The Mysterious Benedict Society

Reynie leaned sideways to see who was at the front of the line. Rosie Gardener and Eustace Crust, the two special recruits. Despite their confusing behavior, Reynie still suspected them of having been kidnapped, and he found himself wondering yet again how they had come to be so pleased with their fates. Those initial dazed expressions long since evaporated, the special recruits were all eagerness now, and both had greedy glints in their eyes. Reynie watched them leave the room with an unexpected pang of sympathy. Who had they been before? Had they, like Sticky, run away from home? Had they ever known parents at all? What kind of miserable life had they had, that the Institute seemed so wonderful to them now?

As the line moved forward, Reynie had a flash of insight. He imagined the special recruits’ futures as they themselves must imagine them: With nowhere else to turn, no parents or grandparents begging for their returns, they would devote themselves entirely to the Institute. They would rise through the ranks of Messenger, wear their fancy tunics and sashes, and one day, when the time came, they would turn their backs on the outside world to become Executives. It wouldn’t matter how they had come here, or what had come before. That part was already forgotten, or else would be forgotten in the pleasurable rush of being important. Of being a part of something.

Standing before the list now, Reynie didn’t even look at it. His sympathy, he realized, had shifted into something else, a different feeling altogether. What was it? It certainly wasn’t pleasant. Then with surprise he recognized it: jealousy.

“How strange,” Reynie said to himself.

“What is strange?” said a man’s voice.

Reynie whirled to find himself face-to-face with Mr. Curtain, who stared keenly at him from behind his silver lenses. Lost in thought, Reynie had lingered after all the others had filed out, and now he found himself alone with the Sender himself.

“I — I beg your pardon, sir?”

“You said something was strange,” said Mr. Curtain, drumming his fingers upon a great, thick book in his lap. “I daresay you were referring to the Messenger list.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” Reynie said, then lied: “I expected to find my name on it. I’ve been making perfect scores.”

“That is what I thought,” said Mr. Curtain. “The minds of children are easily read, even gifted children like yourself, Reynard.”

“I’m glad you think I’m gifted,” said Reynie, sensing an opportunity. “I want to become a Messenger more than anything.”

“Of course you do,” said Mr. Curtain. “All the Executives have reported how well you’re doing. Both you and your friend George Washington have far exceeded expectations. In fact, in the history of the Institute, no one has ever mastered so much material so quickly.”

Mr. Curtain’s chair had been rolling closer, slowly, almost imperceptibly, so that now their faces were very near to each other. “It is a strange coincidence, is it not, that two such gifted children should be admitted to the Institute at the very same time, and that they should be such close friends?”

Hidden behind those reflective lenses, Mr. Curtain’s expression was difficult to read. Was he suspicious? Reynie’s heart, already beating double-time, kicked into a higher gear. “As for being admitted at the same time,” he said, “that is a coincidence. But it’s no surprise that two good students should become good friends, especially if they’re roommates.”

“True,” said Mr. Curtain with an approving crook of one eyebrow. “You are a bright child, a very bright child, Reynard, and I believe you would make a fine Messenger. Do you believe that yourself?”

“Oh, yes, sir, very much!” cried Reynie with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

“Good. But you must remember, Reynard, that you are new. Your time has not yet come. Not yet. It will come soon, however, if only you are patient. I trust you are capable of patience?”

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Curtain.”

“That is all we ask, my boy. I must confess I am not a patient man myself.” Here Mr. Curtain’s voice changed. Where it had been briefly paternal and encouraging, it now turned searching. “Take, for example, your female friend, the diminutive Miss Contraire. I am losing patience with her. My Executives have just reported that although her quiz scores are improving, she remains quite unruly — sleeping during lessons, refusing to speak when questioned, making sour faces at the Executives, that sort of thing.”

Inwardly, Reynie groaned.

“She doesn’t seem dedicated,” Mr. Curtain went on. “Her insolent behavior contradicts her quiz scores. I don’t understand her motivations, and when I don’t understand something, Reynard, it is natural that I don’t trust it.”

“Perfectly natural, sir,” Reynie agreed. “But you know what they say about people you don’t trust.”

“No,” said Mr. Curtain, lifting one eyebrow. “What do they say?”

“If you don’t trust them, keep them close.”

Mr. Curtain burst out with a screechy laugh that made Reynie jump. “Keep them close. Very good. There is even more to you than I’d thought, Reynard Muldoon. Very well, I’ll keep her close, as you do, and perhaps one day she will prove useful.”

“Perhaps so,” Reynie said. He had the distinct feeling that something between them had changed — as if he had passed a test. A test I didn’t know I was taking, he thought with a curious sense of deja vu.

“Yes, keep them close,” said Mr. Curtain, stroking his chin. He seemed to be considering something. “Yes, that is the best way to control the problem. And control is the key, my boy. Never forget that. Control is always the key.”

“No, sir,” said Reynie. “I won’t forget.”

Mr. Curtain smiled. “Very well, Reynard, I have decided something. I should like to speak with you further.