The Mysterious Benedict Society

then I’m off. Poor thing, it’s on the edge of death.”

“I know, I’ve neglected it shamefully, I’ve hardly had a moment. Thank you, Number Two. Now go on and take that biscuit — no use protesting, I saw you staring at it — and if you pass our young hero in the hall, please tell him to walk straight in.”

Reynie’s heart fluttered. Hero? Was Mr. Benedict referring to him?

“He’s an extraordinary child, isn’t he?” said Number Two, her speech somewhat hindered by a mouthful of biscuit.

“Indeed he is. They all are, which is why I so despise the thought — however, I won’t go on and on. Mustn’t drop off to sleep again; it will take us all night as it is. Shall we meet at midnight to see how things stand?”

“Midnight it is. I’ll tell Rhonda,” said Number Two, flinging open the door. “Why, Reynie! Speak of the devil, Mr. Benedict, here he is. Go on in, child, I must rush off.”

Reynie stepped inside. “Everybody chooses to continue, Mr. Benedict. We’ll do our best to get along with Constance.”

“I’m glad to hear it, and I have no doubt you will, Reynie,” said Mr. Benedict, his eyes already returning to the graph in his hand. “Thank you, indeed. Now you’d best get some sleep. Difficult day ahead of you tomorrow.”

Reynie hesitated. “Sir, if I can’t sleep, may I come back here? I promise I won’t bother you. I’ll be very quiet. It’s just that my nerves are all jumping.”

“Say no more, Reynie,” said Mr. Benedict, who had begun calculating a figure on the graph with one hand and taking notes in a tablet with the other, as if neither required more concentration than pulling on socks. “My study is your study. Come in whenever you wish.”

Reynie nodded, put his hand on the doorknob, and again hesitated. “Mr. Benedict?”

“Hmm? What is it, Reynie?”

“I wanted to say thank you, sir.”

Mr. Benedict looked up. “Thank me? Whatever for?”

“Just — just thank you, sir. That’s all.”

Mr. Benedict gave him a long, puzzled stare. Finally, with a shrug, a shake of his head, and an affectionate smile, he said, “Reynie, my good young friend, you are most entirely welcome.”

Early in the morning, before the sun had thrown its first ray or the redbirds chirped their first note, all four children were gathered in the boys’ bedroom. Too anxious to sleep, they had risen almost magically at the same time and sought each other out. Now they sat cross-legged or sprawled on the floor, speaking in hushed voices. The house was quiet, but they weren’t the only ones awake. Beyond their own voices they could hear, drifting down the drafty halls, a frenetic, muted tapping — the sleepless Number Two on her computer keyboard — and from somewhere above them the occasional creak of a floorboard.

The children were engaged in a whispered debate. It had been decided they should have a name. This had been Kate Wetherall’s idea, of course, but everyone agreed, even Constance. If they were to go on a secret mission to a place where they would be entirely alone among strangers, if they must absolutely depend upon one another as fellow agents and friends — if, in short, they were to be a team — they must certainly have a name. And so they had set about choosing what to call themselves.

“I was thinking something like ‘The Great Kate Weather Machine and her Stormy Companions,’” said Kate. “It kind of plays on a weather theme.”

Her suggestion was greeted by general silence and, from Constance, a stormy look indeed. After a pause Kate said, “Well, does anyone else have an idea?”

“How about ‘The Four Kids Gang’?” offered Sticky. “Or ‘The Secret Agent Children Group’?”

Constance’s storm-cloud scowl, if possible, grew even darker; Reynie cleared his throat; and Kate said, “Um, Sticky? Those have to be the most absolutely yawn-causing names I’ve ever heard.”

“But they’re accurate,” argued Sticky, looking hopefully at Reynie, but Reynie only shook his head.

“If we’re just trying to be accurate, then how about ‘The Doomed to Fail Bunch’?” said Constance. “Honestly! We can’t even name ourselves.”

“Listen,” said Reynie, ignoring her. “What is it that drew us all together? Maybe we should start there.”

“Mr. Benedict,” said Kate and Sticky at the same time.

“All right, how about something with his name in it, to remind us of our mission?”

“‘Mr. Benedict’s Very Secret Team’?” said Sticky.

Everyone groaned.

Kate said, “How about ‘Mr. Benedict and the Great Kate Weath —’”

“Don’t even finish that,” said Reynie.

“The Mysterious Benedict Society,” Constance said, rising as she spoke. Then she left the room, apparently convinced that no more discussion was necessary.

And, as it turned out, she was right.

Nomansan Island

Stonetown Harbor had always been a busy port: ships steaming in and weighing anchor at all hours, countless stevedores and sailors as busy as ants, and the docks piled high with cargo. All of this activity occurred in the shadow of Stonetown itself, a city that existed for the sake of its port, and which had grown so large and busy because of it. Near the harbor’s southern slope, however, lay a channel of treacherous shoals, studded here and there with great boulders that still bore the scars of ancient shipwrecks, and as a consequence this southern part of the harbor was always quite still. It was here, among these ship-scarred rocks, that Nomansan Island was found.