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Loud, clonking footsteps echoed from across the room, accompanied by the sound of a large animal breathing.
“Back to the window, quick as you can,” Emma hissed, and we wormed out of our hiding spot.
I tried to run but slipped in a puddle. I grabbed the closest thing at hand, which happened to be the sheet covering the large object we’d been hiding behind. The sheet came ripping away, uncovering another display case with a resounding zzzzzzwit! and landing me on the floor in a pile of rumpled canvas.
When I looked up, the first thing I saw was a girl—not Emma, who was standing above me, but past her, inside the case, behind the glass. She had a perfectly angelic face and a ruffled dress and a bow in her hair, and she stared glassily at nothing in what seemed the permanent rictus of a taxidermied human being.
I freaked. Emma turned to see what I was freaking out about, and then she freaked.
She dragged me to my feet and we ran.
* * *
I’d forgotten all about the guy chasing us, the bear, Siberia. I just wanted to get out of that room, away from the stuffed girl, and far away from any possibility that Emma and I might end up like her, dead and encased behind glass. Now I knew all I needed to know about this Bentham guy—he was some kind of twisted collector, and I was sure that if we looked under more dust covers, we’d find more specimens like the girl.
We sped around a corner only to find, towering before us, a terrifying ten-foot mountain of fur and claws. We screamed, tried too late to stop running, and slid into a pile at the bear’s feet. There we cowered, waiting to die. Hot, stinking breath rolled over us. Something wet and rough mopped the side of my face.
I’d been licked by a bear. I’d been licked by a bear, and someone was laughing.
“Calm yourself, he won’t bite!” the someone said, and I uncovered my face to see a long furry nose and big brown eyes staring down at me.
Had the bear spoken? Do bears talk about themselves in the third person?
“His name’s PT,” the someone continued, “and he’s my bodyguard. He’s quite friendly, provided you stay on my good side. PT, sit!”
PT sat, then began licking his paw instead of my face. I flipped myself right side up, wiped the slobber from my cheek, and finally saw the owner of the voice. He was an older man—a gentleman—and he wore a subtle smirk that complemented his killer outfit: top hat, cane, gloves, and a high white collar that rose from the top of his dark jacket.
He bowed slightly and tipped his hat. “Myron Bentham, at your service.”
“Back away slowly,” Emma whispered in my ear, and we stood up together and side-stepped out of the bear’s reach. “We don’t want any trouble, mister. Just let us go and no one gets hurt.”
Bentham spread his arms and smiled. “You’re free to leave anytime you like. But that would be such a disappointment. You’ve only just arrived, and we have so much to talk about.”
“Yeah?” I said. “Maybe you can start by explaining that girl in the case over there!”
“And the Siberia Room!” said Emma.
“You’re upset, you’re cold, and you’re wet. Wouldn’t you rather discuss all this over a pot of hot tea?”
Yes, but I wasn’t going to say so.
“We’re not going anywhere with you until we know what’s happening here,” said Emma.
“Very well,” Bentham replied, not losing an ounce of his good humor. “That was my assistant you surprised in the Siberia Room—which, as you likely gathered, leads to a time loop in Siberia.”
“But that’s impossible,” said Emma. “Siberia is thousands of miles away.”
“Three thousand four hundred and eighty-nine,” he replied. “But making interloop travel possible has been my life’s work.” He turned to me. “As for the case you uncovered, that’s Sophronia Winstead. She was the first peculiar child born to the royal family of England. Fascinating life she led, if a bit tragic in the end. I have all sorts of notable peculiars here in my peculiarium—well known and unknown, famous and infamous—any or all of which I’m happy to show you. I have nothing to hide.”
“He’s a psycho,” I muttered to Emma. “He just wants to stuff us and add us to his collection!”
Bentham laughed. (His hearing, apparently, was very sharp.) “They’re only wax models, my boy. I am a collector and a preservationist, yes—but not of humans. Do you really think I waited so long to meet you, only to pull out your insides and lock you in a cabinet?”
