Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Of all the emotions Reynie had prepared himself for during their long-awaited Whispering Gallery showdown, he hadn’t quite anticipated such a supreme sense of awkwardness. The alarm blared unanswered; various grunts of pain echoed from up the elevator shaft, and every so often a stomach-churning war-shriek would pierce through the window. Reynie knew the sound belonged to Kate. In contrast, a strange hush coated the Whispering Gallery. Constance was half-slumped against the wall, looking exhausted yet fiercely pleased with herself. And the reason was apparent.

Hiss! went a strange valve in the observation room. Dr. Curtain hissed back and swatted it. The valve sparked in protest and burst, clinking into pieces upon the floor.

(And therein lay the source of the awkwardness.)

The universe had not blissfully taken mercy on them and allowed Dr. Curtain to remain unconscious while the children made their escape. Now, the Sender himself was scurrying around the Whispering Gallery, attempting to salvage what he could of his beloved, broken creation. Constance watched the various parts of machinery crumple and spark and shatter with a shark’s grin.

As satisfying as this was, the man was currently trying to escape. With both sides’ backup occupying each other, the operation had come to a bit of a standstill. And without Kate here … Reynie and Sticky lingered near the window, helplessly shuffling their feet.

A wire sparked near Dr. Curtain’s head, showering embers onto his neatly pressed suit. He cursed and brushed them off without looking up from what he was doing.

“Maybe we could cling to his legs?” Reynie ventured. “Weigh him down? Stop him?”

“Did you eat a large breakfast?” Sticky said dryly.

“No, I … I couldn’t stomach much.”

“Me neither.”

“Just bite him, you useless oafs,” Constance said, voice trembling a bit. She sunk lower on the wall, grinned at Curtain’s cursing without opening her eyes.

Reynie half-heartedly pondered the merits of biting Dr. Curtain. There wasn’t much else to do at this point. Sticky, meanwhile, rubbed his head, looking deeply troubled yet thoughtful.

The sounds of the clashes below had only grown louder, still offering no sign as to who was winning. Reynie twisted his fingers. The silver helmet Dr. Curtain was holding burst into flames. He spared it only a mournful glance before tossing it aside and grabbing a different piece of his beloved machine.

“Dr. Curtain?” Sticky ventured, almost too quiet to be audible.

The man didn’t look up from haphazardly shoving various machine parts and files into a sleek grey box. “I’m always glad to take questions about my work, Sticky, but you’ve chosen a rather inopportune moment.”

Sticky shifted. Then, to Reynie’s surprise, he peeled away from the wall, coming to a stop directly in front of Curtain’s frantic packing. He seemed to be gathering himself for something. 

Then, he squared his shoulders and raised his chin. “Dr. Curtain, everything you said before … that you’d always bet on someone recognizing their destiny … that you wanted this for me … is that still true?”

At this, Dr. Curtain paused. His fingers drummed on the dial he was currently clutching, as if he were crunching numbers on a calculator. 

“I gave you a second chance already, Sticky. Fool me once, fool me twice—I trust you would know that saying?”

“I do. And despite that saying, you offered me a second chance just a few minutes ago,” Sticky reminded him. He kept his hands resting at his sides, palms open, shoulders firm without a hint of tension. “You said you wanted me to be a part of your future. Unless … unless you were just saying that to stall … and you didn’t mean it?”

Reynie winced at the hurt note in his friend’s voice, studying him quizzically. Was the plan to guilt Dr. Curtain into defeat? For all Reynie’s speech earlier about Curtain not being a bad person, he was sure that if the man felt remorse, he kept it locked somewhere deep, nearly inaccessible. 

To his surprise, however, Dr. Curtain looked thoughtful. His fingers continued their rhythmic drumming. He scrutinized Sticky for an interminable moment. The boy held his spine straight and did not twitch.

At long last, his fingers stilled. Curtain frowned, as if reading the total of the equation on his imaginary calculator.

Then his face smoothed out.

“Of course my offer still stands, Sticky,” Dr. Curtain said, hushed. “The Improvement will always have a place for you within it. I’ll always have a place for you, here.”

Reynie wanted to scream. The reassurance in Curtain’s voice was so glaringly fabricated. Dr. Curtain didn’t believe him. Couldn’t Sticky see that? Couldn’t he hear alarms blaring as he stepped willingly forward into the danger?

“Then I’m coming with you,” Sticky said, resolute.

Dr. Curtain smiled. “I always knew you would see the truth in the end, my friend. Even if you took a rather winding path to get there.”

Curtain must have some ulterior motive, Reynie reasoned frantically. Curtain knew Sticky would never betray his friends on a whim like that. Why would he want an obvious opponent right in the middle of his camp? Was he planning to whisk Sticky away to some far-flung corner of the planet, never to be heard from again—

“But I have one condition,” Sticky said.

Dr. Curtain spluttered, incredulous. His face reddened. Reynie tensed, ready to pull his friend out of harm’s way—

Then Dr. Curtain doubled over, clutching his stomach amid great bouts of laughter. Reynie and Constance exchanged glances of alarm. Only Sticky seemed unfazed, watching Dr. Curtain as if he’d expected this reaction. 

Finally, Curtain straightened up, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “You? You have a condition for me? Very well, Sticky, let’s hear it. What could you possibly think you’re in a position to bargain for?”

“Reynie is coming with me,” said Sticky firmly.

Reynie froze. Over in the corner, Constance made a choked noise.

Dr. Curtain doubled over again. 

In the distance, a distant mechanical roar started up. Choppy. A helicopter, Reynie realized instinctively. He ignored it. 

In all their weeks running through every permutation for how the whole operation could go wrong, not once did they arrive here. Reynie rocked on his heels. What was Sticky thinking? How could this possibly stop Dr. Curtain? Desperately, he tried to get Sticky’s attention. His friend did not acknowledge him, instead focusing on a recovering Dr. Curtain.

“You want him?” Curtain gasped. “Oh, Sticky, Sticky, we’ve been over this, I thought you knew better—”

“Reynie comes, or I am staying.”

