The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Riddle of Ages, page 7
“Dad will have something in mind,” Constance was saying. “He’ll have a plan A, a plan B—all the way down to plan Z. You know he will.” She spoke insistently, as if to convince herself of the truth of her words.
“Of course he will,” Kate agreed, “and I hope it calls for some serious hurrying. I’m getting antsy with all this sitting around.”
Sticky looked at her askance. “You literally dropped out of the sky before lunch, Kate. Do try to be patient.”
Reynie, who had risen from his chair, stopped and turned toward the table when he realized that the others had fallen silent. They were all looking at him expectantly, for whenever something set Reynie to pacing, a new mystery, problem, or revelation was surely on its way to being announced.
“A couple of things,” Reynie said. “First of all, Constance, you gave me a mental nudge back in the captain’s quarters, didn’t you? Like you just did with McCracken? Now I know why I was thinking of it earlier. I haven’t quite been able to accept that I didn’t notice you sneaking into that crate. I distinctly remember feeling preoccupied with my shoelaces—I kept thinking they might be untied. I checked them three times.”
Constance screwed up her face, as if she were about to have to eat something disgusting. “Yes,” she admitted after a pause. “I gave you those shoelace notions. I also helped you to believe that the crate was still empty, just heavier than it looked. And… I’m sorry. I was desperate not to be left behind, and you’re way too observant not to have noticed otherwise.”
“Did you convince me of something, too?” asked Sticky, prepared to be indignant.
Constance shook her head. “No need.”
At this, Sticky truly did become indignant, but for an entirely different reason.
“I forgive you,” Reynie said. “What’s more important to me is how you felt afterward. You didn’t seem to feel horribly sick. And you seem to have recovered pretty well from what happened just now.”
“No, it wasn’t terrible either time,” Constance said. “I got a headache and felt a little nauseated, but that’s all. Maybe because I was trying to be careful—I didn’t try to convince you of anything you wouldn’t ever think of yourself. Like you said, it was just a nudge. And that’s how we went about it with McCracken, too.” She considered a moment. “You’re wondering if the consequences are less severe because I’m older, aren’t you? It’s possible, I guess. I haven’t tried that kind of stunt in a long time.”
“Oh, brother,” said Sticky when he saw what they were getting at. “You’re thinking the Listener might figure out how to change people’s minds. If she develops her abilities, and she doesn’t suffer very much as a result, she could do almost anything, couldn’t she?”
“It’s not an encouraging thought,” Reynie said. “Right now she’s just getting a handle on her abilities. Who knows if she was even aware of her gift before the Ten Men caught up with her? Whatever she knew in her old life—the Whisperer hid it from her. But now she’s actively using the gift, cultivating it. For all we know, she might improve very quickly.”
“That’s all the more reason to reach out to Mr. Benedict right away,” said Kate, “while Constance still feels like she’s got the upper hand.”
“True,” said Reynie, “except that brings me to my second thought. Constance, when was the last time you slept?”
Constance explained that she’d only been allowing herself short naps—and only when Tai was sleeping. She had the impression that the Listener was equally exhausted but also equally vigilant, and only slept when Constance did.
“That’s what I figured,” Reynie said. “She’s constantly on alert, waiting for you to reveal something useful. So why don’t we be as smart as possible? Let’s wait until the Listener is asleep.”
Kate groaned. “Why do you have to make so much sense? I hate it when the smart move is to wait.”
“I think we can speed the process along,” Reynie assured her. “Constance, at this point you could probably fall asleep at the drop of a hat, right?”
“No hat required,” Constance replied. “I could fall asleep right here in this chair. Just say the word.”
“Great. Here’s my idea,” said Reynie. He went on to detail his plan, which they all thought a good one, and in less than a minute Constance was curled up in an easy chair in the corner, her hands tucked under her cheek, her scarlet hair falling across her face.
“Don’t watch me,” she mumbled. “I hate it when…” Her breathing deepened, and she was out.
