Still, there remained the important problem of all those who had been robbed of memories: the “recruited” children; the secret agents who’d been retrained as Helpers; Mr. Bloomburg, of course; and a good many of the Executives, who not so long ago had been hapless orphans in search of purpose and a home. It would be Milligan’s task to lead the search for all the unfortunates who had ever set foot upon Nomansan Island; it would be Mr. Benedict’s to restore their memories. Already Mr. Benedict was hard at work modifying his twin’s invention with the aim of reversing its brainsweeping function — instead of covering up old memories, it would coax them into the open again — and when pressed, Mr. Benedict admitted he thought it rather likely he would succeed. To those who knew him, this meant there was no doubt he would.
Mr. Benedict firmly insisted, however, that modesty had nothing to do with his opinion that the children had been the real heroes in this adventure. It was they, he argued, who took the risks to discover Mr. Curtain’s dark secrets; they who overcame Mr. Curtain in the Whispering Gallery; they who primed the Whisperer for shutdown; and they who figured out how to unlock the secret exit — something that could only have been done from the inside.
“How did you even know about that secret exit, Mr. Benedict?” Kate asked one night, some weeks after their return. Though everyone in the house had been talking nonstop, it had mostly been to government agents, not to one another, and their own curiosities had yet to be satisfied. This night happened to be the first that they all sat down together with no one to interrupt them. Everyone in the dining room cradled a mug of steaming hot chocolate, for autumn had now given way to winter, and everyone — even Constance Contraire — wore an expression of profound relief to find themselves alone together at last.
“Again I must defer the credit,” said Mr. Benedict. “It was Milligan who found it.”
Everyone looked to Milligan, who was seated at the table beside Kate.
“I just felt sure Mr. Curtain would have built a secret escape route for himself,” Milligan explained. “So after I joined you on the island, I searched every night under cover of darkness. Even then I was lucky — I only found the entrance the night before I was captured.”
“It’s always about entrances and exits with you, isn’t it, Milligan?” Kate teased.
Milligan laughed — it was a hearty, booming laugh — and everyone at the table jumped. They were still getting used to his laughter. After all these years of acting like the saddest man alive, Milligan now acted as if he were the happiest man alive — and perhaps he was. Having so long ago exited his life as a father, he had now, at long last, entered it again.
Milligan reached over and plucked Kate’s chin, which for the first time in weeks was not greasy with ointment. (Her cuts and bruises were long since healed, having been constantly overattended to, not only by Milligan but by everyone else in the house as well.) Kate beamed, swatting playfully at his hand. The next moment she realized the marshmallow was missing from her hot chocolate. She looked up to see him pop it into his mouth.
“You thief!” she said, giggling.
Milligan gave her a wink and a fresh marshmallow.
At the other end of the table, meanwhile, Reynie was preoccupied with a curious question: What should he call the person beside him? He was seated next to Miss Perumal, of course. They’d been reunited at last — with much hugging and great quantities of tears — and she sat by him now with one hand resting on his shoulder. But would he continue to call her Miss Perumal? What would he call her? This is a pressing question for all children who find themselves with a new parent, and so it was for Reynie, whose absence had impressed upon Miss Perumal how dear to her he was: At their reunion, she had lost no time asking what he might think of her adopting him.
At first Reynie had been unable to answer her, only threw himself into her arms and hid his face.
“Oh dear,” Miss Perumal had said, bursting into a fresh bout of tears. “Oh dear, I hope this means yes.”
It had, of course, meant yes, and the two of them sat now with the odd sense — very much like that experienced by Milligan and Kate — of having been family for ages, yet somehow having only just met. An odd sense, but extremely pleasant.
“Mom” didn’t feel quite right, Reynie decided. Why not use the Tamil word? He’d heard her refer to her own mother as “Amma,” but whether this meant “mom” or “mother,” he wasn’t sure. Reynie felt a flutter of happy anticipation. He would ask Sticky.
