The pigeon flapped its wings and flew up to Melina’s shoulder, out of Miss Peregrine’s reach. Miss Peregrine stood by Melina’s feet, squawking at it. This seemed to make the pigeon extremely nervous.

“Miss P, what are you up to?” said Emma.

“I think she wants something from your bird,” I said to Melina.

“If the pigeon knows the way,” said Millard, “perhaps it knows the combination, too.”

Miss Peregrine turned toward him and squawked, then looked back at the pigeon and squawked louder. The pigeon tried to hide behind Melina’s neck.

“Perhaps the pigeon knows the combination but doesn’t know how to tell us,” said Bronwyn, “but it could tell Miss Peregrine, because both of them speak bird language, and then Miss Peregrine could tell us.”

“Make your pigeon talk to our bird,” said Enoch.

“Your bird’s twice Winnie’s size and sharp on three ends,” Melina said, backing away a step. “She’s scared and I don’t blame her.”

“There’s nothing to be scared of,” said Emma. “Miss P would never hurt another bird. It’s against the ymbryne code.”

Melina’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “That bird is an ymbryne?”

“She’s our headmistress!” said Bronwyn. “Alma LeFay Peregrine.”

“Full of surprises, ain’t you?” Melina said, then laughed in a way that wasn’t exactly friendly. “If you’ve got an ymbryne right there, what d’you need to find another one for?”

“It’s a long story,” said Millard. “Suffice to say, our ymbryne needs help that only another ymbryne can give.”

“Just put the blasted pigeon on the ground so Miss P can talk to it!” said Enoch.

Finally, reluctantly, Melina agreed. “Come on, Winnie, there’s a good girl.” She lifted the pigeon from her shoulder and placed it gently at her feet, then pinned its leash under her shoe so it couldn’t fly away.

Everyone circled around to watch as Miss Peregrine advanced on the pigeon. It tried to run but was caught short by the leash. Miss Peregrine got right in its face, warbling and clucking. It was like watching an interrogation. The pigeon tucked its head under its wing and began to tremble.

Then Miss Peregrine pecked it on the head.

“Hey!” said Melina. “Stop that!”

The pigeon kept its head tucked and didn’t respond, so Miss Peregrine pecked it again, harder.

“That’s enough!” Melina said, and lifting her shoe from the leash, she reached down for the pigeon. Before she could get her fingers around it, though, Miss Peregrine severed the leash with a quick slash of her talons, clamped down with her beak on one of the pigeon’s twiggy legs, and bounded away, the pigeon screeching and flailing.

Melina freaked out. “Come back here!” she shouted, furious, about to run after the birds when Bronwyn caught her by the arms.

“Wait!” said Bronwyn. “I’m sure Miss P knows what she’s doing …”

Miss Peregrine stopped a little way down the track, well out of anyone’s reach. The pigeon struggled in her beak, and Melina struggled against Bronwyn, both in vain. Miss Peregrine seemed to be waiting for the pigeon to tire out and give up, but then she got impatient and began swinging the pigeon around in the air by its leg.

“Please, Miss P!” Olive shouted. “You’ll kill it!”

I was close to rushing over and breaking it up myself, but the birds were a blur of talons and beaks, and no one could get close enough to separate them. We yelled and begged Miss Peregrine to stop.

Finally, she did. The pigeon dropped from her mouth and wobbled on its feet, too stunned to flee. Miss Peregrine warbled at it the way she had earlier, and this time the pigeon chirped in response. Then Miss Peregrine tapped the ground with her beak three times, then ten times, then five.

Three–ten–five. Olive tried the combination. The lock popped open, the door swung inward, and a rope ladder unrolled down the wall to meet the floor.

Miss Peregrine’s interrogation had worked. She’d done what she needed to do to help us all, and given that, we might’ve overlooked her behavior—if not for what happened next. She took the dazed pigeon by its leg again and, seemingly out of spite, flung it hard against the wall.

We reacted with a great collective gasp of horror. I was shocked beyond speaking.

Melina broke away from Bronwyn and ran to pick up the pigeon. It hung limply from her hand, its neck broken.

“Oh my bird, she’s killed it!” cried Bronwyn.

“All we went through to catch that thing,” said Hugh, “and now look.”

“I’m going to stomp your ymbryne’s head!” Melina shrieked, crazed with rage.

Bronwyn caught her arms again. “No, you’re not! Stop it!”

“Your ymbryne’s a savage! If that’s how she conducts herself, we’re better off with the wights!”

“You take that back!” shouted Hugh.

“I won’t!” Melina said.

More harsh words were exchanged. A fistfight was narrowly avoided. Bronwyn held Melina, and Emma and I held Hugh, until the fight went out of them, if not the bitterness.

No one could quite believe what Miss Peregrine had done.

“What’s the big fuss?” said Enoch. “It was just a stupid pigeon.”

“No, it wasn’t,” said Emma, scolding Miss Peregrine directly.

“That bird was a personal friend of Miss Wren’s. It was hundreds of years old. It was written about in the Tales. And now it’s dead.”

“Murdered,” said Melina, and she spat on the ground. “That’s what it’s called when you kill something for no reason.”

Miss Peregrine nibbled casually at a mite under her wing, as if she hadn’t heard any of this.

“Something wicked’s gotten into her,” said Olive. “This isn’t like Miss Peregrine at all.”

“She’s changing,” said Hugh. “Becoming more animal.”

“I hope there’s still something human left in her to rescue,” Millard said darkly.

So did we all.

We climbed out of the tunnel, each of us lost in our own anxious thoughts.

* * *

Beyond the door was a passage that led to a flight of steps that led to another passage and another door, which opened onto a room filled with daylight and packed to the rafters with clothes: racks and closets and wardrobes stuffed with them. There were also two wooden privacy screens to change behind, some freestanding mirrors, and a worktable laid out with sewing machines and bolts of raw fabric. It was half boutique, half workshop—and a paradise to Horace, who practically cartwheeled inside, crying, “I’m in Heaven!”