“I’ve heard of stranger hobbies,” I said, thinking of Enoch and his army of homunculi. “What is it you want with us?”
“All in good time,” he said. “Let’s get you warm and dry first. Then, tea. Then—”
“I don’t mean to be rude,” Emma cut in, “but we’ve spent too much time here already. Our friends—”
“Are all right, for the moment,” Bentham said. “I’ve looked into the matter, and it isn’t as close to midnight for them as you might imagine.”
“How do you know?” Emma said quickly. “What do you mean, it isn’t close—”
“What do you mean, looked into it?” I said, talking over her.
“All in good time,” Bentham repeated. “I know it’s difficult, but you must be patient. There’s too much to tell all at once, and in such a sorry state.” He stretched out an arm toward us. “Look. You’re shivering.”
“Fine, then,” I said. “Let’s have tea.”
“Excellent!” said Bentham. He rapped his cane twice on the floor. “PT, come!”
The bear grunted in an agreeable sort of way, stood on its hind legs, and walked—waddling like a stubby-legged fat person—to where Bentham stood. Upon reaching him, the animal bent down and scooped him into the air, carrying him like a baby, one paw supporting his back and the other his legs.
“I know it’s an unconventional way to travel,” Bentham said over PT’s bushy shoulder, “but I tire easily.” He pointed ahead of them with his cane and said, “PT, library!”
Emma and I watched in amazement as PT began to walk away with Mr. Bentham.
You don’t see that every day, I thought. Which was true of nearly everything I’d seen that day.
“PT, stop!” Bentham commanded.
The bear stopped. Bentham waved to us.
“Are you coming?”
We’d been staring.
“Sorry,” Emma said, and we ran to catch up.
* * *
We wended our way through the maze after Bentham and his bear.
“Is your bear peculiar?” I asked.
“Yes, he’s a grimbear,” said Bentham, rubbing PT’s shoulder affectionately. “They are the preferred companion of ymbrynes in Russia and Finland, and grimbear-taming is an old and respected art among peculiars there. They’re strong enough to fight off a hollowgast yet gentle enough to care for a child, they’re warmer than electric blankets on winter nights, and they make fearsome protectors, as you’ll see here … PT, left!”
As Bentham extolled the virtues of grimbears, we came into a small anteroom. Under a glass canopy in the middle of the room were three ladies and, towering over them, a giant, vicious-looking bear. My breath caught for a moment before I realized they were motionless, another of Bentham’s displays.
“That’s Miss Waxwing, Miss Troupial, and Miss Grebe,” Bentham said, “and their grim, Alexi.”
The grimbear, on second look, appeared to be protecting the wax ymbrynes. The ladies were posed calmly around it while the bear was raised on its hind legs, frozen in midroar while swiping its paw at an enemy. Its other paw rested almost sweetly on one of the ymbrynes’ shoulders, and her fingers were hooked around one of its long nails, as if to demonstrate her casual mastery over such a fearsome creature.
“Alexi was PT’s great-uncle,” Bentham said. “Say hello to your uncle, PT!”
PT grunted.
“If only you could do that with hollows,” Emma whispered to me.
“How long does it take to train a grimbear??
?? I asked Bentham.
“Years,” he replied. “Grims are naturally very independent.”
“Years,” I whispered to Emma.
Emma rolled her eyes. “And is Alexi made of wax, too?” she said to Bentham.
“Oh no, he’s taxidermy.”
Apparently Bentham’s aversion to stuffing peculiar folk did not extend to peculiar animals. If Addison were here, I thought, there’d be fireworks.
I shivered. Emma ran a warm hand up my back. Bentham noticed, too, and said, “Forgive me! I so seldom have visitors that I can’t help showing off my collection when they come. Now, I keep promising tea, and tea there shall be!”
