“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!”

Bentham pointed his cane and PT resumed walking. We followed them out of the dust-sheeted artifact storerooms through other parts of the house. It was in many ways the home of an average rich man—there was a marble-columned entry hall, a formal dining room with tapestried walls and seating for dozens, wings whose sole purpose seemed to be the display of tastefully arranged furnishings. But in each room, alongside everything else, were always a few objects from Bentham’s peculiar collection.

“Fifteenth-century Spain,” he said, indicating a gleaming suit of armor standing in a hall. “Had it made new. Fits me like a glove!”

At last we came to the library—the most beautiful I’d ever seen. Bentham told PT to set him down, brushed fur from his jacket, and showed us in. The room was three stories high at least, with shelves rising to dizzying heights above us. An array of staircases, catwalks, and rolling ladders had been constructed to reach them.

“I confess I haven’t read them all,” Bentham said, “but I’m working on it.”

He ushered us toward a battalion of couches surrounding a flaming hearth whose warmth filled the room. Waiting by the fire were Sharon and Nim. “Call me an untrustworthy lout!” Sharon hissed, but before he berated me further Bentham shooed him away to fetch us blankets. We were under the protection of the master’s good graces, and Sharon’s tongue-lashing would have to wait.

Within a minute we were seated on a couch and wrapped in blankets. Nim fluttered around preparing tea on gilded trays, and PT, curled before the flames, was fast settling into a state of hibernation. I tried to resist the feeling of cozy contentedness that was beginning to settle over me and focus on our unfinished business—the big questions and seemingly intractable problems. Our friends and ymbrynes. The absurd and hopeless task we had assigned ourselves. It was enough to crush me if I thought about it all at once. So I asked Nim for three lumps of sugar and enough cream to turn the tea white, then downed it in three gulps and asked for more.

Sharon had retreated to a corner, where he could sulk but still overhear our conversation.

Emma was eager to dispense with the formalities. “So,” she said. “Can we talk now?”

Bentham ignored her. He was sitting across from us but staring at me, the oddest little grin on his face.

“What?” I said, wiping a dribble of tea from my chin.

“It’s uncanny,” he replied. “You’re the spitting image.”

“Of who?”

“Of your grandfather, of course.”

I lowered my teacup. “You knew him?”

“I did. He was a friend to me, long ago, when I badly needed one.”

I glanced at Emma. She’d gone a bit pale and was clenching her teacup.

“He died a few months ago,” I said.

“Yes. I was very sorry to hear it,” Bentham said. “And surprised, to be honest, that he held out as long as he did. I assumed he’d been killed years ago. He had so many enemies—but he was exceedingly talented, your grandfather.”