The Mysterious Benedict Society

improvements. You needn’t be seated in my lovely Whisperer to experience its most powerful effect. In this room you are all quite within range.”

In horror Reynie’s mind flashed back to an entry from Mr. Curtain’s journal, the one that began, “As of this morning, the messages are transmitting directly. To my great satisfaction, the Whisperer is now capable of . . .” They hadn’t seen the last part, but now — too late — Reynie realized how it must have ended. If Mr. Curtain could broadcast messages directly into people’s minds, he could brainsweep them in the same way! He had only to focus on them!

Again Reynie’s vision seemed to flicker, this time for a little longer. Everything simply disappeared, as if the lights had gone out. It came again — a wave of complete blankness. Mr. Curtain was doing it to the others, too: Sticky stood blinking and clutching his head, utterly stunned, and Kate was turning round and round, as if seeking her invisible attacker.

“What . . . what’s happening?” she cried. “What do we do?”

“He’s trying to brainsweep you!” Reynie shouted. “Fight it! Think of everything you love and hold on to it!”

You have to fight, Reynie commanded himself. Think of Miss Perumal. And your favorite books. And Mr. Benedict. And your friends . . . You have to . . . hold on. . . .

“As you can see,” Mr. Curtain was saying, “my machine is capable of much more than whispering. It is capable of shouting! And I’m afraid the final effect is — how to put it? Quite deafening.”

It was like shouting, Reynie thought, an overwhelming shouted silence, above which you could hear nothing else. Nothing else. . . . His eyelids were drooping now. Reynie pinched himself, but he hardly seemed to feel it. He slipped to his knees. It was impossible to fight. Impossible to resist. What could they do? Reynie couldn’t think straight at all. There was nothing they could do . . . nothing they could do . . . nothing they could . . . nothing they . . . nothing they . . . nothing . . . nothing . . .

“What’s this?” Mr. Curtain exclaimed. He cackled with pleasure. “Well, well, well!”

Reynie forced his eyes open. Mr. Curtain was beaming as if he’d been given a marvelous, unexpected present. Sticky had dropped to his hands and knees. Kate was leaning against a wall, trying to hold herself up. And Constance . . . Where was Constance?

The sound of metal cuffs snapping into place drew Reynie’s gaze back to the Whisperer, in which — was it possible? — Constance had just taken a seat.

Now Sticky and Kate were staring, too, their mouths hanging open.

Constance Contraire?

Already the blue helmet had lowered onto the tiny girl’s head. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her mouth set tight and grim. She looked as cranky and unhappy as they had ever seen her. “Reynie Muldoon!” she shouted, and Mr. Curtain’s delighted grin shifted into a frown.

The waves of blankness began to subside.

“Why . . . ,” Kate said, shaking her head to clear it. “Why did she yell your name?”

“The Whisperer asks for your name,” Reynie said. “Constance is resisting it.”

“Sticky Washington!” Constance shouted, and Mr. Curtain quivered with irritation.

“That’s the first time she ever used my nickname,” Sticky said. He sat up on his knees. “But why has the brainsweeping stopped?”

“Mr. Curtain must be focusing all the power on her,” Reynie said in a wondering tone.

“But why would he need to do that?”

Reynie leaped to his feet, having realized the answer.

“The Great Kate Weather Machine!” Constance shouted, and behind her Mr. Curtain said, “Bah!”

“Because she’s resisting!” Reynie cried. “And no one can resist like Constance!”

For a moment Constance and Mr. Curtain both trembled violently, as if caught in an earthquake. Perspiration poured down the face of man and girl alike. And then, in a voice so loud it hurt everyone’s ears, Constance exclaimed: “I . . . don’t . . . CARE!”

This was followed by a crazed string of negatives: “No! I won’t! I will not! You can’t make me! Uh-uh! Never! No!”

Mr. Curtain hissed. “Bend, you obstinate child!”

“NEVER!” Constance shrieked. And indeed it seemed she never would. Mr. Curtain’s face had gone quite purple, and drops of perspiration fell from the tip of his lumpy nose like water from a leaky faucet. It was a fierce battle. The children’s admiration soared. This was Constance’s great gift — the gift of stubborn independence — and she was bringing it to bear with all her might.

For all her valiant resistance, though, the child was, after all, only a child. As the minutes passed, Constance’s voice grew more cracked and strained, her cheeks redder and redder, her strength closer to failing. She could not hold out forever. Indeed, she seemed ready at any moment to fly apart like a broken doll.

“Can’t we do something?” Sticky cried. “It’s killing her!”

Yet what could they do but stare helplessly at the poor girl? If they could remove her somehow, one of the others could take her place. But Constance was shackled into place. The children watched in growing despair as the brave child grew weaker and weaker, her voice softer and softer, until at last her cries of defiance were scarcely more than mumbles.

And now Mr. Curtain’s voice came to them. It, too, was weak, as if the struggle had taken as great a toll on the man as it had the child. But it was smug, nonetheless: “As I told you, and as you now see for yourselves, children, my creation is foolproof.” He smacked his lips and forced a feeble smile. “A few moments more and I believe you can say goodbye to little Miss Con —”