“Which do you mean, honey, the main library or one of the branches?”
Constance almost said the main library, which was the only one she’d ever been to, but then realized she might be looked for there. So instead she said a branch library—the one that was farthest away.
“What, you don’t mean the Brookville branch?” asked the woman, surprised, and Constance said yes, that was the one. She was to meet her family there.
The woman clucked her tongue and explained that Constance had caught the wrong bus. “Now you’ll have to make—let’s see—two transfers, dear. No, three. Do you have enough money?” said the woman, already opening her change purse.
By late afternoon Constance stood on the steps of the Brookville library, snowflakes ticking softly on her raincoat, eating a hot dog she had purchased with money the kind old woman had given her. Exhausted and anxious, she stood for some time staring at the front doors. Then she went inside and began searching for a good place to hide.
Eventually Constance found an unlocked storage room, in the back of which was a stack of boxes labeled “To be processed when funding is approved.” The boxes were coated with dust; they appeared not to have been touched in years. Constance squeezed behind them into a narrow space just big enough for her to lie down. She folded up her raincoat to serve as a pillow. Hours later, long after the library had closed, she awoke.
Thus began Constance’s life in the library. She made few appearances by day, and then only when the library was busy, so that people might reasonably assume she was with someone (the young woman over in nonfiction might be her mother, for instance, or perhaps the stooped old fellow browsing magazines was her grandfather). She was careful never to be seen emerging from the storage room, and only occasionally was she obliged to explain to concerned librarians or patrons that she was very small for her age. She made sure always to appear confident and happy so as not to seem lost or in need of help. And generally she kept out of sight.
Her meals were not especially healthful, but Constance found them satisfactory. By the end of her first night she had learned where the librarians kept their snacks (and whose were best), and when after some weeks of nightly raiding she discovered that mousetraps had been set out, she triggered them with pencils and ate the cheese. She also found the key to the vending machine in the staff breakroom. But she was careful not to overuse it, and to spread out her thefts as best she could, so that no one would suspect the truth. And at any rate, it only seemed fair.
Constance spent her waking hours reading newspapers and rhyming picture books. She did not much enjoy the newspapers, which were dreary and dull and filled with nonsense about something called the Emergency. She only read them to see if there was anything about a missing little girl. There never was. A few articles appeared about a young quiz champion who had run away, but these she gave the merest glance—they weren’t about her, and that was all that mattered.
After the first week, Constance began to believe no one was looking for her. The few men in suits who visited the library were not the ones she’d run from, and nothing about them gave her goose bumps. Myrtle never appeared. Constance was free.
In reality, though, Constance was tormented, for every time she slept she dreamed of those men at Myrtle’s house—and the dreams terrified her. Often she woke with a cry, her heart pounding in her ears. When this happened at night, and she found herself alone in the dark library, she would lie there a long time petrified with fear, trying to muster the courage to stand up and turn on the light. And when the dreams came during the day (“napmares,” she called them), her relief upon waking was instantly replaced by the fear that she’d been heard crying out, and she would hold her breath and squeeze her eyes shut, dreading discovery.
This went on for weeks and weeks.
And then finally one night, waking in a fit of despair, Constance angrily commanded herself to feel better. Her face turned beet-red, her fists bunched into tight balls, and with all the fierceness she could muster (it happened to be no small amount) she said, “Forget it, Constance! Forget those men! Forget everything that’s happened! Forget it, forget it, forget it!”
And so she had, until this very moment.
I’m an orphan!” Constance declared joyfully, and an observer might have been shocked to see the enthusiasm with which her announcement was received. Everyone in the chamber leaped up, greeting Constance’s news with warm, happy smiles and heartfelt expressions of congratulation.
Constance was very excited and not a little out of sorts. She rattled away about her narrow escape, walking up and down as she did so, but from time to time she stopped, confused, to look around. In these moments she seemed unsure where she was. Then Mr. Benedict would gently speak her name, and Constance would look at him in surprise, then laugh and return to her narrative, often starting at the beginning.