Dr. Curtain seemed mildly surprised that Sticky had interrupted him, and with such a steadfast tone no less. He paused for a moment. Reynie could see the slimy gears turning in his head.

“Oh, but Sticky, you haven’t even asked your friend yet,” Curtain said smoothly. “I think Reynie has chosen his side, don’t you? Shut his eyes and refused to see the truth, unlike you?”

Sticky remained silent.

“Oh, but of course, I’m never one to deny a second chance,” Dr. Curtain sighed. “What say you, Reynie? Won’t you come with your friend?”

The man didn’t even bother to direct his question at Reynie. Instead, he kept his gaze on Sticky. He wore a pitying expression. If you tilted your head and squinted, it could almost seem half-genuine, Reynie thought.

He’ll never do it. He’ll never choose you. This is where it all falls apart. 

The chop—chop—chop of the helicopter grew and grew.

Reynie scrunched up his eyes and thought.

This had to be a clever ploy on Sticky’s part. Breaking free from Curtain’s manipulative control before had been such a shock to his friend’s system. He would never fall back under, just for a few sweet words and promises of renewed trust.

Oh, but Dr. Curtain’s promises seemed inescapable indeed. And, just maybe, what if—Reynie forced himself to consider the horrible alternative—if Sticky had indeed been pulled back under Curtain’s influence, and if his friend was about to go with the man, to be pulled into his inner circle far away and all alone—

“I … I guess I—I mean—Yes. Of course I’ll come with you, Sticky.”

Reynie ignored Dr. Curtain’s full-body start of surprise; no doubt that was the last answer he had expected. He didn’t bother to look back at Sticky, to scrutinize his friend for any trace of a reaction or non-reaction. Instead, he ran to Constance and scooped her up in a tight hug. The little girl was so distraught she forgot to wriggle out of his arms. He set her gently on the ground, where she wobbled on her feet as if her Mary Janes were glued to the floor. Her eyes were wide with horror, mouth open, voice stunned into silence for once. Reynie tried his best to give her a reassuring smile—a great feat given that he could use some reassurance himself—and turned away.

“I’m ready,” he announced.

“Well then,” Dr. Curtain said. “Let’s be off.” With one last glance to his pile of unsuccessfully salvaged machine parts—still smoking and sparking—he settled a hand onto Sticky’s shoulder and ushered him forward without bothering to guide Reynie. Reynie took a deep breath and tripped after his friend.

Into the elevator they went. Dr. Curtain reached for the buttons and began to type a long sequence. Probably a password unlocking some sort of secret passage or raising an alarm, Reynie guessed. Discreetly he tried to peek at the numbers, but Curtain angled Sticky into just the right position to block his view. The distant roar of the helicopter faded away as the elevator began its descent.

“This is where your former accomplices’ imaginations fall short,” Dr. Curtain murmured. “To chain yourself to one course of action is to suffocate. The trick is to know how to pivot. All of the world’s great leaders in history knew this. And you do too, Sticky. That’s why you came around in the end. Isn’t that right?”

Sticky made an unintelligible noise.

“Right, Sticky?”

A pause. Then, firm: “Yes. That’s right.”

“Then you know our work is only just beginning. And you, my young friend, are going to be an integral part of it.” Dr. Curtain patted Sticky’s shoulder.

At the same time, however, his head tilted to catch Reynie, who was hanging back in the elevator. Despite the calm smoothing his tone and the rage pinching his features, his eyes were alight with triumph. Gloating.

I won, Curtain seemed to say. He’s one of mine now. Go on, try to get him back.

Reynie tensed his shoulders. Curtain didn’t know his friend at all. His Sticky—whip-smart, brave, steadfast Sticky. His Sticky would never fall for Curtain’s tempting. Certainly not twice. Sticky was cooking up something brilliant. Sticky would have a plan. 

Reynie tried to catch his friend’s eyes in the mirrored elevator wall. 

He has to have a plan.

Sticky kept his eyes on the floor.

Chapter Text

“They can’t just vanish into thin air!” Kate shouted. She had passed the point of frustration and was rapidly reaching ‘irate’ territory. “They’re both smart. They have to have left a trail for us to follow!”

Milligan paused in inspecting the jammed elevator. He frowned for a moment, as if unsure of whether he should say something. When no one else spoke up, however, it seemed to sink in that the role of calming Kate now belonged to him. “They can’t have gone far. And even if they have, Number Two is monitoring the air—”

“That’s not enough!” Kate stomped her foot. “He could have a secret passage, or a—an underground zipline, or—”

“If there’s another way out of here, we will find it, Kate.”

Kate huffed and crossed her arms. “I was barely steps away outside when they vanished. It can’t have been long ago. I’m telling you, she knows more than she’s letting on,” she hissed, not for the first time, jabbing a furious finger at the little girl on the floor.

Constance had not moved. Not since Kate had clambered through the open window to find the boys missing, not when Mr. Benedict had toppled over in dismay, not even when Rhonda had knelt to gently ask her if she’d seen any clue as to where they had gone. She sat posed like a statue, head lolling back against the wall, arms hanging, eyes empty. For a few long moments Kate had feared the worst. But Constance had blinked in recognition at Mr. Benedict’s voice, and he announced she was just bone-tired from her battle against the Whisperer. Against his better instincts, he left her to rest instead of fussing over her, devoting himself instead to scouring the room for clues as to the boys’ whereabouts.

At Kate’s whispered accusation, Milligan gave her an almost disappointed look. “I’m sure she would have said something, Kate, if she knew anything.”

“She must!” Kate turned away. She must, because the alternative—that the boys were missing, and they had naught but a stray hair or a fingerprint to go on—was too hopeless to consider. 

Action. Action was better than despair. Action was good. She studied the floor. A scuff mark by the window. One of the boys had stood there. Or maybe Curtain? She studied the shattered parts of the Whisperer scattered throughout the gallery. Semi-grouped, as though someone had attempted to sort through them before abandoning the endeavor. Mr. Benedict had picked up the job, this time searching for clues. He had that section under control. Milligan had the elevator. Window, open, blue sky beyond empty. Scuff mark again.