At that moment, Sticky happened to be the only unhappy person in the entire group. He was trying valiantly not to show it, though. Instead he pressed Mr. Benedict with another question: “But how did you finally disable the Whisperer?”
“I only finished what you children had already begun,” replied Mr. Benedict. “I persuaded the Whisperer that I was Curtain, then gave it orders that more or less baffled it out of operation. But had Constance not already thoroughly discombobulated it, and had I not possessed a brain so very much like my twin’s, we might never have succeeded.”
“Three cheers for Mr. Benedict’s brain!” cried Kate. Everyone laughed and cheered.
“And three cheers for Constance,” said Mr. Benedict, then grew thoughtful as the others cheered and Constance blushed. “That reminds me. Constance, my dear, would you please step into the kitchen and retrieve the small box on the table there?”
Constance nodded and went into the kitchen.
“I can’t believe it,” Sticky said. “She went without even grumbling. It’s almost like she’s growing up.”
“That is precisely to the point, Sticky,” said Mr. Benedict, with a nod to Rhonda Kazembe, who went to a cabinet and produced an enormous birthday cake that had been hidden inside.
“Thank goodness,” said Number Two. “I’m starved.”
Constance returned to find the others beaming at her and pointing to the cake. She blushed yet again. “But my birthday isn’t until next month!”
“Who knows what the next month brings?” asked Mr. Benedict. “I say let us eat cake now!”
Constance shook her head bemusedly, though clearly she was delighted, and as she clambered back into her chair she handed him the little box he’d sent for.
“It was the three cheers that reminded me,” said Mr. Benedict, opening the box and shaking out three birthday candles. “I’d forgotten to put the candles on the cake.”
“Three birthday candles?” Reynie said. “Three birthday candles? Constance is only two years old?”
“Two years and eleven months,” the girl said defensively.
The children gaped.
“But . . . but . . . ,” Sticky began, then closed his mouth and shook his head.
“Why, that explains everything!” Kate said, with a feeling of great relief, as if a nagging question had finally been answered, though she’d never realized she’d had the question in the first place.
Reynie laughed with delight. “So that was what Mr. Benedict meant when he said you were more gifted than anyone realized. I thought he was just referring to your incredible stubbornness!”
“Who’s stubborn?” Constance said, frowning.
“A toddler,” Sticky murmured to himself. “No wonder she was always so sleepy, so cranky, so stubborn. She’s two!”
“I am not stubborn,” insisted Constance, who had overheard. Then she corrected him: “And I’m almost three.”
The next day, although the house once again teemed with agents and rattled with the noise of a thousand phone calls, Mr. Benedict found it necessary to abandon the projects for a time and attend to important matters of a more personal nature. He tracked Sticky down in an upstairs hallway, where Number Two was rubbing Sticky’s bald head and nodding.
“Yes, I concur,” she said matter-of-factly. “Your hair is definitely coming back.”
“Finally,” Sticky said.
Number Two noticed Mr. Benedict and frowned. “What on earth are you doing out of your chair? Why didn’t you call for on
e of us?”
“I apologize, Number Two. I was distracted by an urgent matter and will return at once. Sticky, will you please accompany me? I have something to discuss with you.”
“Make sure he sits down, Sticky,” Number Two called after them.
Together they went into Mr. Benedict’s office, where Mr. Benedict obediently sat at his desk and said, “Sticky, I won’t beat around the bush. Your parents are here.”
“My — my parents? Here?” Sticky said, glancing around as if expecting to see them hiding behind furniture. It was only a nervous response. He had no idea how he felt about the news.
“I’ll explain,” said Mr. Benedict. “Let us begin with what you already know. After you ran away your parents did, for a time, get caught up in the sudden downpour of riches. In fact they made so much money they were wealthier than most people, wealthier by far than they had ever been. Though they did look for you, their efforts grew halfhearted —”
“You’re right,” Sticky interjected miserably. “I know this part.”