“And then I just made myself forget!” she said, when at last she came to that part of the story. “I went back to sleep and never thought about that stuff again. How in the world did that happen?”
“A form of self-hypnosis,” said Mr. Benedict. “It is not unheard of, especially when motivation is sufficient. And of course your mind is most unusual—”
“I remember everything that happened after that, though,” Constance was saying, not having heard a word he said, “like reading the newspapers—I just kept reading them every day with the feeling that I was looking for something, but I didn’t know what I was looking for anymore! Bizarre! And then one day I read your advertisement, Mr. Benedict, and I thought, ‘Oh! That’s what I’m looking for! Special opportunities!’”
At this, Constance turned and walked straight toward the chamber door.
“Where are you going?” Kate asked as Rhonda made a subtle move to stand in the way.
Constance stopped and stared at Kate. “What? Oh!” She blushed and turned to Mr. Benedict with an expression of mild distress. “I thought I was leaving the library!”
Mr. Benedict smiled. “Some confusion between one’s recovered memory and one’s present reality is common. It will soon pass. In fact already you show signs of an unusually rapid—”
But Constance had moved on. “My parents were just ordinary people!” she cried. “I’d like to find out more about them—”
“We’ll help you,” said Number Two and Mr. Benedict at the same time.
“—but for now I’m just happy to know where I came from. Other than the public library, I mean. That nasty Mr. Pressius—I can’t wait to rub his nose in it! Wait till we show him the real papers! Oh please, Mr. Benedict, you have to let me be there when he sees them!”
Reynie noticed a troubled look flicker across Mr. Benedict’s face, but Constance noticed nothing of the sort, and she went on about the papers at some length—how they would make everything right again, and Mr. Benedict could finally adopt her, and it would be perfectly legal and real and official—until Sticky interrupted her.
“You left that part out before,” Sticky said. “Are you saying you know where those records are? The ones in the folder?”
“Of course, silly!” Constance laughed. “I hid the folder in a book!”
“Well, that’s terrific!” Sticky replied. “So where is the book? I mean, did you bring it with you or—”
“Sticky,” said Mr. Benedict quickly.
But already Constance was saying, “It’s at the library, where else?” and Sticky’s expression changed from excitement to horror.
“But that library burned! It was in the newspapers! I thought you knew! I thought you must have… must have…” Sticky fell silent, realizing what he’d done. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to wish back his words.
“But… but without those papers…” Constance said, her voice trembling.
“Constance,” said Mr. Benedict, “I promise you—”
But Constance did not stay to hear Mr. Benedict’s promise. With a despairing wail she turned and ran to the door. Rhonda would have stopped her
if Mr. Benedict had not tried to do so himself. Unfortunately, at the sight of Constance’s anguished face Mr. Benedict had fallen asleep in mid-stride, and it was all Rhonda could do to catch him. In fact she and Number Two—who leaped in from the other direction—suffered cruel blows as their heads collided, and Kate found herself struggling to support the dazed young women as they in turn supported Mr. Benedict.
Sticky, his eyes still tightly closed, saw none of this. But hearing a sound rather like two coconuts knocking together, followed by moans from Rhonda and Number Two, he opened his eyes to find everyone toppling slowly to the floor. Everyone but Constance, who had unlocked the door and fled the room, and Reynie, who had gone after her.
“I’m so sorry!” Sticky cried. “It was an accident!”
Kate groaned. She had managed to prevent the adults from falling quite so hard as they might have, but even so they were all tangled and jumbled, and lying with her back arched across her bucket she was in considerable discomfort.
“You’re not to blame,” said Rhonda through gritted teeth. A bump was rising on her forehead. “We should have warned you to keep quiet about that.”