The others sat quietly at the dining table, exchanging significant glances. They would very much like to speak privately while Constance was asleep, but they dared not even whisper. It was crucial that she stay asleep. They would give her ten minutes. If the Listener was in a similar state, she would surely be asleep by then herself, desperately taking advantage of Constance’s nap.
I wonder what Constance’s dreams might reveal, Reynie thought. He had no idea if the Listener could pick up on a dream, bright signal or no. But dream information wouldn’t be considered reliable. He hoped not, at any rate. It was hard to imagine how these telepathic mechanisms worked. Constance spoke of bright signals, which made them seem visual, but she had often referred to some people’s thoughts as being louder than others’. And they were distinctive, she said: Mr. Benedict’s thoughts sounded like Mr. Benedict’s voice in her mind, while Reynie’s thoughts sounded like Reynie’s voice, and so on.
These things were naturally fascinating to Reynie, though he knew that for Constance they had been a burden. She was in possession of such genius, by all rights she should know more than the rest of them put together. And yet she’d spent these last years, under Mr. Benedict’s supervision and care, almost entirely focused on simply learning how not to read others’ minds. It was of critical importance, Mr. Benedict had said, in order for Constance to have a happy life. So it was that Constance remained exhaustingly childish and cranky much of the time, though in many ways her mind was more sophisticated than that of anyone they knew, including Mr. Benedict.
There had been a couple of peaceful years, not long after Mr. Curtain and most of the Ten Men had been captured, when Constance seemed relaxed, contented, and generally cheerful, not unlike young Tai Li. Reynie and the others could scarcely believe their luck. But as time passed, as Constance grew, she had once again taken a turn for the peevish. She was not yet a teenager, not even what some people called a tweenager, but had become, as Kate put it, a mean-ager.
“It will all balance out in the end,” Mr. Benedict had said more than once, and Reynie certainly hoped this was true. He believed in Constance, believed she would come out all right. But only if they succeeded in their dangerous task at hand.
“It’s time,” Kate said without glancing at the clock, and of course she was right. Ten minutes had passed.
“Here we go,” Sticky said.
The three rose and went to the chair where Constance slept. She was not exactly snoring, but rather making spouting sounds like those of a breaching whale, and with each breath the scarlet curtain of hair over her face fluttered. The older three all hesitated, looking at one another with small smiles—it was so much easier to feel their love for Constance when she was sleeping—before giving over to the dread of waking her up.
“You boys are cowards,” Kate said at last. She shook Constance awake.
“It’s not an apple, it’s a monkey!” Constance cried, sitting bolt upright. She pushed the hair out of her face and looked around with wild eyes.
“Easy, Connie girl,” said Kate in a soothing tone. “You’re absolutely right. Also, you were dreaming.”
After she’d groaned miserably for a minute or two and Reynie had brought her a glass of water, Constance came more fully awake. She sipped the water, smacked her lips, and frowned in concentration.
“She’s asleep,” Constance announced briskly, suddenly all business. “Now’s the time. I’m going to reach out to him.” She closed her eyes.
The others watched her face attentively. No matter how many times they had seen her project her thoughts, they never stopped being amazed. Even more mystifying was the idea of Constance receiving a person’s thoughts from so far away. But, then, they were not just any person’s thoughts. They were Mr. Benedict’s, and when Mr. Benedict concentrated, Constance had often said, his thoughts were louder than a trumpeting elephant.
“He hears me,” Constance breathed, her eyes still closed. “He’s there with Mr. Curtain and… S.Q. is there, too.”
The others nodded without speaking, not wishing to disturb her concentration. They knew that S.Q. Pedalian, a kind young man improbably loyal to Mr. Curtain yet also a friend to them, was allowed to visit Mr. Curtain in his security suite. Other than Mr. Benedict, he was the only person who ever did.