“Not entirely, my friend. Their efforts were halfhearted, I say, but this, more than anything, was because they were afraid of you.”
“Afraid? Of me?”
“Indeed, they were afraid of their inability to give you a proper home. When you ran away, Sticky, your parents were bitterly ashamed. You were already so much smarter than they were, and they had already made such a terrible mess of things. If you wished to run away, then perhaps — or so they thought in their anguish — perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps you were better off without them.”
“Better off?” Sticky echoed, remembering that long-ago phrase of his father’s, the phrase he’d partly overheard. He’d thought his father meant they were better off without him.
“These were their thoughts at the time. You must also realize they were being influenced by Curtain’s hidden messages. ‘The missing aren’t missing, they’re only departed,’ remember? A most pernicious message indeed. And yet despite this, Sticky, your parents became perfectly morose. Despite their desperate hopes that the money would help them forget you, they soon understood no amount of riches could fill the hole you’d left in their lives. They realized they needed you, even if you didn’t need them. And so they’ve spent all their money looking for you, in fact have gone deeply into debt and are now quite poor.
“It may also interest you to know,” Mr. Benedict continued, “that your parents began their search before we disabled the Whisperer. So determined were they to bring you back, you see, their minds began to resist the broadcasts. Only a powerful love could have mounted such a resistance.”
Sticky was having trouble taking it all in. “And they found me? You didn’t call them?”
“They found you. I could have kept you hidden, perhaps. But once I was convinced of how earnestly they sought you, once I had grasped their true feelings, I allowed you to be found.”
“So you think I should go with them.”
“It’s what you think that matters, Sticky.”
“Well, but how do they seem to you?”
“Quite wretched, I should say, and sick with longing for their lost child. They made a terrible mistake and will always regret it. When I told them you were safe, your parents’ relief overwhelmed them. They wept and wept. Nor had they stopped weeping when I took my leave of them. I believe they’re still weeping, in fact — I saw Rhonda bringing fresh tissues.”
Sticky’s eyes brimmed with tears. “And they really said they needed me more than I needed them?”
“That appears to be their take on the matter. What is your own opinion?”
The tears spilled over and ran down Sticky’s cheeks. “May I see them?”
“You had only to ask, my friend,” declared Mr. Benedict, rising to shake Sticky’s hand. His eyes shone with emotion. “They’re waiting for you in the dining room.”
Sticky flew from Mr. Benedict’s study toward a reunion so joyous and tearful and, eventually, so full of happy laughter, that soon the dining room was crowded with all Sticky’s friends, and with Milligan and Rhonda and Number Two, and even a few unfamiliar officials drawn by the commotion. It was a splendid, uproarious, spontaneous celebration, with hugs and handshakes and kisses all around, and eventually Milligan produced the remains of last night’s birthday cake and Rhonda whipped up a frothy fruit punch. Even the officials, at first irritated by the delay in their investigations, got caught up in the frenzy, and before long they had shed their coats and ties, one of them had put on a record, and dancing broke out.
This had been going on for some time when Number Two suddenly looked about for Mr. Benedict. “Mercy!” she cried, and flew from the room. She found him exactly where Sticky had left him after their warm handshake; only instead of standing Mr. Benedict was sprawled facedown across his desk, papers scattered all about, snoring like a freight train with an expression of pure happiness on his face.
“Mr. Benedict is adopting Constance, eh?” Kate said to Reynie. “That’s good news. And a good fit, I’d say. He certainly enjoys her lame jokes.”
They had completed their snow fort and were building up a supply of snowballs for the coming attack. Across the courtyard Rhonda, Constance, and Sticky were engaged in the same activity. Peeking over the top of the fort to observe the other side’s progress, Reynie said, “Yes, everybody’s finding their family, it seems. You have Milligan. I’m to have a mother and a grandmother. Constance gets two sisters and a father —”
“Two sisters?”
