The Mysterious Benedict Society

But Kate was already reaching for the keypad. “No time for thinking. He’s coming!”

“H-he?” Sticky repeated.

That was why Kate’s expression had changed. She’d heard something, and now Reynie and the others heard it, too — down in the main passage, growing louder by the second, an electric whine, a shifting of gears. . . .

It was Mr. Curtain.

They had no choice but to go through this door, even though Reynie had no answer to his last burning question: What if it was a trap?

Practice Makes Perfect

The door slid open. The children dashed through. They found themselves in a warm, bright room that smelled heavily of newsprint and ink. It seemed to be some kind of press office. Two tables stacked with printed material stretched across the middle of the room, and in the far corner an oversized printer was spitting out page after page. A television stood near the printer — its screen flashing but the volume turned down — and on top of it sat a glass of juice. The room appeared to be in the process of being disassembled: Two long tables had been folded up and leaned vertically against one wall; several empty wooden crates were stacked against the other. This was clearly a busy place, and only temporarily empty.

Mr. Curtain rolled into the room twenty seconds later carrying a tall stack of newspapers in his lap. Empty was how the room appeared to him, too. Humming a chipper tune, Mr. Curtain shot over to the printer and began sorting through the printouts.

Meanwhile, the entire membership of the Mysterious Benedict Society, crammed inside an empty crate like a bunch of discarded dolls, peered out through the spaces between the crate’s wooden slats. Reynie, because of the unfortunate angle of his neck and the weight of Constance upon it, was only able to see a bit of floor. Constance’s view of the ceiling was little better. Sticky, however, was in the perfect position to see the evidence of the unfortunate thing that had just happened; and by pinching Kate’s ankle to get her attention, then repeatedly blinking and rolling his eyes, he tried to explain it to her. His eyes, wide as saucers, seemed to Kate more anxious and panicky than usual. This was understandable, she thought, given their predicament. Although, wasn’t something missing? Something about his eyes? And was he trying to point something out to her? Kate swiveled her own eyes to see what Sticky was looking at.

There, in plain sight on the floor outside the crate, were his spectacles.

They must have come loose when Kate tossed him into the crate. She hadn’t seen them fall — she was too busy throwing Constance over her shoulder, tumbling in after the boys, and pulling the top of the crate over them. But she saw them now, all right. And if Mr. Curtain hadn’t been absorbed in his newspapers when he came in, he would have spotted them, too. But the moment he finished his task at the printer and turned around . . .

Kate could tell the spectacles were beyond her reach. She would need to consult her bucket. This proved a bit tricky, though — one arm she could not move at all; the other she had to thread around Constance’s neck while pressing her elbow into Sticky’s nose; and she had to bend her wrist backward at an unnatural angle that hurt like the dickens. A bit tricky, yes, but Kate managed it, and with a sharp tug (which brought tears to Sticky’s eyes), she had her horseshoe magnet.

The spectacles had wire rims. Kate just hoped it was the proper kind of wire.

Mr. Curtain had turned the volume up on the television. A news anchor was saying something about the Emergency. Mr. Curtain giggled — actually giggled — as if he were watching a comedy show. He sipped his juice and returned to his work, humming again.

From her awkward angle inside the crate, Kate could see Mr. Curtain’s wheels pointed toward the printer. Now was the time. She slipped her arm between two crate slats and stretched it out as far as she could. The magnet was still a few inches short of the spectacles. Gripping it as tightly as she could between two fingers, Kate stretched just a tiny bit further. The spectacles twitched. Then quivered. Then slid over to meet the magnet with a click.

Mr. Curtain’s humming stopped. “Hey? Who’s there?”

With a sharp squeak, the wheels whipped about to face the crate, into which Kate, a split second before, had drawn the spectacles. There was a long pause, a tap-tap-tapping of fingers on a hard surface, and finally a grunt. The wheels turned away.

A few minutes later Mr. Curtain had left the room.

The children piled out of the crate, stretching their stiff limbs and rubbing their bruises.

Reynie looked quickly about. “He took his juice, so maybe he’s not coming back. Constance, will you stand guard? You know the code — if you hear someone coming, run in and warn us.” He ushered her out the door before she could think to argue.

Sticky was already going through a stack of fresh printouts. “These are government press releases.”

“What’s a press release?” Kate asked, looking over his shoulder.

“A kind of report sent to the newspapers to be printed,” Sticky said. He scratched his head. “Strange, these are all dated from the future. One’s from next week, one’s from the week after, and so on for months — even years!”

“They’re planned press releases,” Reynie said, coming over to flip through the pile. “Articles Mr. Curtain intends to have printed in the newspapers. And they all have something to do with him. Look at the headline on this one from next week: ‘ESTEEMED SCIENTIST AND EDUCATOR APPOINTED TO IMPORTANT POST.’”

Sticky groaned and took off his spectacles. “Will you read it aloud, Reynie? I’m afraid I need to polish these.”

And so Reynie read aloud:

LEDROPTHA CURTAIN, the recently named Minister And Secretary of all The Earth’s Regions