“Rhonda’s right,” said Number Two. “But who could have guessed Constance had those records with her at the library?” She struggled to her knees and began patting Mr. Benedict’s arm, trying to wake him. “We knew the Ten Men had burned it down, of course, but—”
“What?” said Sticky and Kate together.
“Oh yes,” said Rhonda. “You didn’t think it was a coincidence, did you?”
Sticky frowned. “The newspapers said the cause was unknown.”
“To most people it was unknown,” said Number Two. “Not to us.” She was still absently patting Mr. Benedict’s arm although he had opened his eyes now and was blinking up at her. “Somehow those Ten Men—at that time they were called Recruiters, of course—discovered that Constance had been at the library. Most likely one of their informants saw her come out, because it was on that very day that the brutes showed up and threatened the librarians. Who told them nothing, incidentally.”
“The same thing happened in Holland,” Kate reflected. “You’d think these guys would learn their lesson—librarians know how to keep quiet.”
“It helps to ask politely,” said Mr. Benedict (startling Number Two in mid-pat). He sat up, his expression melancholy but his voice determinedly even. “And in this case the librarians had little to tell. They had seen Constance on occasion but had no idea she was living in the building.”
“The Recruiters ransacked the library,” said Rhonda, “then set it on fire to cover their tracks. And I’m sure you know what happened to the librarians.”
“The Recruiters kidnapped them,” said Sticky grimly.
“And Mr. Curtain brainswept them,” said Kate, equally grim.
“A common fate,” said Mr. Benedict, “of anyone my brother found inconvenient. I’m pleased to say they’re better now, though; their memories were restored in this very room. At the time, of course, the librarians were not even thought to be missing—that being one of the Whisperer’s pernicious effects—but we always followed such matters closely. By nightfall Milligan was on Constance’s trail.”
“Which led him straight back here to Stonetown, right?” said Kate. “Because she came to take your tests.”
Mr. Benedict tapped his nose. “And we all met her the day after that. Presumably she stopped reading newspapers once she left the library and so never heard about the fire. I saw no reason to mention it.” He held up his hand, anticipating Sticky’s response. “Put your mind at rest, Sticky. I would have told her soon regardless. There’s more to the story, you see, and had Constance not been in such a volatile state of mind, perhaps she would have stayed to hear the details.”
Sticky perked up. “What details?”
“Not all the books were lost,” said Rhonda. “A few were salvaged by a librarian who had managed to hide from the Recruiters in a storage room.”
“Constance’s storage room!” Kate exclaimed.
“Most likely,” said Rhonda. “When this librarian smelled smoke she began loading boxes of books onto a cart, and as soon as she knew the Recruiters were gone she fled the building—taking the cart with her. It was from her that we learned all these details.”
“We made sure none of this was reported to the newspapers,” Number Two said. “Otherwise the Recruiters would have returned to finish their job. We helped the librarian go into hiding, and we took the books for safekeeping.”
“You mean the books are here?” cried Kate.
“In your house?” cried Sticky.
“In the attic,” said Number Two. “Four boxes of them.”
“They must be awfully overdue,” Kate said.
Mr. Benedict, his eyes still melancholy, laughed nonetheless. “We intended to return them when the library was rebuilt, but construction has been delayed due to lack of funds. At any rate, if Constance’s papers are not among these books, we can assume they were destroyed in the fire. In either case I shall know the best way to proceed. Constance has nothing to worry about. In fact she should be encouraged.”
“Wouldn’t you like to go tell her that, Mr. Benedict?” asked Rhonda. “You’re clearly worried about her.”
“I had better not,” said Mr. Benedict, with a wave to acknowledge Rhonda’s concern. “I suspect she has locked herself into her room, in which case she won’t let me in for some time, and at the moment I haven’t any to spare. It’s also possible that Reynie is with her—I assume that’s where he’s run off to—which would be for the best. She’s unlikely to listen to me right now, but she may respond to him.”
“Speaking of which,” Kate said, for just then Reynie stepped back into the chamber.