“Oh, yes, it turns out Mr. Benedict adopted Number Two and Rhonda long ago. Though Rhonda believes it’s more apt to say they adopted him. In fact, I think that’s how Mr. Benedict put the question to Constance: ‘Would you be willing to adopt us as your family?’ Constance told him she’d have to consider it, but was inclined to accept.”
Kate snickered. “‘Inclined to accept.’ What gumption. Hey, you’re making those too big. Try to make them about this size.” She displayed one of her perfectly formed spheres to Reynie, then scooped up more snow with her new bucket (a gift from Milligan — it was exactly like her old one).
“Kate! Reynie! Are you ready for ignominious defeat?” shouted Rhonda from across the courtyard.
“Defeat? We know not the word!” Kate shouted back, then whispered to Reynie, “Actually, ‘ignominious’ is the word I don’t know.”
“Shameful,” Reynie said.
“Hey, I can’t know every word, Mr. Smarty. For crying out loud, how —”
“No, ‘ignominious’ means shameful.”
“It does?” Kate said. She frowned with passionate defiance. She was as happy as she had ever been. “The beasts! We’ll see about that. Do you remember our strategy?”
Reynie rolled his eyes. “How could I forget? You barrage them with snowballs while I run out and gather all the ones they’ve thrown, so as to keep our pile from running low.”
“Yes, and repack them to the proper size while you’re at it,” Kate said.
“Would you mind terribly if I threw an occasional snowball myself? That is part of the fun, you know.”
Kate sighed. “I hate to waste a snowball, but I suppose there’s always the chance you’ll hit something. Fine, you can throw some.”
“Much obliged,” Reynie said.
Moments later the courtyard erupted into a melee of flung snowballs, scurrying children, and peals of laughter. More laughter sounded from behind the windows of the house, where all the adults, including Miss Perumal and the Washingtons, sipped apple cider and watched the gleeful battle below. Mr. Benedict laughed so hard, in fact — a great, long, series that sounded like an entire school of dolphins — that Number Two hurried over to snatch the hot cider just as he went limp in sleep. He awoke minutes later only to laugh himself to sleep again, and so he continued, laughing and sleeping and laughing again, all afternoon, until at last he slipped into a prolonged slumber. When he awoke a final time to Number Two’s gentle shaking of his shoulder, Mr. Benedi
ct saw that the day had grown noticeably darker.
“It’s dusk and we’ve called them in twice already,” Number Two told him. “Can’t you urge them to come inside at once? Dinner’s growing cold.”
“Soon, Number Two, soon,” said Mr. Benedict, casting an affectionate look first at her, then at the giddy, happy children beyond the window. “Have a snack, why don’t you? Sneak a bowl of the stew — I won’t tell anyone — but let’s give them a few minutes more. They’ll be so cold that even lukewarm victuals will seem piping hot to them. Just a few minutes more, Number Two. Let them play. They are children, after all.”
And this was certainly true, if only for the moment.
Dear Reader,
It has come to my attention that certain individuals wish to know my first name. If you are one of these, and if you are acquainted with the code, then I assure you the answer lies within your grasp.
Best regards,
Mr. Benedict
Acknowledgments
Many good people helped this book along the way (in not a few cases by buoying its author), and they deserve far more than an expression of my gratitude, but here they shall have at least that: I would like to thank Sara Curtis, for encouraging me before I began; Mark Barr, Todd Kimm, and Lisa Taggart, for their thoughtful and valuable comments on early drafts; Eric Simonoff and Kate Schafer, for spectacular agentry; Megan Tingley, Nancy Conescu, and Noel De La Rosa, for their faith in the book and dedication to making it better; Mary O’Connell, Chris Adrian, Diane Perry, Nicola Mason, Michael Griffith, Brock Clarke, Kenner Estes, and Shannon and David Collier-Tenison, for their generosity of spirit; Elaine Price, for minding the front while I minded the books; my wife, Sarah Beth Estes, for her helpful opinions on multiple drafts, not to mention braving fire and rain; and my son Elliot, for being Elliot—which is to say, for making everything fine.
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