(Kate knew, deep down, that the boys were long gone. They were wasting their time here. The boys had been taken on that helicopter, the one Kate had barely registered in the back of her mind, preoccupied as she had been with battling the executives. She sent up a silent prayer in Number Two and Rhonda’s abilities to monitor air traffic control messages.)

A sudden movement made Kate jolt. Constance climbed primly to her feet, as if she’d just been sitting down to cloudgaze for an idle moment, and brushed invisible specks of dirt from her skirt.

“What are you doing!” Kate threw her hands into the air. “Have you just been lazing there all this time! Don’t you care that the boys are missing!”

“Kate!” Milligan interrupted.

“What! She could at least have the decency to look worried!” Kate barked, but with less heat. She shared a quizzical glance with Milligan over Constance’s head. Something was not quite right.

Constance marched across the Whispering Gallery towards Mr. Benedict. Her Mary Janes clomped across the tile. Mr. Benedict, pulled from his concentration haze by the sound, gasped and hurried to meet her. 

“Dear child! You had me so worried.” His hands fluttered around her shoulders, unsure if he was allowed to touch. “How are you feeling? Faint? Feverish? Clammy? Di—”

Constance reached onto her tiptoes, yanked him by the collar down to her level, and began to whisper hurriedly into his ear.

Kate twitched, wanting to know what was being said but sensing that this was not the moment to interrupt. Instead, she watched Mr. Benedict’s face journey from alarmed, to perplexed, to dread, to fear. 

Constance finished delivering her message. Milligan was waved over for a whispered consult. Now Kate crossed her arms again.

Did we or did we not just save the world? something inside of her hissed. ‘Step aside, Kate. Let the grown-ups handle it now, Kate.’

Instantly, she felt ashamed of herself. Not once had any of Mr. Benedict’s companions diminished her for her age. She would learn the new developments soon enough. 

Still, it was hard to quell the spike of irritation when Mr. Benedict began to lead Constance away, seemingly having made the decision to abandon the investigation without asking for Kate’s input.

“He’s pressed for time.”

Kate blinked. Milligan shrugged apologetically. “He didn’t mean to ignore you, Kate. But our chance of finding them dwindles with every moment.”

“If he wasn’t trying to exclude me, then why not tell me what Constance said?”

Milligan sighed. “Because you’re not going to like it.”

“Try me.”

The elevator was still jammed. Kate headed for the stairwell. Five flights below, the door clanged shut as Mr. Benedict bustled Constance out and away. She opted to slide down the railing, keeping time with Milligan’s knee-high jog down the stairs.

At the bottom, Kate threw the door open with arms extended wide and made a beeline for the dormitory.

“This way, Kate,” Milligan called, waving her in the opposite direction, away from the cluster of buildings.

“I was going to look for more clues,” Kate huffed. “Why are we going this way? Did they escape on foot? Did they leave a trail through the forest? Did—”

Milligan met her rapid-fire questions with a mysterious silence. Kate couldn’t tell if he was deep in thought or if he was choosing to ignore her for the moment. Irritation prickled her skin, joining the mid-morning cool raising goosebumps on her arms.

They marched on, following a winding yet fairly well-traveled path through the forest. Kate squinted ahead, trying to see where they were going. Sharp light ahead blinded her. It was the sun reflecting off the water; they had emerged out onto the ocean. A few paces away on a rocky beach, Mr. Benedict was gingerly lifting Constance into a rowboat.

Kate stopped dead in her tracks. “Nope.”

“Kate—”

“No. You may be content to give up, but I’m not leaving until I find a clue as to where they went!”

“We’re not giving up, Katie-Cat,” Milligan sighed. He seemed deeply hurt by the suggestion. Kate shifted uncomfortably. She’d gone too far. But she didn’t have the strength to dredge up a proper apology now. And so she shifted tracks. Asked softer this time, hoping Milligan would understand.

“What did Constance say? Please just tell me,” she said in a rush, as Milligan drew breath to protest. “Please, even if it upsets me. I just want to understand.”

Milligan ran a hand through his hair. 

“She said they went willingly.”

“Excuse me?”

“She said that Sticky gave in. That Curtain was too strong, his promises too alluring. That Reynie went with him. They weren’t kidnapped. They went.”

In the bay below, a knee-deep Mr. Benedict fussed over arranging Constance’s skirt in the rowboat, seeming not to notice his own shoes and pants getting soaked. The girl looked straight ahead, unblinking.

“She’s wrong,” Kate said, voice far away even to her own ears. “Sticky would never. She’s either lying or she’s wrong.”

Milligan was silent. Then again, Milligan was nearly always silent. It probably meant nothing.

Kate marched forward. Mr. Benedict may be content to take her words at face value and fret over her too-pale cheeks.

But Kate had known the little snake of a girl longer. And she was going to get some answers.

“I’m hungry,” Reynie whined.

Sticky said nothing.

“My stomach huuurts,” he said, willing his stomach to growl for emphasis. “Sticky, aren’t you hungry too? We could go grab something from the kitchen.”

Both his stomach and his companion failed to back him up.

“Suffering builds character,” Jackson said with a toothy grin.

“And how you must be suffering! It’s been a whole hour since lunch,” Jillson sighed with mock-sympathy.

(Okay, so that hadn’t been his best excuse. But really, he was running out of options.)

Curtain didn’t trust him. That much was apparent, given that he’d assigned the boys their own guards-slash-babysitters. Reynie rubbed his temples, remembering all the long nights he and Sticky had to themselves while sharing a room—endless time to plot and despair and seek reassurance together. Now, he had not been alone for one moment with Sticky since setting foot on Curtain’s cruise-ship sized yacht. 

Far, far below, the waves lapped gently at the sides of the vessel. Reynie squirmed in his seat. How they hadn’t been found yet, he would never quite understand. The ship was humungous. Surely it was visible from space. Surely it was visible on some radar. Surely someone would come for them.

But it had been three days, and no one had. 

