“You!” said Emma.

“We meet again,” the folding man said, his voice deep as an ocean trench. “My name is Sergei Andropov, and I am captain of peculiar resistance army. Come, I will show you around.”

* * *

“I knew he was peculiar!” Olive said.

“No, you didn’t,” said Enoch. “You only thought he was.”

“I knew you were peculiar the second I saw you,” said the folding man. “How you weren’t captured long time ago?”

“Because we’re wily,” said Hugh.

“He means lucky,” I said.

“But mostly just hungry,” said Enoch. “Got any food around here? I could eat an emu-raffe.”

At the mere mention of food, my stomach growled like a wild animal. None of us had eaten since our train ride to London, which seemed eons ago.

“Of course,” said the folding man. “This way.”

We followed him down the hall.

“So tell me about this peculiar army of yours,” Emma said.

“We will crush the wights and take back what’s ours. Punish them for kidnapping our ymbrynes.” He opened a door off the hallway and led us through a wrecked office where people lay sleeping on the floor and under desks. As we stepped around them, I recognized a few of their faces from the carnival: the plain-looking boy, the frizzy-haired snake-charmer girl.

“They’re all peculiar?” I asked.

The folding man nodded. “Rescued from other loops,” he said, holding a door open for us.

“And you?” said Millard. “Where did you come from?”

The folding man led us into a vestibule where we could talk without disturbing the sleepers, a room dominated by two large wooden doors emblazoned with dozens of bird insignias. “I come from land of frozen desert beyond Icy Waste,” he said. “Hundred years ago, when hollows first born, they strike my home first. Everything destroy. All in village killed. Old woman. Baby. All.” He made a chopping motion in the air with his hand. “I hide in butter churn, breathe through reed of straw, while own brother killed in same house. After, I come to London to escape the hollows. But they come, too.”

“That’s awful,” said Bronwyn. “I’m so sorry for you.”

“One day we take revenge,” he said, his face darkening.

“You mentioned that,” said Enoch. “How many are in your army, then?”

“Right now six,” he said, gesturing to the room we’d just left.

“Six people?!” said Emma. “You mean … them?”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“With you, makes seventeen. We growing quick.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said. “We didn’t come here to join any army.”

He gave me a look that could freeze Hell, then turned and threw open the double doors.

We followed him into a large room dominated by a massive oval table, its wood polished to a mirror shine. “This is Ymbryne Council meeting place,” the folding man said.

All around us were portraits of famous old peculiars, not framed but drawn directly onto the walls in oil and charcoal and grease pencil. The one closest to me was a face with wide, staring eyes and an open mouth, inside of which was a real, functioning water fountain. Around its mouth was a motto written in Dutch, which Millard, standing next to me, translated: “From the mouths of our elders comes a fountain of wisdom.”

Nearby was another, this one in Latin. “Ardet nec consomitur,” Melina said. “Burned but not destroyed.”

“How fitting,” said Enoch.

“I can’t believe I’m really here,” said Melina. “I’ve studied this place and dreamed about it for so many years.”

“It’s just a room,” said Enoch.

“Maybe to you. To me, it’s the heart of the whole peculiar world.”

“A heart that’s been ripped out,” said someone new, and I looked to see a clown striding toward us—the same one who’d been stalking us at the carnival. “Miss Jackdaw was standing right where you are when she was taken. We found a whole pile of her feathers on the floor.” His accent was American. He stopped a few feet from us and stood, chewing, one hand on his hip. “This them?” he asked the folding man, pointing at us with a turkey leg. “We need soldiers, not little kids.”

“I’m a hundred and twelve!” said Melina.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before,” said the clown. “I could tell you people were peculiar from across the fairgrounds, by the way. You’re the most obviously peculiar bunch of peculiars I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“I told them same thing,” said the folding man.

“How they made it all the way here from Wales without being captured is beyond me,” said the clown. “In fact, it’s suspicious. Sure one of you ain’t a wight?”

“How dare you!” said Emma.

“We were captured,” Hugh said proudly, “but the wights who took us didn’t live to tell about it.”

“Uh-huh, and I’m the king of Bolivia,” the clown said.

“It’s true!” Hugh thundered, going red in the face.

The clown tossed up his hands. “Okay, okay, calm down, kid! I’m sure Wren wouldn’t have let you in if you weren’t legitimate. Come on, let’s be friends, have a turkey leg.”

He didn’t have to offer twice. We were too hungry to stay offended for long.

The clown showed us to a table stacked with food—the same boiled nuts and roasted meats that had tempted us at the carnival. We crowded around the table and stuffed our faces shamelessly. The folding man ate five cherries and a small hunk of bread and then announced he’d never been so full in his life. Bronwyn paced along the wall, chewing her fingers, too consumed by worry to eat.

When we were done, and the table was a battlefield of gnawed bones and grease stains, the clown leaned back in his chair and said, “So, peculiar children, what’s your story? Why’d you come here all the way from Wales?”

Emma wiped her mouth and said, “To help our ymbryne.”

“And when she’s helped?” the clown asked. “What then?”

I’d been busy sopping up turkey gravy with the last of the bread, but now I looked up. The question was so straightforward, so simply put—so obvious—that I couldn’t believe none of us had asked it before.