The Mysterious Benedict Society

“You shouldn’t feel bad,” Reynie said. “I doubt anybody could have done a better job.”

“It’s nice of you to say,” S.Q. said with a sigh. Then he took a deep breath just so he could sigh again. “But enough about pitiful me. I came over to ask about you, Constance. Are you feeling all right? You seem rather, well, green-colored.”

“I’m afraid we gave her a stomach virus,” Reynie interjected. “Sticky and I just got over it.”

S.Q. looked sympathetic. “Oh, yes, the other Messengers told me about that stomach bug. It’s a nasty one, eh? How do you feel, Constance?”

“Like I ate something revolting,” said Constance. “I guess that’s what I get for hanging around with Reynie and Sticky.”

“Now, now,” S.Q. observed, “nothing better for you than spending time with Messengers. Good influence and all that. I mean, stomach bug aside. Let’s just hope not too many other people get sick. It would be a shame if classes had to be canceled. There’s too much good stuff to review!”

They all heartily agreed with S.Q., thanked him for stopping by, and nodded as he droned endlessly on about the escaped spy and a good many other things, until finally his jaw was worn out, his mind was empty, and he went away.

“What we need,” said Kate, as if they’d never been interrupted, “is for you boys to get your turn sooner. Isn’t there any chance you could be called on tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid not,” Reynie said. “Not unless every other Messenger suddenly fell ill.”

“Too bad we can’t actually give them belly aches,” said Constance.

Sticky’s ears perked up.

“Who says we can’t?” he said.

Bad News and Bad News

The children’s plan was bold, ill-formed, and likely to fail, and all of them knew it. They also knew they must act now or never. “Tomorrow, then,” Sticky said, hurriedly grinding a plant root between two rocks. When he was finished, Constance swept the powder into a small bag and handed him another root.

“Yes, tomorrow,” said Kate, standing guard on the hilltop, a few yards up the path. “And let’s hope it’s not too late.”

“I wouldn’t want it to be any sooner,” said Constance. “I don’t particularly look forward to tomorrow.” She contemplated a few pulpy grains of crushed root clinging to her fingertips and resisted — for the twentieth time — the temptation to see what they tasted like. Sticky had warned her that wild chuck-root (“or Euphorbia upchucuanhae, as it’s more widely known”) was a powerful emetic. Constance had never heard the word “emetic,” but for once she hadn’t required an explanation. It was clear from their plan — and from Sticky’s mischievous grin — that by tomorrow most of the students at the Institute would be barfing up their suppers.

Those suppers had yet to be eaten, however. It was the end of the school day, not yet suppertime, and the uneasy members of the Mysterious Benedict Society were the only children outside in the chill air. The other students were either in their rooms studying or watching television, but the moment class was dismissed Sticky had led his friends up here, just over the top of the hill beyond the gym. It was here, on the day they’d encountered Mr. Bloomburg, that Sticky had spotted the patch of wild chuck-root (along with various other plants whose Latin names he rattled off and the others promptly forgot).

“This should be enough,” Sticky said, grinding up the last bit of root. He dusted his hands vigorously. Then considering what would happen if he absentmindedly touched his lips — then absentmindedly licked his lips — Sticky dusted them again. And a few minutes later, when the children were gathered on the hilltop, he dusted them again. “I’m actually starting to feel guilty about this, can you believe it?”

“Maybe it means you still have a conscience,” Reynie said.

Kate snorted. “Or maybe it means you’re sympathizing too much with the enemy. Personally, I don’t feel the least bit guilty for sending a bunch of bullies on an emergency trip to the bathroom.”

Sticky wiped his hands on his pants. “Don’t let your feelings make you too ambitious on this one, Kate. If you overdo the dose, you might hurt somebody.”

“And it isn’t just Messengers getting the stuff,” Reynie reminded her. “That would be too suspicious. It has to be everybody.”

Kate rolled her eyes. “Who needs parents when I have you two? Don’t worry, I won’t kill anyone. And I promise not to enjoy it the tiniest bit if Martina turns green.”

Guilty or not, they all smiled at the thought.

“So let me just review the plan,” Constance said. “The other Messengers will get sick and won’t be able to do their sessions with the Whisperer, so you boys will get your turn early. When you get called for your session, Kate and I will sneak away somehow and wait outside the door to the Whispering Gallery. Now, how exactly are we supposed to do that? What if we’re in class?”

“We haven’t worked that part out yet,” Reynie admitted.

“Right,” said Constance. “And then one of you will push the button that opens the door, even though the button is on Mr. Curtain’s wheelchair. How are you going to manage that?”

“We haven’t figured that part out yet, either,” mumbled Sticky.

“I see. And then, after all this has been magically accomplished, Kate and I will rush inside, and the four of us together will somehow defeat Mr. Curtain, ruin his Whisperer, and make our escape unharmed — even though we’re on an island, and the bridge is guarded by Recruiters. Any idea how this is going to happen?”

“No,” the boys said dejectedly. Kate shrugged.

“Okay,” Constance said. “I just wanted to be sure I understood the plan.”

“Anyway, you can’t count Milligan out,” Reynie said. “He’ll be there to help us.”