Rescue was looking more and more like a laughable prospect. Help from the outside could not be counted upon, Reynie knew. And so getting through to Sticky became more and more imperative. He needed to know what was going on, just how deeply Curtain had gotten his hooks into his friend, if there was any hope of getting through to him.

Yes, that was it. He would get through to Sticky, and then together they would fix it.

“My stomach still hurts,” Reynie moaned. “I think it’s the rough surf. I think I’m going to be sick.”

Jillson didn’t look up from her work. She was tallying some sort of spreadsheet, adding columns up and furiously scratching out totals. When Reynie had tried to glance over at her numbers, she had angled herself so that the sun blinded him in that direction.

Jackson, lounging in a nearby chair, muttered something about ‘listening to your whining.’ He fished in his pocket, and tossed a small object at Reynie. “Mint gum. It will stop the nausea. And your noise.”

Reynie popped the gum into his mouth and chewed. He frowned in thought, calculating something. Jillson returned to her math. Reynie chewed some more. He waited, biding his time, until he heard Jillson muttering under her breath signalling that she was in the middle of a long sum, until Jackson had just leaned back in his chair—

“I’m going to throw up.” Reynie leapt to his feet, kicking Sticky’s shin as he did so. “I need to go to the bathroom. Now.”

Jillson slammed her pen down. “In case you haven’t noticed, the rest of us are perfectly fine. So maybe that’s something you personally need to work on—”

“Actually, Jillson, I’m feeling sick too,” Sticky groaned. He shimmied out of his chair and hopped from foot to foot. “I need the bathroom.”

Reynie mentally cheered as Jackson and Jillson began to bicker about who would be the one to escort them to the bathroom. For the hundredth time since they’d left the Whispering Gallery, Reynie tried to catch Sticky’s eye. Still, his friend would not look at him.

“Drat, and now I’ve lost my pen,” Jillson huffed, rustling her papers. 

“I’m in the middle of something, Jillson, I can’t be the one to—”

Reynie let out an ominous belch.

Jackson, his schedule miraculously cleared, leapt to his feet. “This way, boys. Quick. Quicker than that!” 

“And no funny business!” Jillson called after them, now feeling around on the floor for her lost pen.

The boys dutifully quicker-stepped it behind Jackson to the nearest bathroom. Sticky tripped into the first stall, and Reynie, clutching his stomach, hurried to take the one next to it.

“Mush mush,” said Jackson cruelly. A quick glance back under the stall gap at his boots showed he was lounging against the bathroom wall.

Reynie fell to his knees, took a moment to call upon Kate as one does a talisman or a patron saint, and began his performance.

He hacked, coughed, and whined, trying his best to sound as miserable as possible—and then more miserable still, sensing Kate’s command to put your all into it, Reynie! as if she were really standing over his shoulder. In the next stall over, Sticky’s belches seemed rather timid. Reynie winced and tried to be louder.

It seemed to work. Jackson snorted with barely suppressed mirth just outside the stall. “Weak stomachs. How you two managed to become messengers is beyond my guess. I imagine Curtain was feeling charitable that day.”

Reynie coughed again, harder. But the pretense had slipped to the back of his mind. Now he had a job to do.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the gum wrapper as well as Jillson’s pen he’d swiped during the squabble. He smoothed out the wrapper and placed it paper-side up on the toilet seat. Then he scrawled out his message:

Meet me in the girls’ bathroom tonight at 2:46AM.  

Then he crumpled up the note, not ceasing in his hacking, and passed his hand under the stall. His hand connected with Sticky’s side. The horrible noises from the next stall paused; Reynie coughed louder. A hand took the wrapper from his.

“Just about done?” Jackson barked, rapping on the stall door. “Y’know, some of us are valuable to Dr. Curtain and have quite a lot to get done.”

Reynie furiously rubbed his eyes to make them red. “Sorry. All set.”

Sticky may or may not have met his gaze at the sink. Reynie didn’t know. He kept his own eyes downcast, focused on scrubbing at his too-clean chin. 

Either Sticky would come, or he wouldn’t. Either way, he’d have answers to most of his questions tonight.

Chapter Text

A strange hush settled around the house, as if the walls themselves knew something dreadful had happened and had sombered themselves appropriately. On second thought, perhaps it was just nighttime. Nicholas was getting too dramatic.

Nighttime had not brought restfulness, despite the eerie hush. Number Two was jabbing away at her typewriter, bolt upright as if she possessed an iron pole for a spine rather than flesh and bone. At her side, Rhonda, who had not been blessed (or cursed) with Number Two’s near-constant wakefulness, kept slumping over sideways before jolting awake, returning to her calculations through some combination of desperation and sheer force of will. Milligan had wandered off to the kitchen for his hourly cup of coffee, bringing his pile of maps along with him.

And Nicholas? Nicholas was taking a break.

He felt ashamed of it. But Number Two had scolded him. Quite harshly, in fact. Somewhere deep down, he knew she was right. The words were beginning to cross and blur in front of his eyes. He was no use to the boys in this state.

Five minutes. He would take five minutes to reset his mind. Then back to work.

His feet had meandered here, to this little side room tucked underneath the staircase. (It really was a closet pretending it was grown enough to be called a room, Nicholas thought with amusement.) Absentmindedly, he fiddled with the lock, rolling his thumbs until the correct code displayed. The lock clicked. The door creaked open.

The evidence of his brother’s monstrosity greeted him.

It was strange. He’d had so little time to grapple with the fact that his brother was the Sender, the shadowy figure they’d been hunting for so many years made flesh in his own kin. But even that was abstract, in a way. Even coming face to face with the face his brother had created— Curtain —failed to make his brain grasp the fullness of it. All he’d seen was Nathaniel.

But this?

Twisted metal. Ash-charred wires. Two silver helmets, one with a dent in it. 

His brother had created this machine and used it to steal people’s memories and put messages into people’s minds.

Even saying it out loud sounded barely real. Like a fantasy they had play-acted when they were children about how they’d conquer the world together, side by side. (With Nathaniel in the more public-facing role, of course.) 

Milligan’s spoon clinked against his mug in the kitchen. 