“She wouldn’t open the door,” Reynie said, after confirming that Constance had indeed locked herself into her room. “I’m not even sure she could hear me knocking. She was sobbing pretty loudly and throwing things around.”
Mr. Benedict received this news with a somber nod. But then he drew himself up and said briskly, “Well, we must remind ourselves that she is going to be fine. The disorienting effects of her session will soon fade, and there is nothing but good news for her ahead. I will let your friends tell you what I mean by this, Reynie, for now”—he was checking his pocket watch—“yes, even now Mr. Pressius is on his way back here, and I must be calm and focused when I deal with him.”
“Calm and focused” was what Reynie, Sticky, and Kate agreed they must be, too. After a quick discussion about the best way to handle things, the three of them hurried back to the girls’ room only to discover that Constance was no longer there.
“She knew we’d come,” Reynie surmised, looking around. “I guess she really wants to be alone.”
Constance had thrown an impressive tantrum—the floor was such a mess there was hardly room to step—and Kate, clicking her tongue, right away set about straightening up. “Maybe we should give her a little time and then go look for her,” she said as she returned pillows to beds and clothes to hangers. “What do you boys think?”
The boys readily agreed. Though no one wished to admit it aloud, the truth was they were all relieved, for in her current state Constance would have been close to unbearable. Half-guilty and half-glad, the three of them settled onto the rug, which Kate had tidied with typical frenzied speed.
“I think I’ve figured something out,” said Reynie. “Something about S.Q. and Mr. Curtain.”
Sticky and Kate listened intently as Reynie reminded them what Constance had said in the chamber. Neither of them had noticed the look in Mr. Benedict’s eye or given any thought to his interest in Constance’s comment about S.Q. Pedalian. Kate (who disliked waiting) had been wondering how long the session would last, and Sticky had been secretly wishing he were somewhere else, for just being in the same room with the Whisperer made his head sweat.
“Suddenly it all made sense to me,” Reynie said now, his voice an excited
whisper. “Jackson and Jillson said S.Q. got extra sessions in the Whisperer, right? They thought he was getting rewarded for his loyalty, but I think Mr. Curtain was burying some of his memories!”
“So that’s what made him seem so dimwitted?” Kate said.
“Well, my guess is he wasn’t the sharpest file in the drawer to begin with,” Reynie said, “but I’ll bet a lot of his confusion came from losing memories all the time. If we kept losing memories, I imagine we’d be mixed-up, too.”
“But why would Mr. Curtain go to so much trouble?” Sticky wondered. “What was it he wanted S.Q. to forget? To keep forgetting?”
“Think about the riddle Mr. Benedict gave us,” said Reynie.
Sticky looked puzzled. “Mr. Curtain wanted S.Q. to forget ‘love’”
“Um… no,” Reynie said. “But love is the reason Mr. Curtain went to so much trouble.”
“Okay, you just lost me,” said Kate. “First of all, I still have a hard time believing Mr. Curtain loves anything but control. But if he does love S.Q., why would he do something so awful to him?”
“To keep his loyalty,” Reynie replied. “Can you think of anyone else as dedicated to him? The Ten Men follow Mr. Curtain for money, the Executives did it mostly for power, but S.Q. seems genuinely to admire him. He does whatever Mr. Curtain wants, sticks with him despite miserable treatment—he’s as loyal as anyone could possibly be. And why? We’ve seen it ourselves. He thinks Mr. Curtain is trying to do good.”
“I never could understand how he managed to believe that,” Sticky said, “despite all evidence to the contrary. But I suppose if Mr. Curtain kept removing his memories of that evidence…”
“Exactly,” said Reynie, “and I think there’s even more to it than that. The Whisperer can also suppress your greatest fears, right?”
“Right,” said Sticky. “So?”
“So S.Q. was an orphan when he got to the Institute,” Reynie said, “and Mr. Curtain was the closest thing to a father that he had.” He shrugged. “S.Q. wanted to believe good things about him.”