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I wondered: Find our way to where? It occurred to me that, in our rush to escape the island, I had only ever heard the children talk about reaching the mainland, but we’d never discussed what to do once we got there—as if the idea of actually surviving the journey in those tiny boats was so far-fetched, so comically optimistic, that planning for it was a waste of time. I looked to Emma for reassurance, as I often did. She gazed darkly down the beach. The stony sand backed up to low dunes swaying with saw grass. Beyond was forest: an impenetrable-looking barrier of green that continued in both directions as far as I could see. Emma with her now-lost map had been aiming for a certain port town, but after the storm hit, just making it to dry land had become our goal. There was no telling how far we’d strayed off course. There were no roads I could see, or signposts, or even footpaths. Only wilderness.
Of course, we didn’t really need a map, or a signpost, or anything else. We needed Miss Peregrine—a whole, healed one—the Miss Peregrine who would know just where to go and how to get us there safely. The one perched before us now, fanning her feathers dry on a boulder, was as broken as her maimed wing, which hooked downward in an alarming V. I could tell it pained the children to see her like this. She was supposed to be their mother, their protector. She’d been queen of their little island world, but now she couldn’t speak, couldn’t loop time, couldn’t even fly. They saw her and winced and looked away.
Miss Peregrine kept her eyes trained on the slate-gray sea. They were hard and black and contained unutterable sorrow.
They seemed to say: I failed you…
Переведите пж,очень нужно
I wondered: Find our way to where? It occurred to me that, in our rush to escape the island, I had only ever heard the children talk about reaching the mainland, but we’d never discussed what to do once we got there—as if the idea of actually surviving the journey in those tiny boats was so far-fetched, so comically optimistic, that planning for it was a waste of time. I looked to Emma for reassurance, as I often did. She gazed darkly down the beach. The stony sand backed up to low dunes swaying with saw grass. Beyond was forest: an impenetrable-looking barrier of green that continued in both directions as far as I could see. Emma with her now-lost map had been aiming for a certain port town, but after the storm hit, just making it to dry land had become our goal. There was no telling how far we’d strayed off course. There were no roads I could see, or signposts, or even footpaths. Only wilderness.
Of course, we didn’t really need a map, or a signpost, or anything else. We needed Miss Peregrine—a whole, healed one—the Miss Peregrine who would know just where to go and how to get us there safely. The one perched before us now, fanning her feathers dry on a boulder, was as broken as her maimed wing, which hooked downward in an alarming V. I could tell it pained the children to see her like this. She was supposed to be their mother, their protector. She’d been queen of their little island world, but now she couldn’t speak, couldn’t loop time, couldn’t even fly. They saw her and winced and looked away.
Miss Peregrine kept her eyes trained on the slate-gray sea. They were hard and black and contained unutterable sorrow.
They seemed to say: I failed you…
I wondered: Find our way to where? It occurred to me that, in our rush to escape the island, I had only ever heard the children talk about reaching the mainland, but we’d never discussed what to do once we got there—as if the idea of actually surviving the journey in those tiny boats was so far-fetched, so comically optimistic, that planning for it was a waste of time. I looked to Emma for reassurance, as I often did. She gazed darkly down the beach. The stony sand backed up to low dunes swaying with saw grass. Beyond was forest: an impenetrable-looking barrier of green that continued in both directions as far as I could see. Emma with her now-lost map had been aiming for a certain port town, but after the storm hit, just making it to dry land had become our goal. There was no telling how far we’d strayed off course. There were no roads I could see, or signposts, or even footpaths. Only wilderness.
Of course, we didn’t really need a map, or a signpost, or anything else. We needed Miss Peregrine—a whole, healed one—the Miss Peregrine who would know just where to go and how to get us there safely. The one perched before us now, fanning her feathers dry on a boulder, was as broken as her maimed wing, which hooked downward in an alarming V. I could tell it pained the children to see her like this. She was supposed to be their mother, their protector. She’d been queen of their little island world, but now she couldn’t speak, couldn’t loop time, couldn’t even fly. They saw her and winced and looked away.
Miss Peregrine kept her eyes trained on the slate-gray sea. They were hard and black and contained unutterable sorrow.
They seemed to say: I failed you…
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Мне пришло в голову: куда именно мы движемся? Мне пришло в голову, что в нашей спешке покинуть остров я никогда не слышал детей говорить о достижении материка, но мы никогда не обсуждали, что делать, когда мы туда доберемся - как будто идея выжить в этом путешествии на таких маленьких лодках была настолько нереальной, так комически оптимистичной, что планировать это было бы пустой тратой времени. Я посмотрел на Эмму в поисках поддержки, как это часто случалось. Она с угрюмым видом смотрела вниз по пляжу. Каменистый песок поднимался к низким дюнам, колышущимся от соломы. За ним был лес: непроницаемый барьер зелени, который продолжался в обе стороны насколько я мог видеть. Эмма с ее теперь утерянной картой стремилась в определенный портовый город, но после того, как ударил шторм, нам просто стало приземлиться на сухую землю. Нельзя было сказать, насколько далеко мы сбились с пути. Нет дорог, которые я могу видеть, или указателей, или даже тропинок. Только дикая природа.
Конечно, нам не было действительно нужно карты, знаков, или чего-то еще. Нам нужна была мисс Перегрин - целая, здоровая, та самая мисс Перегрин, которая бы знала, куда нам идти и как довести нас туда безопасно. Та, что сейчас сидела перед нами, развевая свои перья на валуне, была также разбита, как и ее изуродованное крыло, которое висело вниз в пугающем углу. Я мог видеть, как больно было детям видеть ее такой. Она была должна быть их матерью, их защитником. Она была королевой их маленького островного мира, но теперь она не могла говорить, не могла петлить время, даже не могла летать. Они видели ее, отворачивались и отводили взгляд.
Мисс Перегрин не сводила свои глаза с моря цвета голубизны. Они были твердые и черные и содержали неописуемую скорбь.
Казалось, они говорили: Я провалила вас...