Nicholas took one more look at his brother’s creation and eased the door shut.

He turned on a heel and headed back for his study. Halfway across the hallway, however, Nicholas paused. He could have sworn he heard something from above. 

Nicholas paused and listened. Nothing. Now he really was being dramatic. Laughing internally at himself, he turned back towards his study—

The noise came again, and Nicholas stopped laughing.

He flattened himself against the wall, already thinking of the grey-suited goons, of the Sender’s men crouching above. But the alarm had not gone off. He trusted the alarm, and he trusted Milligan’s alarm-setting abilities. No one had entered the house. Still, his breath came in short gasps.

A clink of metal. Nicholas’s shoulders relaxed. He pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned.

Then he started up the stairs.

Kate Wetherall had had enough. Constance had been asleep for a full day. Who slept for twenty-four hours straight? Someone who was pretending to be asleep, that was who. Someone who didn’t want to answer Kate’s questions. The adults had fallen for it. Mr. Benedict had coddled her; Milligan had gently asked her to let Constance rest.

Now it was nighttime. Now was her chance. 

Kate crept across the landing, stealthy as a cat. She unscrewed the grate next to her, climbing into the ventilation, taking care to wiggle rather than crawl on her hands and knees. She was almost there. Just up this last flight of stairs and she’d have her answers.

Kate unscrewed the exit vent, secured her bucket, dropped lightly onto the carpeted floor—

—and landed face-to-face with Mr. Benedict.

She didn’t scream, because she was Kate Wetherall, and nothing frightened her.

“Oh dear!” exclaimed Mr. Benedict. “I didn’t mean to make you scream! Did I frighten you?”

Kate scowled.

Mr. Benedict gave her a good-natured smile to show he was only teasing. “Can’t sleep?”

“I, uh, no. I was thinking about the boys, and then I was hungry, and I was. Going to get a snack. From Number Two’s room upstairs.”

“Understandable. We have fresh biscuits downstairs in the kitchen. Actually, would you walk with me for a moment? I wanted to talk about something with you, if you don’t mind.”

Mr. Benedict gently took hold of her shoulders and steered her back down the stairs. Kate hardly noticed. “What is it? Do you have an update on the boys?”

His expression sombered. “Not yet. We’re working round the clock. But I promise you this: when we do find something, you’ll be the first to know. Is that alright with you?”

Kate nodded her agreement. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“I wanted to apologize actually. Looking back, I realize how frustrated and cast aside you must have felt when I hightailed it out of the whispering gallery with Constance. It wasn’t my intention to make the decision to leave without you, nor to hide her message from you. But I was so turned around with Constance ill and the boys missing … anyways. It’s a reminder that I’m only human, I suppose.”

Kate was startled. No adult had ever apologized to her before, let alone acknowledged how she’d felt, as if any of her emotions were worth feeling. She shrugged off the strange sensation. “It’s alright. No harm done. I’m over it anyway.”

Mr. Benedict smiled as if a weight had been taken off his shoulders. They had arrived downstairs now. He ushered her into the kitchen, where Milligan was just draining the last of his coffee. 

“Order up for one hot chocolate!” Mr. Benedict said playfully. 

“Make that five hot chocolates,” Number Two called from the other room.

Sometime later, halfway through her drink, Kate frowned. In all of the commotion, her original mission to get answers out of Constance had completely slipped her mind. Had he … Mr. Benedict wouldn’t have done that on purpose, right? She pushed her mug aside and slid off of her stool.

Right on cue, Mr. Benedict’s head popped up. “Going to bed?”

“No—I mean, yes, I—” Kate shifted uncomfortably.

He smiled sadly. “Can’t settle?”

She shook her head. At least she didn’t have to fib about that.

“Now, don’t feel obligated, of course,” he began with a twinkle in his eye. “But I was wondering if you’d like to play a part in the rescue efforts?”

Her spine straightened.

In the end it wasn’t even a question. She needed answers out of Constance … but it was deep into the night now. She could try again tomorrow.

Most of all, Kate Wetherall loved taking action.

She was set up with a log of all aircraft passing through Stonetown, given a highlighter, and instructed to mark every mention of a helicopter. As her mind settled on the task, she cast aside her earlier suspicions of Mr. Benedict sabotaging her plans to accost Constance. Mr. Benedict wasn’t sneaky like that. She’d been worked up for nothing.

(Over in the corner, Mr. Benedict, who was indeed ‘sneaky like that,’ exchanged a conspiring nod with Milligan. He couldn’t spare Constance from Kate’s questions forever. But the beyond exhausted girl could sleep a little while longer.)

Reynie arrived early. It was risky, he knew, deviating when he’d timed everything to the minute to determine the safest course. But part of him reasoned that if Jillson caught him right away, better it be just him than both him and Sticky. One boy out of bed suggested antics. Two boys out of bed suggested collaboration. It was his idea to meet; he should be the one to take the fall.

Another, less reasonable part of Reynie simply was anxious to see his friend again as fast as possible.

And so here he was. Crouched on a toilet, seat closed, stall door locked, straining to catch Jillson’s footsteps creaking in the corridor as she made her rounds. He glanced at his watch, holding onto the wall for support. The seas really were rough tonight. He might end up with a very real version of his earlier belching performance if he wasn’t careful.

At precisely 2:46AM the door squeaked open. Reynie didn’t make a sound, listening for the whisper of the hinges as it swung shut.

“Jillson?” came Sticky’s timid voice.

“It’s me,” Reynie breathed. “Last stall down.”

Sticky heaved a sigh of relief. Reynie reached forward to slide the door open; Sticky clambered inside, arms wiggling to catch his balance, and clicked the lock shut behind him. 

“We need to be quick,” Sticky hissed. “Jillson was just rounding the corner when I— oof.” Reynie’s hug had knocked the wind out of him. “Warn a guy, will you? For a second I thought you were Kate. My ribs hurt.”

“I missed you,” Reynie whispered.

“I missed you too,” Sticky said, wrapping his arms around Reynie’s shoulders in return. “Those were the longest three days of my life.”

