The Mysterious Benedict Society

progress. On a really, really awful day, one of us might not be able to tell the difference between a normal bad mood and a hidden-message mood. But if you can hear the actual voices — well, then, you’re like our canary in the coal mine!”

“A canary in a coal mine?” Constance mumbled without looking up.

Sticky failed to notice Reynie’s warning look. “Oh, yes — miners used to bring canaries with them to gauge oxygen levels in the mine. If the canary died, they knew the oxygen was running out and they’d better get out of there.”

“If the canary died?” Constance repeated.

Sticky looked suddenly regretful.

“That was perhaps an unfortunate comparison,” Reynie said.

“The point is you’re important,” Kate said. “Okay?”

“I already knew that,” Constance snapped. “I didn’t need all this mumbo-jumbo in my head to tell me. And I definitely didn’t need Martina Crowe in there whispering it — she was the one doing the last message, in case you’re wondering. I dislike her enough outside my head, much less inside it. In fact, I think I’ll write an insulting poem about her . . . although, come to think of it, ‘Martina’ makes for a tricky rhyme.”

Reynie, Kate, and Sticky glanced at one another with cautious optimism. Constance seemed to be feeling a little better. They all were, actually. They had spent the evening adjusting to the hidden-message broadcasts (there had been three more since Jillson’s class) — trying not to snarl at one another, or smash their fists on desktops, or slam drawers. Studying had been positively excruciating, like trying to read while someone bangs out an annoying tune on a piano — and with fingers on the wrong keys, at that. But an hour had passed since the last broadcast, and the children’s moods had improved. Which helped them focus on the fact that their situation, unfortunately, had not.

The thing to come was getting closer. Mr. Curtain was not broadcasting his messages at full-power yet — otherwise all four of them would hear voices, not just Constance. But matters had obviously worsened, and the children had only just arrived on the island. Were they already too late? What should they do?

“Coast is clear,” Sticky said when he’d climbed onto the television and looked out the window. He took the flashlight from Kate. “What should I say?”

“Mr. Benedict will already know the messages are stronger,” Reynie reflected. “He and the others are surely feeling it, too. Just tell him that Constance is hearing voices. He hadn’t expected that.”

“Got it,” Sticky said, turning to the window. “‘Constance hearing voices.’ Here goes.”

“But don’t use her real name!” Reynie warned.

“Oh, right,” Sticky said sheepishly. “Of course not.”

“Are you just trying to get me caught, George Washington?” Constance grumped.

“Sorry,” Sticky said, gritting his teeth as he always did when Constance used his full name. “I’ll just say, um . . .” He looked to the others for help.

Reynie glanced at Constance, who was scowling impressively, ready to complain about whatever they suggested. Resisting the first thing that came to mind, Reynie suggested they refer to her as “the smallest one.”

Constance grudgingly accepted this, and soon Sticky had sent the message. A few minutes later, he received a response from the mainland:

Time is shorter than we thought.

Thus to get what must be got

You must become what you are not.

“It sounds like he wants us to put a rush on things,” said Sticky, climbing down from the television.

“Fine by me,” said Kate. “But how, exactly? What does he mean, ‘what must be got’?”

“Whatever it is, we have to become something different to get it,” Reynie said.

“But what could that be?” Constance said.

They all looked at one another. None of them had any idea. They didn’t even know where to start.

A Surprising Suggestion

The message broadcasts were hard on all of them. They felt another one during lunch the next day (it was Corliss Danton, according to Constance), which had them gritting their teeth, growling at each other, and fighting the urge to throw silverware. And another came during the evening, so that they were compelled to study with their nerves being plucked like banjo strings. The last broadcast finally relented just as Reynie was closing his notebook. He laid his head on his desk in relief.

“I am so glad that’s over,” said Sticky, who had spent studytime lying on his bed grimacing. “You finished?”

With an effort, Reynie nodded.

They heard Jackson’s booming voice in the hallway announcing lights-out.

“I’ll get the light,” Kate said, dropping to the floor behind Reynie.

Reynie gasped and fell out of his chair. Sticky banged his head on the top bunk. Kate switched off the light and climbed onto a chair to help Constance down from the ceiling.

“Maybe you should start knocking,” Sticky grumbled, rubbing his head.

“And spoil the surprise?” Kate asked.

“Listen,” Reynie said, scrambling back up. “I’ve been going over Mr. Benedict’s message in my head all day, and