The children had begun making entries in the journal — just as Reynie had promised Constance they would — and the first entry had been made by Constance herself, who composed a rather disgusting haiku about the trials of seasickness. Kate had followed that entry with a page of lemon juice scribblings she insisted mustn’t be revealed for ten years, and Reynie had written a lively, two-page summary of their adventure — an account that ended with the revelation that Mr. Curtain had not escaped with fifty boxes of duskwort, as the children had at first believed.
It was thwart-wort, Reynie had written, every last bit of it, and Mr. Benedict knew it. He and Number Two had scoured that cave before Mr. Curtain ever showed up. Half a century was more than enough time for the few specimens Han de Reizeger had seen to overcome the duskwort. Mr. Benedict kept this information to himself, correctly guessing that should Mr. Curtain ever be forced to choose between confronting his enemies or making a quick escape with his precious moss, he would choose the latter. And so it was thwart-wort, not duskwort, that Mr. Curtain salvaged from that mountain cave, and even though he and his men would manage to slip away in the mists, he had yet to discover his final disappointment.
Reynie had not written about the other, more personal disappointment that they all felt. The duskwort had promised a possible end to Mr. Benedict’s sufferings; now it was simply the stuff of history and legend. And though Mr. Benedict refused to mourn its loss, which had prevented certain catastrophe at the hands of his brother, everyone who loved him wished things could have turned out otherwise. All of this Reynie found too difficult to express with suitable eloquence, and so he’d concluded his entry with a simple but cryptic line that could apply just as easily to Mr. Benedict or Mr. Curtain: One more dream destroyed.
Now it was Sticky’s turn to make an entry — they had agreed he should go last, so that he didn’t accidentally use up all the pages before the others had written anything — but Constance had skipped his turn and made another entry herself.
“It’s fine,” Sticky said, lifting up his bandaged hands. “I can’t hold a pen very well with these on, anyway.”
“Your mom won’t let you take them off ?” asked Reynie, whose own hands were mostly healed from the cuts and blisters inflicted in dragging the sledge. Sticky was the only one still wearing bandages.
“Not yet,” Sticky said with a shrug. He leaned back on his elbows and jauntily crossed his legs. These private meetings in Constance’s room gave him some much-needed relief from his parents’ attentions — they spent half their time babying him and the other half berating him for his reckless behavior — and his gratitude put him in an expansive mood. “Let’s hear what you wrote, Constance. I can’t wait.”
“Oh, you’re really going to like it,” Kate said, handing the journal to Constance with a mysterious smile.
Constance cleared her throat. “This poem is entitled ‘The Terrible Fall.’ ” She waited a moment for her title to sink in — she obviously thought it a very good one — and then, in a dramatic voice, she began to recite:
The night was black, the owl did call.
I stood upon the silo tall,
Never suspecting I would fall . . .
Thanks to the boy who bumped me.
Though frightened, I had stayed alert.
No thoughtless slumberings did divert
Me from my task, till I got hurt . . .
Thanks to the boy who bumped me.
“For the twentieth time, Constance,” Sticky said, his expansive mood greatly diminished, “I’m sorry. Did you have to write a poem about it?”
“I know you’re sorry,” Constance said, speaking up to be heard over Reynie and Kate’s tittering. “Now please hold your comments until I’m finished. There are three more verses.”
The remaining verses would have to wait, however, for just then Number Two knocked on the door. “Sorry to interrupt whatever you’re plotting,” she said when they let her in, “but Moocho wanted me to tell you the pies are almost ready. Mr. Benedict has cleared the officials out of the house, and Captain Noland and Joe Shooter are expected to join us. It should be a cozy gathering.” She reached into the pocket of her yellow pantsuit and took out a measuring tape. “Also, I’ve been wanting to measure you. Stand up, please.”
With resigned expressions, the children stood. They were all happy to see how Number Two had recovered — she was almost her old self again — but they also knew she was determined to “make them something special” as a token of her gratitude for risking their lives on her behalf. Kate had seen her drawing up patterns that morning, and the four of them had been avoiding Number Two ever since. They were trapped now, though, and one by one they submitted to being measured, with only Constance raising any complaint.
“You’ve all grown so much!” said Number Two, jotting the figures down on a scrap of paper. “I suppose that’s to be expected. At some point your bodies have to catch up with your hearts.”
The children rolled their eyes. Number Two had been given to such mushy pronouncements ever since she’d returned to her senses. (At first Kate had argued that these were actually a sign she was still delirious, but Number Two had scolded her into submission, then hugged her and kissed her until Kate fled.) Reynie, for his part, was secretly counting on Constance to annoy Number Two back into being her old, no-nonsense self.
“There!” Number Two declared. “Now if you’ll finish up whatever mischief you’re engaged in —” Here she interrupted herself, setting down the scrap of paper to dig anxiously in her pockets. She took out a packet of raisins and emptied it into her mouth. “Just a quick snack before pie,” she said, chewing hungrily. “Now do come along soon. Moocho will be disappointed if you don’t get it hot.”
When Number Two had gone, Constance noticed the scrap of paper with their measurements written on it. “She forgot this.”
“Lose it,” Reynie whispered.
The entire house was now suffused with the wonderful sweet smell of cherry pie, and with eager faces and watering mouths the children hurried down to the dining room. There they found Mr. Benedict, Rhonda Kazembe, Number Two, and the Washingtons and Perumals all gathered around the long table, with seats left open for the children and the expected guests (extra chairs had been brought from all over the house). Moocho Brazos was busily setting out plates, pots of coffee and tea, and pitchers of milk. “Five minutes,” he said when the children came in. “Also, Mr. Washington, if you get a chance . . .” He handed Sticky’s father a doorknob. “I’m sorry, these old things with their weak screws —”
“Never mind,” said Mr. Washington. “I’ll have it back on in a jiffy.”
Moocho thanked him and went back into the kitchen.
“Isn’t that the second doorknob of the day?” asked Mrs. Washington.
“I believe he’s as excited as the rest of us,” said Rhonda, rising to greet the children with warm hugs, just as she’d done a hundred times since their return. “After all those days of worry, every day without it feels like a celebration!”
Constance waved her arms madly about as if being attacked by bees, but Rhonda managed to hug her regardless.
“If you think you’re excited now,” said Kate, “wait till you try Moocho’s pie. I’d better go ask Milligan if he wants ice cream with his.”
Rhonda cleared her throat. “I, um, just checked on him, Kate. He’s still asleep.”
“Still? Is it real sleep or is he pretending again, do you think?”
Rhonda exchanged glances with Mr. Benedict, who remained inscrutably silent. A few days before, Milligan had returned from the hospital to rest and heal in Mr. Benedict’s house. He was in a fairly mummified state, all bandages and casts, and was unable to leave his bed, but he could not have had more attentive nurses — or more nurses, period — than his friends and family in the house. What was more, the children were attempting to keep Milligan entertained by talking to him, singing to him, reading to him (Constance recited several poems, including one called “A Slight Misjudgment in the Darkness”), and even performing skits. They’d been doing this ever since his return, more or less without interruption, and Milligan had taken to pretending he was asleep in order to get some peace.