“Who are we calling?” Hugh asked.

“The peculiar dog said that all of London’s loops had been raided and their ymbrynes kidnapped,” Emma said, “but we can’t simply take his word for it, can we?”

“You can call a time loop?” I said, flabbergasted. “On the phone?”

Millard explained that the Council of Ymbrynes maintained a phone exchange, though it could be used only within the boundaries of the city. “Quite ingenious how it works, given all the time differences,” he said. “Just because we live in time loops doesn’t mean we’re stuck in the Stone Age!”

Emma took my hand and told the others to join hands, too.

“It’s crucial we stay together,” she said. “London is vast, and there’s no lost and found here for peculiar children.”

We waded into the crowd, hands linked, our snaking line slightly parabolic in the middle where Olive buoyed up like an astronaut walking on the moon.

“You losing weight?” Bronwyn asked her. “You need heavier shoes, little magpie.”

“I get feathery when I ain’t had proper meals,” Olive said.

“Proper meals? We just ate like kings!”

“Not me,” said Olive. “They didn’t have any meat pies.”

“You’re awfully picky for a refugee,” said Enoch. “Anyway, since Horace wasted all our money, the only way we’re getting more food is if we steal it, or find a not-kidnapped ymbryne who’ll cook us some.”

“We still have money,” Horace said defensively, jingling the coins in his pocket. “Though not enough for meat pies. We could perhaps afford a jacket potato.”

“If I have another jacket potato, I’ll turn into a jacket potato,” Olive whined.

“That’s impossible, dear,” said Bronwyn.

“Why? Miss Peregrine can turn into a bird!”

A boy we were passing turned to stare. Bronwyn shushed Olive angrily. Telling our secrets in front of normals was strictly forbidden, even if they were so fantastic-sounding no one would believe them.

We shouldered through one last knot of children to arrive at the phone booth. It was only large enough to hold three, so Emma, Millard, and Horace squeezed inside while the rest of us crowded around the door. Emma worked the phone, Horace fished our last few coins from his pocket, and Millard paged through a chunky phone book that dangled from a cord.

“Are you kidding?” I said, leaning into the booth. “There are ymbrynes in the phone book?”

“The addresses listed are fakes,” said Millard, “and the calls won’t connect unless you whistle the right passcode.” He tore out a listing and handed it to Emma. “Give this one a go. Millicent Thrush.”

Horace fed a coin into the slot and Emma dialed the number. Then Millard took the phone, whistled a bird call into the receiver, and handed it back to Emma. She listened for a moment, then frowned. “It just rings,” she said. “No one’s picking up.”

“No bother!” Millard said. “That was just one of many. Let me find another …”

Outside the booth, the crowd that had been flowing around us slowed to a stop, bottlenecking somewhere out of sight. The train platform was reaching capacity. There were normal children on every side of us, chattering to one another, shouting, shoving—and one, who stood right next to Olive, was crying bitterly. She had pigtails and puffy red eyes, and she carried a blanket in one hand and a raggedy cardboard suitcase in the other. Pinned to her blouse was a tag with words and numbers stenciled in large print:

115-201

London → Sheffield

Olive watched the girl cry until her own eyes began to shimmer with tears. Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore and asked what the matter was. The girl looked away, pretending not to have heard.

Olive didn’t take the hint. “What’s the matter?” she asked again. “Are you crying because you’ve been sold?” She pointed to the tag on the girl’s blouse. “Was that your price?”

The girl tried to scoot away but was blocked by a wall of people.

“I would buy you and set you free,” Olive went on, “but I fear we’ve spent all our money on train tickets and haven’t enough even for meat pies, much less a slave. I’m awfully sorry.”

The girl spun to face Olive. “I’m not for sale!” she said, stamping her foot.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes!” the girl shouted, and in a fit of frustration she ripped the tag off her blouse and threw it away. “I just don’t want to go and live in the stupid country, that’s all.”

“I didn’t want to leave my home, either, but we had to,” Olive said. “It got smashed by a bomb.”

The girl’s face softened. “Mine did, too.” She put down her suitcase and held out her hand. “Sorry I got cross. My name is Jessica.”

“I’m Olive.”

The two little girls shook hands like gentlemen.

“I like your blouse,” Olive said.

“Thanks,” said Jessica. “And I like your—the—the whatsit on your head.”

“My tiara!” Olive reached up to touch it. “It isn’t real silver, though.”

“That’s okay. It’s pretty.”

Olive smiled as wide as I’d ever seen her smile, and then a loud whistle blew and a booming voice crackled over a loudspeaker. “All children onto the trains!” it said. “Nice and orderly now!”

The crowd began to flow around us again. Here and there, adults herded the children along, and I heard one say, “Don’t worry, you’ll see your mummies and daddies again soon!”

That’s when I realized why there were so many children here. They were being evacuated. Of all the many hundreds of kids in the train station this morning, my friends and I were the only ones arriving. The rest were leaving, being shuttled out of the city for their own safety—and from the look of the winter coats and overstuffed cases some of them carried, maybe for a long time.

“I have to go,” Jessica said, and Olive had hardly begun to say goodbye when her new friend was borne away by the crowd toward a waiting train. Just that quickly, Olive made and lost the only normal friend she’d ever had.

Jessica looked back as she was boarding. Her grim expression seemed to say: What will become of me?

We watched her go and wondered the same about ourselves.

*   *   *

Inside the phone box, Emma scowled at the receiver. “No one’s answering,” she said. “All the numbers just ring and ring.”

“Last one,” said Millard, handing her another ripped-out page.

“Cross your fingers.”

I was focused on Emma as she dialed, but then a commotion broke out behind me and I turned to see a crimson-faced man waving an umbrella at us. “What are you dallying about for?” he said.

“Vacate that phone box and board your train at once!”

“We just got off one,” said Hugh. “We ain’t about to get on another!”

“And what have you done with your tag numbers?” the man shouted, flecks of spittle flying from his lips. “Produce them at once or by God I’ll have you shipped somewhere a great deal less pleasant than Wales!”

“Piss off this instant,” said Enoch, “or we’ll have you shipped straight to Hell!”

The man’s face went so purple I thought he’d burst a blood vessel in his neck. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being spoken to this way by children.

“I said get out of that phone box!” he roared, and raising the umbrella over his head like an executioner’s ax, he brought it down on the cable that stretched between the top of the booth and the wall, snapping it in half with a loud thwack!

The phone went dead. Emma looked up from the receiver, boiling with quiet rage. “If he wants to use the phone so badly,” she said, “then let’s give it to him.”

As she, Millard, and Horace squeezed out of the booth, Bronwyn grabbed the man’s hands and pinned them behind his back.

“Stop!” he screamed. “Unhand me!”

“Oh, I’ll unhand you,” said Bronwyn, and then she picked him up, stuffed him headfirst into the booth, and barred the door shut with his umbrella. The man screamed and banged on the glass, jumping up and down like a fat fly trapped in a bottle. Although it would’ve been fun to stick around and laugh at him, the man had drawn too much attention, and now adults were converging on us from all across the station. It was time to go.