The Mysterious Benedict Society

clutching a paper bag in case she didn’t reach the bathroom in time — not even this managed to cheer them. Time was slipping away, and they’d been forced to abandon the hope that they’d nurtured in the backs of their minds: the hope that if things went terribly wrong, Milligan would be there to save them somehow.

After another interminable minute had passed, Kate said, “I’m sick of waiting. I say forget the plan and let’s try to rescue Milligan instead.”

Sticky was taken aback. “But he’s under heavy guard — we wouldn’t stand a chance!”

“We don’t stand a chance either way, do we?” said Kate.

“That isn’t like you, Kate,” said Reynie, surprised. “I think the broadcasts are getting to you.”

Kate frowned. “You’re . . . you’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Wait, here comes a response,” Sticky said. “What in the world? Can that really be it?” He began signaling with the flashlight again.

“For crying out loud, what are you doing, George Washington?” demanded Constance. (Though the others wouldn’t have thought it possible, Constance grew steadily crankier as the Improvement drew closer.) “Did they send a message or not?”

“I’m asking them to repeat it.” But when the message was repeated, Sticky was left scratching his head. “It’s just an old saying: Laughter is the best medicine.”

“Are they joking?” Kate said.

“Maybe it’s their way of saying for us to cheer up, to have hope,” Sticky said.

Reynie didn’t think so. “That’s too lighthearted. They wouldn’t expect us to feel like that, not with Milligan taken prisoner. It’s a riddle of some kind — important advice. We just have to figure out what it means.”

“For once I’d like a straight answer,” Constance grumbled. “It’s ridiculous that they do it this way — it isn’t right!”

“They have to be careful, don’t they?” Sticky said. “If they gave us a straight answer and someone else saw it, we’d be in even worse shape.”

“How much worse shape could we possibly be in? I’m tired of being careful. And I’m tired of their dumb codes, and I’m tired of you all treating me like a stupid baby.”

“Easy now, Constance,” Reynie said, as calmly as he could. “We’re all frustrated and upset, and I know you’re scared —”

“Shut up,” Constance snarled. “I’m sick of you, too! Who made you king, anyway?”

“Why don’t you shut up?” Reynie snapped.

With that — the first time Reynie had ever spoken so sharply to her — Constance lapsed into furious silence. The others, disgruntled, turned their energy toward solving the riddle. But Sticky and Kate were not the best puzzle-solvers, and Reynie was lost in his mental fogbank. (And the Whisperer, high up in its tower, kept shimmering like a lighthouse beacon through that fog.)

After half an hour of useless guessing, the children had come no closer to an answer, and Constance abandoned her silence in order to mock their efforts. Reynie put his head in his hands. “Okay, Constance, I give up. Is that what you want? None of us can concentrate while you’re being this way. I say we adjourn and get a few hours of sleep. Maybe a little rest will help.”

Constance, who felt very desperate indeed, could not control herself. “Rest?” she sneered. “I thought what we needed was laughter. Isn’t that what stupid old Benedict said? Well, hardy har har, that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“You’re hopeless,” said Kate, who’d been in an awful mood to begin with and now had lost all patience. “Reynie’s right. Let’s go back to our room.” She scurried up her rope into the ceiling, and as she hauled Constance after her she whispered down: “We’ll be back before dawn. Or I will, at least. If she’s still acting like this, she can rot in our room, for all I care.”

The gap in the ceiling closed.

Reynie and Sticky looked at each other. Everything seemed to be falling apart, and neither boy could hide his worry. It was written plainly on both their faces.

“If you think of anything at all . . . ,” Reynie said.

Sticky nodded. “I’ll wake you up. You do the same.”

Fully dressed and fully miserable, the boys climbed into their beds, still going over the message again and again in their heads. Laughter is the best medicine, laughter is the best medicine. . . . By midnight, neither had come up with anything. By one o’clock, Sticky was whimpering himself to sleep. By two o’clock, Reynie was abandoning his last letter to Miss Perumal, starting over, then abandoning the new one as well — too anxious even to think about being anxious. His mind returned to Mr. Benedict’s message.

“Why laughter?” he wondered for the hundredth time. “Why medicine? It’s something . . . something that cures an illness or . . . or solves a problem, maybe, but what problem?”

But the answer remained maddeningly elusive. Reynie decided he would have to stay awake. There was no way he could sleep, anyway, not until he had figured out the message. Having made this decision, he sighed, rolled over to get comfortable . . . and fell asleep.

Some time before dawn Reynie awoke with a start. His mind had been working furiously as he slept. He swung down off his bunk and shook Sticky. Sticky opened one eye, then closed it to open the other, as if too afraid now to look at the world with both at once.

“Wha —?”

“Sticky, wake up.”

This time Sticky blinked both eyes. “Hmm? What time is —?” He sniffed and rubbed his head, coming slightly