We washed the dust and dirt off ourselves, grateful to be in a comfortable home after so many hours on the road, and then Paul led us out to a long table that had been set up in a big backyard that was common to several houses. It was a fine day to eat outside, and the smell coming from that table was divine. For seven hundred miles we had had only Al Potts’s stale crullers and some immortal snacks to eat, and I think none of us realized how hungry we were until plates of steaming lamb and potatoes were set before us. We tore hunks from loaves of homemade bread and gulped down mint iced tea, and it was maybe the best food I’d ever tasted. It seemed like half the town had come by for supper, and we were surrounded by all the people we’d met since we’d arrived: June and Fern and Alene; Reggie and his puppy, who scampered around under the table; Hawley, who kept his headphones over one ear the whole meal; and some new faces, as well. Directly across from me was Elmer, a man whose black suit and tie clashed with the apron he wore over it, which was decorated with puckered lips and read KISS THE COOK! Beside him sat a younger man who introduced himself as Joseph.
“This is absolutely delectable,” said Millard, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. No one thought him strange or even stared at his floating napkin; either they were polite, or Millard was not the first invisible person they had shared their table with. “One question, though. How do you cook a seventy-two-hour lamb in a twenty-four-hour loop?”
“They made the loop after the lamb had already been roasting two days,” said Elmer. “That way we can have three-day lamb every day.”
“What a brilliant use of loop-time,” said Millard.
“That was way before I arrived,” he said. “Wish I could take credit for it, but all I do is take it off the spit and carve it up!”
“So, tell us about yourselves,” said Alene. “Who are you people?”
“Don’t be rude,” said June. “They’re Paul’s guests.”
“What? We have a right to know.”
“It’s okay,” said Emma, “I would want to know, too.”
“We’re Miss Peregrine’s wards,” Enoch said through a mouthful of potatoes. “From Wales. You’ve heard of us?”
He said it as if they had, naturally.
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” said Joseph.
“Really?” said Enoch. He looked around the table. “Anybody?”
Everyone shook their heads.
“Hm. Well, we’re kind of a big deal.”
“Don’t be conceited, Enoch,” Millard said. “What he means is that we enjoy some small prominence in our own peculiar community, thanks to the role we played in the victory over the wights at the Battle of Devil’s Acre. Especially crucial to our success was Jacob here—”
“Cut it out,” I hissed at him.
“—but you Americans may be more familiar with his grandfather, Abraham Portman?”
More head shakes.
“Sorry,” said Reggie, leaning down to feed his puppy under the table. “Don’t know him.”
“That’s odd,” said Millard. “I thought for certain . . .”
“He probably traveled under a false name,” said Emma. “He could see hollowgast? And . . . influence them?”
“Oh!” Alene said. “Could they mean Mr. Gandy?”
That name rang a bell, but I couldn’t place it immediately.
“Did your grandfather have an unusual accent?” asked a younger man sitting beside Elmer.
“Polish,” I said.
“Mm.” He nodded. “And did he sometimes travel with another man or a young lady?”
“A young lady?” said Enoch, raising his eyebrows at Emma.
“That couldn’t have been him,” Emma said, suddenly tense.
June sped away from the table and returned a minute later with a photo album. “I believe we have a picture of him in here.” She flipped through the album’s pages. “We keep this to remember the folks who come and go, and so we know who to trust when someone comes back after a long time gone. We’ve had enemies come posing as friends.”
“The wights are masters of disguise, you know,” said Elmer.
“Oh, we know,” I said.
“Then you should double-check Paul’s photo,” said Alene. “Make sure he is who he says he is.”
Paul looked hurt. “I don’t look the same as I used to?”
“I think he looks better,” said Fern.
“Here.” June wedged between my seat and Emma’s and leaned over the table with the album. “This is Gandy.” She tapped a small black-and-white photo of a man relaxing under a tree. He was speaking to someone out of frame, and I wondered who it was, and what he’d been saying. His face was unlined, his hair black, and he had a sweet-looking dog with him. The dog was wearing a cap. It was my grandfather as I had rarely seen him: approaching middle age but still young, still in his prime. I wished I could have known him then.
Our friends got up from their seats and crowded around to look. Emma’s face was paper-white, haunted. “That’s him,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “That’s Abe.”
“You’re Gandy’s grandson?” Paul said, surprised. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
Partly it was because I hadn’t known Abe used a false identity while working, not just on his car registration (which I now realized was where I’d seen the name Gandy before). But mostly it was H’s rule. “Someone I trust told me not to talk about the hollow-hunters,” I said.