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"What if she’s still here?"

"Then she’s probably been captured by now!" said Enoch

"And if she hasn’t?" Millard’s voice was bright with hope

"She could help Miss Peregrine--and then ouldn’t have to go anywhere near the punishest we find her?" Enoch said shrilly

"Shout her name from the rooftops? This isn’t Cairnholeons," said Millard

"Coeons who told her where the ymbrynes had been taken If they knehere all the other ymbrynes went, then they should knohere Miss Wren is, too They belong to her, after all"

"Hah!" said Enoch "The only thing coed ladies are flocks of pigeons And you want to search all of London for one flock in particular?"

"It does seem a bit mad," Emma said "Sorry, Mill, I just don’t see how that could work"

"Then it’s a lucky thing for you I spent our train ride studying rather than ossip Someone hand ave it to hies "There are many answers to be found within," he said, "if you only knohat to look for" He stopped at a certain page and stabbed the top with his finger "Aha!" he said, turning the book to shohat he’d found

The title of the story was "The Pigeons of St Paul’s"

"I’ll be blessed," said Bronwyn "Could those be the sa about?"

"If they’re written about in the Tales, they’re aleons," said Millard, "and how eons could there possibly be?"

Olive clapped her hands and cried, "Millard, you’re brilliant!"

"Thank you, yes, I are"

"Wait, I’m lost," I said "What’s St Paul’s?"

"Even I know that," said Olive "The cathedral!" And she went to the end of the alley and pointed up at a giant doest and nificent cathedral in London," said Millard, "and ifplace of Miss Wren’s pigeons"

"Let’s hope they’re at hoood news for us We’ve had quite a drought of it lately"

As we navigated a labyrinth of narrow streets toward the cathedral, a brooding quiet settled over us For long stretches no one spoke, leaving only the tap of our shoes on pavement and the sounds of the city: airplanes, the ever-present hum of traffic, sirens that warbled and pitch-shifted around us