The Mysterious Benedict Society

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 one 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 —”