“Hush!” Constance hissed, though no one had spoken. They all held their breath. Her frown deepened. She nodded as if to indicate that she understood what was being said to her, as if someone else was in the room with them. “He’s going to let us help him,” she murmured, scowling with concentration. “He’s—okay, here it comes.…”
A moment of tense silence passed. And then in a halting, uncertain tone, Constance began to recite:
“Where one who stands defies the name,
Dare hunt the hunter in his frame
And strike the clenches from their floor
And— GET OUT!”
These last two words Constance uttered in something between a snarl and a shriek. The others flinched, glancing around in alarm, but the only intruder in the room was impossible to see. Constance swatted furiously at the air as if being swarmed by hornets. “The stupid—she woke up! He woke her up! McCracken did! Oh, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!”
To her extreme irritation, Constance was unsure how much the Listener had heard of Mr. Benedict’s message. Perhaps none of it, perhaps all of it. The moment she’d sensed the Listener eavesdropping, she’d begun blasting images and jumbles of words in her mind, at the same time warning Mr. Benedict to say no more.
“I don’t think I needed to warn him, though.” Constance spoke without looking at her friends, still gathered around her easy chair. “I think he noticed her listening as soon as I did.”
“He was obviously being careful from the beginning,” Reynie said. “He was communicating in a way that wouldn’t reveal where we are or what his plan might be.”
“It was just like the old days at the Institute, wasn’t it?” Kate said. “He was being cryptic—giving us clues he thinks only we can figure out. But, um, Constance, I don’t suppose you heard the whole last line, did you? Did Mr. Benedict finish it before he went quiet?”
Constance glanced at her sidewise and shrugged uneasily. “I kind of heard it.”
Sticky clapped a hand to the top of his head. “What do you mean by ‘kind of’? You do realize that we need—”
Constance flew out of the chair, grabbed Sticky’s shirt in her fists, and pulled him forward until his face was inches from her own. Punctuating her words with tugs on his shirt, she hissed: “I was. And am. A little. Busy. George.”
There was a freighted silence. Then Sticky, very quietly and smoothly, said, “I’m sorry I expressed frustration, Constance. I realize you’re under a great deal of pressure, and I in no way mean to suggest that you’re to blame for the challenging circumstances in which we find ourselves. Furthermore, I appreciate your calling me by my given name, knowing as you do that I’ve been trying to make strides in that direction.”
Constance blinked. She had actually called him George out of an angry reflex (for Sticky used to dislike his given name), but she decided not to reveal this fact. Instead she groaned, released his shirt, and flopped back into the chair. “It’s weird now that you’re good-looking,” she muttered wearily. “You can say pretty much anything and it makes me want to believe you.”
Reynie and Kate murmured their agreement. Sticky bit his lip.
“Anyway,” Constance said, “I think I got the gist of the last part. Something about going through a door made out of clay—the kind that the French use.”
“A French door?” Kate pressed. “Is that what he meant?”
“I guess?” Constance said. “What’s a French door?”
For a moment no one spoke. The others were still sometimes amazed by the things Constance didn’t know. Only a month ago, for instance, she’d accidentally revealed that she didn’t know what the circulatory system was—she seemed to think it was a method of drawing perfect circles and had insisted Kate teach it to her.
Reynie turned to Sticky. “Care to do the honors?”
“Sure,” Sticky said, clearing his throat. “Do you think we’re talking about American French doors or British French doors? Because when the British refer to French doors, they typically mean casement windows that extend to floor level and open onto a garden or balcony or the like. They’re also often called French windows, which really makes better sense, don’t you think? In this country, though, Constance, the term ‘French doors’ typically suggests two adjoining doors that have glass panes from top to bottom and that open in the middle. So they’re very similar architectural features in some ways, but not identical.”
Constance was staring bleakly at him. “But neither of them is made of clay?”
Sticky shook his head.
Constance closed her eyes. “I give up.”
“Sticky,” Reynie ventured, “can you think of any doors that are made of clay? Some kinds of masonry ovens, maybe? Kilns?”
