Sophie shuddered. “The men, they . . . they shocked me” — she made motions with her hands, as if to show something flying out of her wrists — “with little wires.” She quickly covered her eyes. It was evident she was trying not to cry.
Constance stepped close to the desk and said quietly, “I know how that feels, Sophie.” The others looked at her in surprise. They had agreed not to divulge any information about themselves. Reynie in particular had insisted they trust no one and give nothing away. Now Constance had admitted outright that they’d encountered Ten Men before, and therefore must be involved in this unpleasant business. It would be a miracle if they weren’t in police custody within the hour.
Sophie had lowered her hand to look wonderingly at Constance, who said, “The watches and the wires. I know how it feels. They shocked me, too.”
Sophie gazed at Constance without speaking. Then she reached across the desk — she had to stretch a good deal — and placed a hand gently against the tiny girl’s cheek. Constance, who usually bristled at so much as a pat on the hand, did not withdraw or even flinch. She returned Sophie’s sympathetic gaze with an expression of gratitude and mutual understanding.
“I am sorry,” Sophie said. “Please, children, go and sit at a table. I do not understand your true reasons, but I will bring you these papers.”
They chose a table at the opposite end of the room, away from the librarian’s desk, so that they might speak in low voices and not be overheard. Sophie emerged from a back room carrying a journal and a thin stack of papers in a protective envelope. She placed the journal on the table and carefully removed the papers from the envelope. The top page was covered in handwriting, and not surprisingly it was written in Dutch.
“We can speak again afterward, if you wish,” Sophie said. “As for these . . .” She laid a finger on the papers. “I must ask you to be careful and to keep everything in sight on the table, where I can see it from my desk. It is the policy now, for the protection of the materials. I hope you understand. It is not that I do not trust you.”
The children assured Sophie they understood. She returned to her desk, where they could see her taking slow breaths to calm herself, even as she kept a dutiful, watchful eye on them across the room.
The journal, an old, warped, cheaply constructed book, was held together by a binding that, given its deteriorated state, was rather more of an idea of a binding than an actual one. The other papers were equally decrepit, all quite yellow with age, and some of them as fragile as onion skin. Not without trepidation, Sticky slid the pile closer to him. The others watched with keen attention. Sticky gave his spectacles a once-over with his polishing cloth, and then — carefully, anxiously — he opened the journal.
It was a strange business watching Sticky read. His eyes hardly seemed to move, for they absorbed great blocks of writing all at once. He would stare at a page for the space of a breath or two, then turn it. Stare, breathe, turn again. At this rate he would finish the journal in minutes, the other papers in just a few minutes more. But Sticky recorded information at a considerably faster pace than he understood it, and once he did understand he sometimes had difficulty summarizing it. He would likely need some time to order his thoughts.
They needed to be patient, Reynie reminded himself, despite the feeling that a Ten Man might burst through the door any moment. They mustn’t put too much pressure on Sticky. When he was flustered, Sticky was capable of becoming very agitated and confused. He was less susceptible to such states these days, but the possibility still existed. It had long been a source of embarrassment for him.
Even as he was contemplating this, though, Reynie noticed a subtle shift in Sticky’s demeanor. At first it was difficult to place. Sticky, marking a spot in the journal with his finger, had begun to examine the other papers. “Letters,” he said, glancing up at the others. He studied the topmost letter with great seriousness, then set it aside and returned to the journal, first adjusting his spectacles with a casual, scholarly, almost absent gesture. Almost absent, but not entirely. And now Reynie understood: Sticky was feeling his importance.
It was clear to Reynie that Sticky had been struggling with his ego ever since they met up again at Kate’s farm, and Reynie was inclined to forgive his fits of vanity. The boys had been through a great deal together, and Reynie thought he knew Sticky’s heart as well as anyone’s — knew, in fact, that it was nobler and braver than most. Sticky was a skittish and fearful child, yet he always ended up doing the right thing, no matter how frightening it was. In Reynie’s opinion, this made Sticky one of the bravest people he’d ever met. If he occasionally acted like a peacock, it was not such a grave offense, and at any rate Sticky could generally count on Kate and Constance to pluck his feathers.
Sticky soon finished his reading. He pursed his lips and removed his spectacles, evidently deep in thought. Staring into an unseen distance, he polished the spectacles, put them on again, and with a deep, thoughtful breath began rubbing his chin in exactly the same way Reynie often did. Reynie felt suddenly seized with irritation — so much for forgiveness — but he held his tongue, determined not to rattle Sticky out of thinking clearly.
Constance, however, climbed down out of her chair (her arms were too short to reach Sticky from where she sat), stepped over to him, and swatted his hand with all her might. She struck the hand Sticky was using to rub his chin, and the sting of her blow as well as his startlement caused Sticky to jerk the hand up and away, knocking loose his spectacles. Kate reached out, quick as a wink, and caught them — and with the other hand she caught Constance, who was rearing back for another swat.
“Get over yourself!” Constance hissed as Sticky blinked at her in blurry-eyed alarm. “Stop looking for glory and give us the story!”
Sticky’s face turned sullen. “I was trying to think of how to explain it in English,” he said, taking his spectacles from Kate. “You can’t just hit people when you’re dissatisfied, Constance.”
“Watch me!” Constance said, trying to writhe free of Kate’s grip.
“Constance,” Reynie said sharply. He jerked his head toward the librarian’s desk, where Sophie had risen from her chair and was staring at the children with concern. He waved at Sophie. “It’s okay. Sorry. We’re fine.” And when Sophie, doubtful, sat down again, he murmured, “You two can fight all you want later. Right now let’s just get through this, okay?”
Sticky and Constance glared at each other, but eventually they nodded, and Constance climbed back up into her chair. After Sticky had taken a moment to regain his composure (but only a moment this time, and without any puffery), he told them what he’d learned: the journal had belonged to Mr. Benedict’s mother, Anki Benedict, while the letters were from her sister in America — Mr. Benedict’s aunt — and from a fellow scientist, a close friend of Mr. Benedict’s parents named Han de Reizeger.
“What I’ve read explains a lot,” Sticky said. “For one thing, the Benedicts weren’t expecting twins. Anki makes several references to the ‘baby’ coming — one baby, not two — and that if it was a boy they would name him Nicolaas.” Sticky pointed out the name in the journal. “Obviously the aunt changed the spelling later.”
