the harbor, and a posse was dispatched to collect him.