Sticky confirmed that, indeed, several types of masonry ovens—also known as brick ovens, stone ovens, or even cloam ovens (though that term was used exclusively in the English counties of Devon and Cornwall)—
Kate cut in. “They all have doors made out of clay?”
“Not necessarily,” Sticky said. “But sometimes.”
“Not helpful yet,” Kate said, casting a look at Reynie. “Or is it?”
Reynie shook his head. “Not yet. We’ll get there, though. We should start at—”
Here, however, Reynie’s words were interrupted by the appearance of Tai Li, who pattered sleepily into the room. His hair was newly tangled from the pillow, and his arms were wrapped around a fire-engine red bucket.
“Well, hello, young man,” Kate said. “What have you got there?”
Tai grinned. “Your bucket! It still has stuff in it! I don’t know how to open it, though,” he said, setting the bucket on the floor and kneeling beside it. “Does it have secret catches, too? Like the chest in Reynie’s study? That’s where I found it.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Kate, and with a skeptical look at Reynie, who shook his head in silent reply, she went over to demonstrate how to open the bucket’s flip-top. “So Reynie showed you the secret catches on his chest?”
Tai shrugged and pulled a horseshoe magnet from a pouch inside the bucket. “He just said it when he was getting out your spyglass. I had to press so hard it hurt my fingers! Does this stick to metal?” As he spoke, he moved the magnet toward the side of the bucket. With a sharp clang, the ends of the magnet snapped fast to the bucket. Tai laughed and tried to pull the magnet away again, but he only succeeded in dragging the bucket across the floor.
“Tai,” Reynie said, “I don’t remember telling you about the catches. Did I say that out loud, or did I say it in my head?”
The little boy, having dragged the bucket all the way over to the dining table, paused in his efforts to consider. “Oh! Yes, it was in your head.” He sat on his bottom, pressed his bare feet against the side of the bucket, and yanked on the magnet with both hands. When it came free, he tumbled backward with a delighted squeal. Then he righted himself and immediately stuck the magnet to the bucket again.
The others in the room were exchanging troubled looks.
Sticky turned to Reynie. “Were you concentrating especially hard on the catches?” he asked in a low tone.
“I barely even thought about them,” Reynie said. “If anything, I was concentrating more on everything else.”
“It happens that way sometimes,” Constance said. “You all remember how it used to be with me.”
“So we’re going to have to be on our guard whenever he’s in the room,” Sticky muttered. “Just like we do with you—or used to do, I mean.”
Kate made a face. “Ugh, I hate doing that. It hurts my brain.”
Constance fixed her with a look. “You do remember that I’m doing the same thing right now, don’t you? Every single second? Complain some more, Kate.”
“You’re right, you’re right,” Kate said quickly. “Sorry. It’s not a problem.”
“One problem we do have, though,” Reynie said, frowning, “is that in order to figure out Mr. Benedict’s message, we need to concentrate. But if Constance concentrates—”
“Oh!” Sticky gasped. “Right! The Listener might hear whatever she’s thinking. Did that occur to you, Constance, or…?” He trailed off, for Constance was looking at them each in turn, her face a mask of resentment, and tears suddenly standing in her eyes.
“I get it,” she said quietly. She glanced across the room to where Tai was still entertaining himself with Kate’s magnet. “You can’t risk having me around. Okay, that’s fine.”
“Just a second, Constance,” Reynie said. “That’s not necessarily—”
“Tai!” Constance called in a tremulous voice. “If you need me, I’ll be in my room.” She wiped at her eyes with a rumpled sleeve of the suit jacket, cast one last bitter look at Reynie, and stalked out.
They all looked glumly after her.
“That went well,” Sticky muttered.
Across the room, Tai made a whimpering sound and climbed to his feet. His face was puzzled. “Is Constance okay? It felt like she was sad, and now she isn’t answering my thoughts. Can we ask her to come back?”
