The Mysterious Benedict Society

ignore it. I am going to finish this session if it’s the last thing —”

“Open up! Open up! Open up!” shrieked Constance.

“That’s going to be difficult to ignore, sir,” Reynie said as Constance continued to shriek.

“This is outrageous! How am I to concentrate if . . . ?” Mr. Curtain’s face twisted with frustration. “Very well, I’ll have to address this. The window latch is too high for me to reach from my chair, however. George —” He glanced suspiciously at Sticky, then shook his head. “No, George, you stay where you are. Reynard, go and see what the trouble is.”

The cuffs unclasped his wrists, the helmet went up.

Reynie needed no prodding. In an instant he was across the room and scrabbling at the window catch. He flung open the panes and looked down. Just beneath the window, the miniature figure of Constance Contraire clung desperately to the flagpole — Reynie’s first impression was of a koala bear hugging the trunk of a fallen eucalyptus tree — her entire body trembling with effort, her eyes rolling with fright. She had good reason: The least slip would send her plummeting to rocky ground.

Nor, apparently, was the ground a safer place to have remained, for there Kate was engaged in a furious struggle. Reynie’s heart swelled with pride and hope. It might be bad, but it wasn’t over. The girls weren’t captured yet.

“Well?” Mr. Curtain demanded from across the room. “What is it?”

Sticky was watching with a hint of new hopefulness.

Reynie kept his face turned away; he must not reveal his smile to Mr. Curtain. “It’s those children S.Q. mentioned, sir. One appears to have been apprehended. The other is stuck on the flagpole outside the window.”

Mr. Curtain seemed unsure whether to laugh or snarl. “Go ahead and haul him inside, then. This will be our last interruption.”

“It’s a girl, sir,” Reynie corrected. “Sticky, can you help me?”

Sticky, having recovered a bit of strength, came over to hold Reynie’s legs as he reached out and lifted the frightened girl through the window.

“Well, well, well, Constance Contraire,” said Mr. Curtain with apparent satisfaction. “Just as I suspected. I knew all along you weren’t to be trusted. In fact, I would have taken care of you long ago had it not been for —”

He gave a sudden start, whipping off his glasses to reveal bright green, horribly bloodshot eyes — eyes quite flaming with angry realization.

“Had it not been,” he repeated, turning those eyes now on Reynie, “for you.”

Mr. Curtain threw his silver glasses to the floor, as if without them he would have seen the truth much sooner. And then, to the children’s great confusion and horror, the fearsome man unstrapped himself, rose from the wheelchair to stand at his full alarming height, and strode across the room to seize them.

Kate Wetherall, meanwhile, was fighting for her life. Martina Crowe had been hoping for just this sort of occasion, an opportunity to exact revenge for past humiliations. And now Jackson and Jillson, never the most delicate creatures to begin with, were equally determined to knock Kate about, having been embarrassed — not to mention bruised — by her bucket. Kate might be clever and quick as a fox, but she was a weary fox now, and one among hounds.

Still, she had managed to inflict some unpleasantness: In addition to the knot on Jackson’s head, his pointy nose was swollen and red where she’d pinched it to encourage her release. Jillson’s ear was ringing painfully — the result of a well-placed elbow. And Martina had been rebuffed by an excruciating shin- scrape. The Executives circled her more warily now, looking for the right moment to renew their attack.

Kate crouched, watching them carefully, her lasso at the ready. (For once Constance had followed Kate’s advice — had untied herself so that the Executives couldn’t yank her down — and the rope was now free). The others circled and circled, eyeing the lasso, looking for a weakness. But it was Kate who saw one first: Martina had taken an awkward step, was slightly off balance. Kate feinted to the side — moving as if to flee — and when Martina lunged to stop her, Kate snared her ankle with the lasso and jerked her off her feet. Martina landed in the dust with an angry growl.

It was an excellent throw, but it was also the beginning of the end. Before Kate could let go of her rope, Martina grabbed it and heaved. Kate was pulled off balance, and Jackson chose that exact moment to give her a shove — and no gentle shove, at that. It was as if she’d been struck by a ram. Kate went reeling, trying to catch herself.

But it was Jillson who caught her.

The next few minutes were wretched ones indeed. Kate’s ears were boxed, her hair pulled, her cheeks pummeled with Jillson’s boltlike knuckles. And though she writhed and twisted, swung her fists, and kicked her feet, she could do nothing to stop them. Kate had told herself she could handle the Executives, but she’d been fooling herself — just as she had fooled herself for so long. She couldn’t do everything by herself. She realized that now.

Kate stopped struggling. Why struggle? She was of no use now to her friends, herself, or anyone. She was completely overcome, helpless and alone. The bitter irony wasn’t lost on Kate: The moment she finally admitted to herself she needed help, there was no help to be found.

As if reading her thoughts, Martina hissed, “Now you realize how outclassed you are, don’t you, Wetherall? I don’t blame you for giving up.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Martina,” Kate mumbled through bloody lips. “I’m just taking a nap while you yammer on.”

This infuriated Martina, and as Jackson and Jillson redoubled their grips on Kate’s limbs, the raven-haired girl prepared to unleash her most vicious attack yet. Stepping back to get a running start, she cried, “I’ll kick you until you cry for mercy, Wetherall! I’ll make you suffer until you beg me to stop! I’ll beat you until you admit I’m the best! I’ll —”

“You’ll do no such thing,” said an unfamiliar voice, followed by three successive swit, swit,