The Mysterious Benedict Society

unconsciously against the cuffs, wanting to get at his spectacles. He was obviously frightened.

Reynie watched from the cushion. Poor Sticky. In a moment his fear would dissolve, replaced by something wonderful — which was far more troubling than the fear, for how could they work to defeat Mr. Curtain if they found his invention irresistible? Even now, free of the Whisperer’s metallic grip, Reynie found himself longing for that sensation of perfect security, of not being alone. . . .

His thoughts were interrupted by Sticky’s nervous voice crying out: “Sticky Washington!”

A pause.

Then more quietly: “Fine. George Washington.”

The Whisperer had asked his name, and Sticky, without realizing, had answered aloud. Apparently it preferred Sticky’s given name.

Reynie watched his friend anxiously clutch the armrests. He wished he could help him, but there was nothing to be done. Next the Whisperer would ask what his greatest fear was, and poor Sticky would be powerless to hide it. He must face the worst, and indeed it was with a distinctly quavering voice that Sticky spoke his reply to the Whisperer’s unspoken question.

“Not being wanted,” Sticky said. “Not being wanted at all.”

Open Sesame

At lunchtime Kate was tossing grapes into the air — so high they almost struck the cafeteria ceiling — then catching them in her mouth, where they made a satisfying plock! She did this without thinking, as it was an old habit with her always to toss grapes when she ate them. And so, although she might seem distracted, Kate was actually listening carefully as the boys told of their experience in the Whispering Gallery. This was proven when Reynie said the Institute was going to close, and Kate — glancing down in disbelief — received a tunk! (forehead) instead of a plock!

“It’s true,” Sticky said. “Mr. Curtain foresees a ‘call to greater duty’ in the near future. He warned us to keep it quiet. He’d already told us that one word about the Whisperer gets your Messenger status revoked — and believe me, no Messenger wants to chance that. I suppose if he knew we were telling you this . . .”

“He’d toss you out of the tower,” Kate said, wiping grape juice from her forehead.

“He told us all this,” Reynie said, “because he’s considering keeping us around after the change — the Improvement, as he calls it — to be trained up as Executives. He said we’d get to use the Whisperer once a week as a reward for our service.”

“Is it really as great as all that?” Constance said. “Sitting in a stupid chair doing nothing?”

Reynie and Sticky glanced at each other and quickly glanced away. Neither wished to admit how overcome he’d been by the Whisperer. In fact, Reynie had struggled not to sound excited — even fond — when he described it to the girls. Did he really want to say aloud that Mr. Curtain’s machine had made him feel . . . well . . . happy?

Instead, Reynie changed the subject. “It’s exhausting, is what it is. That’s why Mr. Curtain needs so many Messengers. He alternates them to keep their minds fresh. Given the number of Messengers, our turn should come again in about a week, assuming — oh, for crying out loud, there goes another one!”

The children scowled and clutched at their heads. Constance, though, looked not just annoyed but perplexed — as if this were her first hidden message broadcast instead of her thirtieth.

“Constance?” Reynie said. “Are you —?”

“Quiet,” Kate hissed. “Here comes a sash.”

“Hello, George, hello, Reynard,” the Messenger said, ignoring the girls. He was a stout boy with braces so heavily rubber-banded that his mouth looked like a cat’s cradle. “On behalf of the other Messengers I want to congratulate you, and to invite you to join us at one of the Messenger tables for meals. You know — to mess with the Messengers, ha ha!”

“Ha ha,” said Reynie, as politely as possible. It wouldn’t exactly help their mission to offend the other Messengers, but neither did he wish to be split up from Kate and Constance. He glanced at Sticky, who had a curious, expectant look on his face, as if he really were considering joining the Messengers. What was he thinking?

“Thanks so much,” Reynie said quickly. “But do you have any concerns about stomach viruses? It may be a day or two until Sticky and I get over ours.”

“Stomach viruses?” said the boy.

“Stoma —? Oh, yes,” said Sticky, catching on. “We spent most of last night throwing up. It was bad, too — I felt like I was being turned inside out. But Reynie’s too cautious. We’re probably not contagious. We should go ahead and join you.” He grabbed his tray and made as if to rise.

“Uh, no . . . no, I think Reynard’s probably right,” said the boy, backing away. He covered his mouth and spoke from behind his hand. “You can never be too careful with these things. Why don’t you fellows give it a few days, and when you feel absolutely better, I mean one hundred percent, then come on over and join us.”

“That’s awfully nice of you,” Reynie said as the Messenger hurried away.

“Quick thinking,” Kate said. “And you, too, Sticky — pretty bold work. But what happened to the Sticky Washington I know? You know, the shy and timid one?”

“Give me a break,” Sticky said, ducking his head.

“Ah, there he is!”

Sticky tried to smile, but in truth he was decidedly troubled. If Reynie hadn’t spoken up just then, he wasn’t at all sure what he would have done. He had actually wanted to join the Messengers! Was that all it took to sway him — being asked? Did he want so much to be wanted that he would do, well, anything? It was as if the Whisperer had opened a door, and now Sticky couldn’t close it again. He was so ashamed he could hardly look up.