For a moment, no one moved. The waves rocked them back and forth. Reynie squeezed tighter.

Jillson’s footsteps broke the spell. Growing louder … louder … louder … then softer … softer … she was gone.

“We’ll have to time our exit right,” Sticky said, letting go and wrinkling his nose. “Why did you pick 2:46AM?”

“I’ve been listening through the wall to Jackson’s sleep patterns. He’s in his deepest phase of sleep right about now. And I’ve noticed Jillson taking micro-naps on her guard duty around this time too. She’s more likely to slip up and miss something.”

Sticky nodded. “I knew you’d have a reason, but tell me this … why on earth are we in the girls’ bathroom?”

Reynie grinned. “Since we’re both boys, Jillson occasionally checks both of our rooms and the boys’ bathroom for clandestine meetings. I guess it hasn’t occurred to her that we could just go into the girls’ bathroom instead.”

Now Sticky grinned too. But his mirth was sobered as he was knocked sideways by another wave. “Curtain’s got us under pretty heavy guard, huh? I guess he really doesn’t trust us.”

“Yes, well …” Reynie shifted uncomfortably. “I mean… Do you really want Curtain to trust us?”

“Of course I do!”

Reynie’s stomach dropped. Another wave jostled them both.

“Right,” he said. Suddenly the long, miserable road of trying to win Sticky back stretched out before him. How on earth was he supposed to convince his friend that Curtain meant nothing but harm? That Mr. Benedict, Reynie, Kate, and Constance were all the friends he would ever need? How could that mean anything, when Dr. Curtain had so easily given Sticky the validation and reassurance he so desperately craved…

“I mean, it’s insulting,” Sticky was saying with a snort. “It’s almost as if we just betrayed him, damaging his mission and shattering his trust in us or something.”

“Sticky, we did—”

“I know,” Sticky frowned. “I was only joking.”

Silence fell. Jillson’s footsteps pattered louder in the hallway. Their rhythm was disturbed as another wave rocked the vessel. They could hear Jillson’s curse and a groan. Then her footsteps resumed, fading away.

“I mean, for one thing, life would be a whole lot easier if Curtain trusted us,” Sticky continued as if they’d never paused. “We wouldn’t have to crowd into the girls’ bathroom in the dead of the night.”

“That’s true,” Reynie mused, trying to work out how to plant the seeds of doubt in his friend’s mind. “Say, doesn’t it bother you? The fact that Curtain doesn’t trust you?”

Sticky snorted. “Nope. Why would it?”

“Doesn’t it give the sense that he’s just using you and your loyalty? Without truly considering you one of his own?”

Sticky looked at him as if he’d grown two heads. “And we’re just using him and his delusion that I’m on his side to gain information? What exactly is your point here?”

Reynie felt a rush of hope so strong that it nearly knocked him sideways. Or maybe that was another wave. “You mean—you lied straight to Curtain’s face? Tricked him?”

“How else are we gonna take him down? Just let him escape? I don’t think so. But wait a minute. If you’re just realizing this now, then … then what did you think when …”

“But this is great news, Sticky!” Reynie burst out. “Now we know we’re on the same page, and we can make a plan—

“Now that we know we’re on the same— Reynie, are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Sticky asked in a low tone. “Did you seriously think I left you for Curtain’s side?”

Reynie shifted. “I wasn’t sure, okay? I didn’t want to believe it … but you were so, so convincing …”

“How could you!” Sticky burst out, taking a step back. In his agitation, his voice began to rise higher and higher. “How could you even think that! After everything we’ve been through, after I already broke free from Curtain’s mind games once, after I risked being brainswept just to—”

The door burst open, smacking against the tile. “Sticky? Is that your voice I hear in there?”

“No, it isn’t,” said Sticky.

“What are you doing in the girls’ bathroom at 3AM?” Jillson pressed. “And don’t— don’t tell me you were sleepwalking again.”

Quiet as a mouse, Reynie frowned. Again? When had Sticky—

“Not sleepwalking, just had to use the bathroom,” Sticky replied easily. “What do you mean, the girls’ bathroom?”

Jillson’s grin was audible. “Tell me, George Washington. Can you read?”

“Not in the dark. I must’ve missed the sign and went into the wrong one. Sorry. I’m almost done.”

For one terrible moment, Reynie thought that Jillson would enter and insist upon checking every corner of the room. He couldn’t vanish into some miniscule vent like Kate could. He was done for. But another wave knocked the boat about, and Jillson let out a horrible sound. “Never mind,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “I’ll use the boys’. Go straight back to your room when you’re done.”

She hurried off, footsteps pounding as she made a run for it.

Reynie breathed a sigh of relief. “Whew. That was close. Say, Sticky. What did Jillson mean about sleepwa—”

Sticky reached for the lock. “I should go.”

“Go?” Reynie cried. “Why? We need to talk about this!”

“Talk about what? Jillson will be done soon. Do you want her to catch both of us?”

Reynie watched Sticky head for the door with the horrible sense that he was making a terrible mistake. The waves rocked the boat again. He clung to the stall door. “Wait!”

Sticky paused but didn’t turn.

Reynie swallowed down all the things he wanted to say, the are you okay? and the we need to make a plan and even the I’m so, so sorry. His heart was in his throat. “Meet here again? Same time tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” said Sticky vaguely. “Sure.” 

Then he was gone.

Reynie remained crouched in the stall for a long, long time. He couldn’t even summon worry about Jillson finding him now. None of it made sense. Sticky was still on their side. He wasn’t being manipulated or fooled. He had a plan.

So why did Reynie feel even worse than he did before their meeting, before everything had inexplicably gone wrong?

The man and the woman arrived in broad daylight. Perhaps the darkness would have disguised them better. Unshielded by the night, they stuck out like sore thumbs. Their perfectly tailored suits were so blindingly out of place in this ramshackle neighborhood that various passerby and street vendors kept stopping dead in their tracks to gawk. 

The man and the woman seemed not to notice the effect of their appearance, or either not to care. They moved confidently through the streets, marching ahead as if they belonged there, as if they knew exactly where they were going and what they were here for.

