Kate caught Reynie’s arm, her face creased with worry (an unusual expression for Kate, who was not the worrying type). “Is the car big enough for all three of us to ride together? I mean along with Miss Perumal and her mother and all the luggage? Sticky’s parents are coming, too, you know, and their car is tiny. I can’t imagine one of us spending six hours separated from the other two — not after we’ve just spent six months apart!”
“We rented a station wagon. There’ll be plenty of room. Now listen,” Reynie said, holding up his hand to check Kate, who had begun to speak again, “before we stray too far from the subject, won’t you tell me what you were doing just now? The last time I heard a sound like that was when the orphanage cat spit up a hairball.”
“Oh, that?” Kate said with a shrug. “I’m training myself to regurgitate things, but it’s a lot harder than you’d think.” Seeing Reynie’s horrified expression, she quickly explained, “It’s an old escape artist’s trick. Houdini and all those guys could do it. They’d swallow a lockpick or something, and later they’d use their throat muscles to bring it back up. You’re supposed to train with a string tied to whatever it is you’re swallowing, so you can help pull it back out. I did that at first, but then I thought I might manage it without the string. No luck yet, though.”
“So I was right,” Reynie said. “It
Kate pursed her lips, considering. Evidently this had never occurred to her. She wasn’t one to worry about danger much. “I suppose it isn’t the safest thing in the world,” she admitted, and with a serious look she said, “You’d better not try it.”
Reynie laughed (for nothing could possibly induce him to try such a thing himself), then affected an equally serious look and said, “All right, Kate, I promise never to swallow — well, what was it you swallowed, anyway?”
Kate rolled her eyes and waved off the question. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“And, hey, what happens to it now?” Reynie persisted, looking horrified again. “I mean, since you couldn’t —?”
“I don’t,” Kate said firmly, “want to
They had plenty of other things to talk about, anyway. Not only did Kate want to show Reynie around the farm, she desperately wanted to know his thoughts about the big surprise Mr. Benedict had planned for them. Exactly one year had passed since Mr. Benedict had recruited the four of them for an urgent mission — a mission that only the most remarkable children could have accomplished — and now, on the anniversary of their first meeting, he had arranged for a reunion at his home in Stonetown. In one of his letters he had explained, “Here you will be met with a surprise that I hope will please all of you — a surprise that, while it inadequately expresses my gratitude, not to mention my great and lasting affection for you, nevertheless strikes me as an appropriate . . .” And he had gone on like this for a while, elaborating upon his appreciation for the children’s unique qualities and his eagerness to see them all again. Kate had skimmed the letter happily and put it away. Reynie had read the letter several times and learned it by heart.
“You memorized the whole thing?” Kate said, leading Reynie up a ladder to show him the hayloft. “You’re starting to sound like Sticky.”
“Sticky would only have needed to read it once,” said Reynie, which was perfectly true, but Reynie mentioned Sticky mostly to draw attention away from himself. The fact was that he’d memorized every letter he’d received these past six months — not just from Mr. Benedict, but also the breezy notes Kate had sent, the slightly boring but faithfully detailed reports from Sticky, and even the quirky poetry Constance had mailed him along with whatever curious button, dust bunny, or paper scrap had struck her fancy on the way to find a stamp. Reynie felt more than a little sheepish about how tightly he’d clung to every word from the others, none of whom had ever said anything about missing him.
“Speaking of Sticky,” Kate said, hauling Reynie through the trapdoor into the loft, “have you heard much from him lately? He says you two write more often than he and I do. Says that
Reynie looked around. The hayloft resembled every other hayloft he’d seen — though admittedly he’d seen them only in pictures and movies — but Kate seemed immensely proud of it, so he nodded approvingly before he said, “What doesn’t Sticky understand? About your situation, I mean.”
“Well, for one thing,” Kate said, swinging open the loft’s exterior door, which overlooked the animal pen, “I’ve been awfully busy, what with going to school and trying to get the farm up and running again. Milligan’s often away on missions, you know, and I have to help out.”
Reynie did know this. Milligan was Kate’s father. He was also a secret agent. Neither of these facts had been known until recently, though — not even by Kate. She’d been just a toddler when Milligan was captured on a mission, lost his memory, and failed to return. Since her mother was dead and her father had abandoned her (or so everyone believed), Kate had been sent to an orphanage, which she eventually left for the circus. Milligan, for his part, had escaped his captors and gone to work for Mr. Benedict. Not until Mr. Benedict brought them together, exactly a year ago this month, had Kate and Milligan discovered the truth.
“The farm really fell to pieces over the years,” Kate was saying. “There’s been enough work to keep me busy around the clock. Not that I mind work, of course. What I find most difficult is sitting still long enough to write a good letter. Sticky should know that, shouldn’t he?”
“He probably should,” Reynie admitted. He stepped over to the door, where Kate was taking something from her bucket (the bucket had a flip-top now, Reynie noticed) and placing it between her lips. It was some kind of a whistle. She reached into her bucket again.
“But the real problem with writing letters,” Kate continued, speaking around the whistle as she tugged a thick leather glove onto her hand, “is that the government reads all my mail. Daughter of a top agent, you know. They have to be sure I’m not revealing any secrets. It’s bad enough that everything about our mission was made hush- hush — by all rights we ought to be famous for what we did — but I can’t even send private letters to my best friends? It’s outrageous!”
As if to demonstrate her outrage, Kate puffed her cheeks and blew mightily on the whistle, which emitted a thin squeal like that of a teakettle.
“Is that what I think it’s for?” Reynie asked.
“Probably,” said Kate, “since you’re usually right about everything. Honestly, though, don’t you think it’s unfair that Sticky blames me for writing so little?”
Reynie decided to come out with it. “I have to admit I felt kind of the same way, and not just about your letters, but about everyone’s. No one has ever really said much about . . .about . . . Well, I was starting to think I