The end of the street took them to a dilapidated old house. A wooden sign out front, creaking and swinging in the breeze, read “Old Town Orphanage and Children’s Home” in faded gold letters. The man and the woman climbed the porch steps, not even hesitating at the ominous cracks and groans from the rotting wood.

The man knocked. The door opened.

“Good morning,” said the woman with a bright smile. “We’re from the city, perhaps you’ve been expecting us—no? A breakdown in communication, I’m afraid. I know, I know, this dreadful Emergency, isn’t it? Anyways. We had a few routine questions about some of the children at your establishment. Might we come in?”

The door opened wider. 

The man and the woman strode inside.

Chapter Text

In another life, he would have loved this trip, Sticky mourned. Silly things like vacations (let alone international ones) were an out-of-reach luxury for his family for many years. And as soon as it had become a within-reach luxury, there was no time. How could Sticky want a vacation? Across the ocean? Didn’t he know he had a competition on Tuesday, and a spelling bee the day after that?

It was new. He wasn’t used to sitting around, not studying, not competing, not risking his neck on some world-saving adventure. Curtain clearly had no use for him yet. Jackson and Jillson were an ever-constant thorn in their side. And yet Sticky was far from bored. They lounged inside and watched the waves on the chilly days, went onto the deck to soak up the sun on the warm ones. Sticky scanned the chop for the gleaming scales of fish, named the species of the birds that soared in their wake, tasted the scents on the wind, tried to identify each type of tree the driftwood once belonged to.

They were heading towards Europe, Sticky knew, just from watching his environment and absorbing every detail, fact-checking it against perfectly-remembered encyclopedia entries and articles he’d read years ago. But where they were in the journey, that was more uncertain. How fast was the vessel going? Kate could tell. When he’d asked Jillson when they were expected to arrive on land, she’d explained to him with a plastered-on smile that they were already on land, silly, it was just below the ocean. So Sticky had known not to ask again. 

He rolled over and stuffed his face into his pillow, counting the seconds until the burning in his lungs grew too great and he had to pull back for air. It wasn’t long.

As much as the ocean voyage was proving to be an unexpected blessing, Sticky had to admit one thing.

He hated Curtain’s yacht.

For clearly it was his and not a borrowed or rented one. It looked as though a navy blue sea monster with a day job as an interior designer had thrown up all over the walls. And what was up with the shapes? Wavy shapes, pointed shapes, obscure shapes only Sticky could name. Half of the ceilings were slanted or uneven. The stairs were designed to give the illusion that they were floating. They just made Sticky trip. It could have passed for a slightly too-expensive hotel had Sticky not suffered under Curtain’s architecture and design choices for months. Now, it was just a reminder of whose boat he was on and whose prisoner he was, in everything but name.

More than once he’d wondered if Curtain had a Waiting Room on the vessel. More than once he’d pushed that thought aside.

Sticky rolled over on his bed and stared up at the ceiling—which was decorated with more shapes, in case that wasn’t apparent. He picked one abstract navy blue line and tried to follow it as it curved around his ceiling and onto his walls. It was making him nauseous. For real, this time, not as he’d pretended for the second time in two days. But Jillson had spent all last night emptying her stomach. Miraculously, she’d taken his excuse at face value and sent him off to his room, alone, while Reynie remained on deck under Jackson’s guard.

Which was good. Sticky needed time to think. Alone.

Now that he was alone, Sticky was doing everything but thinking. Or, he was concentrating really hard on not thinking about the problem, which in turn made him think of it, and so on and so on until his stomach tangled into knots. 

It was no use. Sticky bundled the blankets over his face and released a muffled yell.

The unfairness of it all smothered him even more. How long was he going to spend atoning for one mistake? How long would his friends try to trust him, and say they did, but would wrestle down their internal doubt when the slightest thing seemed out of place or off about him? It wasn’t fair. Curtain had gotten his claws into him once, yes—but hadn’t he proved himself? Hadn’t he sealed his decision the moment he took his seat in the Whisperer and began to throw every answer at the Whisperer other than the one it wanted? When the man could have tore his memories away like paper with a single thought?

Stop that, another voice in his head piped up. Reynie knows you. He knows what you risked for them. He’s your friend! Clearly he wanted to believe everything but that you had betrayed them again. When you stood up and professed your new loyalty to Curtain without even talking it over, what on earth was he supposed to think?

Not the worst! Sticky yelled back. It should have been easier to believe that I had a plan!

The voice in his head had no answer for this.

Sticky lowered the blankets, heaved a long sigh, and opened his eyes unseeingly to the horrendous ceiling.

What were the facts?

Reynie was his friend. Reynie had come with him immediately, not knowing the road ahead. Reynie knew he had a plan now. The only way out was forward. The only way forward was together.

He couldn’t do this alone. He needed Reynie for this to work. That was why he’d insisted on him coming along. Kate had been out of reach, Constance had been slumped against the wall, but Reynie had been there. Reynie was here now, his only friend in this navy blue hell.

Sticky scrubbed his palms over his eyes and sat up. His stomach wasn’t perfectly calm, but it was better, and maybe that was enough. He needed to find Reynie.

There was a knock at the door.

“Reynie?” Sticky called out of instinct, wondering if he’d somehow summoned his friend just by thinking about him enough.

The door banged open. It was not Reynie.

“Good, you’re feeling better,” Jackson barked. “It wouldn’t make a good second-first-impression to throw up over Dr. Curtain’s shoes. Come. He wants to see you.”

Sticky jolted to his feet. “Now?”

“No rush, whenever you feel like it! So long as it’s within the next five minutes.”

Sticky gulped. He needed to see Reynie again to truly resolve the swirling in his stomach. But it would have to wait.

He dusted off his pants and smoothed the wrinkles out of his shirt. “I’m ready now.”

The doorbell rang five minutes after Milligan announced Ms. Perumal’s approach. Mr. Benedict let Rhonda open the door, hanging back with a cowed expression. Perhaps he needn’t have worried. Her approach was far less ferocious this time, as if she’d had some days to think and had decided she really wouldn’t have known what else to do in Mr. Benedict’s shoes, either. Perhaps she simply knew her Reynie, knew his big heart and knew he was perhaps their only hope. The world’s only hope.

And now she was his. 

“I asked my sister to come stay with my mother,” Ms. Perumal explained, nodding in thanks to Number Two as she took her coat. “I didn’t want to worry about her falling or forgetting her pills or something. Would you mind if I took a short nap on the couch in between searching?”

“Take a bed. There are spare rooms. Anything you want. We need the extra pair of hands,” Milligan said solemnly.

“Then put me to work,” Ms. Perumal said without hesitation. 

Kate Wetherall, meanwhile, was slinking up the bannister. She had taken note of the distraction and sniffed out an opportunity. As the adults chattered, setting Ms. Perumal up with her duties and filling her plate with snacks, Kate crept on tiptoe all the way up to the far corner of the highest floor, taking care to skip over the creaking floorboards she’d memorized in the days since she’d returned. 

At last, she arrived in front of a nondescript wooden door. Kate glanced around one last time and then flung the door open with an almighty bang!

“A-ha!” she cried in triumph. “I’ve caught you! No escaping or feigning sleep this time!”

“Sngrghhhhh,” said the blankets.

Huh?

Kate flipped open her bucket and crept closer. She squinted; despite the mid-afternoon sunlight, it was difficult to see with the blinds pulled so tightly shut. She clicked the bedside lamp on. An arm emerged from the quilt.

“Waz … what time izzit?”

“Tuesday,” Kate said pointedly. She frowned. Constance’s head poked out from under the blankets. Her cheeks were red with the creases of her pillowcase, her hair mussed like a bird’s nest, her eyes dark and sunken. “What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?”

“What’s wrong with you? Can’t you open a door normally?”

“Were you actually still sleeping? Like, for real?” It couldn’t be true. And the more Kate looked, the more it seemed it actually was. The sheets were as tangled as though they’d been tossed about for three days straight. Pillows were strewn across the carpet. The whole room was cloaked in a hush, as if not even the dust had stirred. A plate teeming with food sat on the dresser, untouched.

“Of course I’m not sleeping. We’re talking, aren’t we? What do you want?”

For a moment, Kate felt ashamed. Mr. Benedict had warned her, but she hadn’t … she hadn’t quite grasped … but she pushed it aside. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“You’ve done nothing but pester me with questions since you walked in.” Constance scrubbed at her eyes and tugged a strand of hair out of her mouth.

Reconsidering her approach with this newfound discovery, Kate tilted her head to the side. Then she walked over and plopped onto the end of the little girl’s bed. Constance hissed at her. 

“I wanted to ask you what happened.”

Constance looked at the ceiling. “I already told Mr. Benedict. I don’t see why I should have to repeat myself.”

“No, you told Mr. Benedict that Reynie and Sticky left of their own accord.”

“They did.”

“But that’s not the same as telling what happened,” Kate said, trying to make Constance understand. “Every detail, every word could be a clue, Constance. It might be our only shot.”

Constance scratched at a bug bite on her arm. “I don’t remember most of it. Their fumbling and indecision wasn’t worth taking up space in my memory.”

“Wasn’t worth—Constance, nothing, nothing, is worth more than this! How could you—”

“The failed MASTER was scrambling about the room, trying to salvage his infernal machine,” Constance interrupted, speaking with her eyes closed. Kate frowned. She’d meant to ask someone how the Whisperer had ended up in smithereens while she’d been battling the Executives. Perhaps Constance would explain … but the little girl barreled on, seemingly unable to stop now that she’d started.

“Then George piped up. He asked Curtain if his second chance was still open. He asked if he could come with Curtain. He demanded that Reynie come too. Reynie said yes.”

“And Curtain just allowed that?”

“Then they went into the elevator and they were gone. There, Kate. That is everything that happened. Are you happy now? Are you satisfied?”

“No,” Kate said, leaping to her feet to pace. “No, Constance, I’m not.”

Constance groaned and fell back against her pillows.

“It doesn’t add up,” Kate said, gesticulating wildly. “Why would Sticky give in when we’d won? Why would Reynie go without arguing? Why would Curtain take them back? More importantly, in what world would Sticky fall for his manipulation again?”

“In this world? Apparently?”

Kate rounded on Constance. “And I know you don’t believe it either. Deep down. You can’t accept that what you saw is true. You should listen to that instinct.”

“Now you’re suggesting I give in to delusion. So what?” Constance arranged her blankets loftily. “None of this helps us find them. If you’re looking for a big breakthrough, I don’t have it, Kate.”

Kate grinned. “We haven’t found them yet because the adults are the ones looking.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.”

“If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting …”

“Why not?” Kate exclaimed, throwing her hands up into the air. “What is there to lose? We have a better shot, Constance. We’ve spent more time together, survived the Institute as a team. We know them! And I know that Sticky has a plan. Or Reynie does. They both have plans. Personally I’d have about thirty seven of them.”

Constance didn’t look convinced. “What good is a plan if they fail at it?”

“Wow, encouraging, aren’t you? And the point is that searching for two helpless kidnappees is very different from searching for two undercover agents. I have a feeling Reynie and Sticky will try to get a message to us once they’ve got their bearings. We’re a team, remember? They’ll need us.”

“Team,” Constance sneered. “Some teammates they are. A really team-like thing to do, forgetting half of your team and leaving them behind.”

Kate bent over the side of the bed to look the girl directly in the eye. “Will you give me a chance to prove you wrong?”

Constance sighed. “I take pity on you. You’re going to end up in a ditch without me.” She threw the covers aside and swung her legs out. “This ‘plan’ is doomed to result in ruination and utter failure. Where do we start?”

As if awaiting that cue, the lamp cut out, plunging the room into darkness. The girls waited with bated breath. It was as if all of the air had been sucked out of the room along with the lights.

Then the alarm began to blare.

The red alert light bathed Kate’s grin in crimson. “We start right now.”